charlene taylor and the online distributed proofreading team. [transcriber's note: this play transcribed from an original manuscript. there are pencilled notations possibly by ms. hurston herself. these pencilled edits have been transcribed as *[handwritten: (text)]] copyright by zora *[handwritten: neale] hurston poker! time--present place--new york cast of characters-- nunkie too-sweet peckerwood black baby sack daddy tush hawg aunt dilsey scene-- a shabby front room in a shotgun house. a door covered by dingy portieres upstage c. small panel window in side wall l. plain centre table with chairs drawn up about it. gaudy calendars on wall. battered piano against wall r. kerosene lamp with reflector against wall on either side of room. at rise of curtain nunkie is at piano playing.... others at table with small stacks of chips before each man. tush hawg is seated at table so that he faces audience. he is expertly riffing the cards ... looks over his shoulder and speaks to nunkie. tush hawg come on here, nunkie--and take a hand! you're holding up the game. you been woofin' round here about the poker you can play--now do it! nunkie yeah, i plays poker. i plays the piano and gawd knows i plays the devil. i'm uncle bob with a wooden leg!*[handwritten: last sentence crossed out in pencil in manuscript.] black baby aw, you can be had! come on and get in the game! my britches is cryin' for your money! come on, don't give the healer no trouble!*[handwritten: last sentence crossed out in pencil] nunkie soon as i play the deck i'm comin' and take you alls money! don' rush me. ace means the first time that i met you duece means there was nobody there but us two trey means the third party--charlie was his name four spot means the fourth time you tried that same old game-- five spot means five years you played me for a clown six spot means six feet of earth when the deal goes down now i'm holding the seven spot for each day of the week eight means eight hours that she sheba-ed with your sheik-- nine spot means nine hours that i work hard every day-- ten spot means tenth of every month i brought you home my pay-- the jack is three-card charlie who played me for a goat the queen, that's my pretty mama, also trying to cut my throat-- the king stands for sweet papa nunkie and he's goin' to wear the crown, so be careful you all ain't broke when the deal goes down! (he laughs--x'es to table, bringing piano stool for seat) tush hawg aw now, brother, two dollars for your seat before you try to sit in this game. nunkie (laughs sheepishly--puts money down--tush hawg pushes stack of chips toward him. bus.) i didn't put it down because i knew you all goin' to be puttin' it right back in my pocket. beckerwood aw, y'all go ahead and play. (to tush hawg) deal! (tush hawg begins to deal for draw poker. the game gets tense. sack daddy is first man at tush's left--he throws back three cards and is dealt three more) sack daddy my luck sure is rotten! my gal must be cheatin' on me. i ain't had a pair since john henry had a hammer! black baby (drawing three new cards) you might be fooling the rest with the cryin' you're doin' but i'm squattin' for you! you're cryin' worse than cryin' emma! too-sweet (studying his three new cards) (sings) when yo' cards gets lucky, oh partner, you oughter be in a rollin' game. *[handwritten: get you foot offa my chair etc] aunt dilsey (enters through portieres--stands and looks disapprovingly) you all oughter be ashamed of yourself, gamblin' and carryin' on like this! black baby aw, this ain't no harm, aunt dilsey! you go on back to bed and git your night's rest. aunt dilsey no harm! i know all about these no-harm sins! if you don't stop this card playin', all of you all goin' to die and go to hell. (shakes warning finger--exits through portieres--while she is talking the men have been hiding cards out of their hands and pulling aces out of sleeves and vest pockets and shoes--it is done quickly, one does not see the other do it) nunkie (shoving a chip forward) a dollar! sack daddy raise you two! black baby i don't like to strain with nobody but it's goin' to cost you five. come on, you shag-nags! this hand i got is enough to pull a country man into town. *[handwritten: last sentence crossed through in pencil.] too-sweet you all act like you're spuddin'! bet some money! put your money where your mouth is *[handwritten: els my fist where yo mouf is.] tush hawg twenty-five dollars to keep my company! dog-gone, i'm spreadin' my knots! sack daddy and i bet you a fat man i'll take your money--i call you. (turns up his cards--he has four aces and king) tush hawg (showing his cards) youse a liar! i ain't dealt you no aces. don't try to carry the pam-pam to me 'cause i'll gently chain-gang for you! sack daddy oh yeah! i ain't goin' to fit no jail for you and nobody else. i'm to get me a green club and season it over your head. then i'll give my case to miss bush and let mother green stand my bond! i got deal them aces! nunkie that's a lie! both of you is lyin'! lyin' like the cross-ties from new york to key west! how can you all hold aces when i got four? somebody is goin' to west hell before midnight! beckerwood don't you woof at tush hawg. if you do i'm goin' to bust hell wide open with a man! black baby (pulls out razor--bus.) my chop-axe tells me i got the only clean aces they is on this table! before i'll leave you all rob me outa my money, i'm goin' to die it off! too-sweet i promised the devil one man and i'm goin' to give him five! (draws gun) tush hawg don't draw your bosom on me! god sent me a pistol and i'm goin' to send him a man! (fires. bus. for all) aunt dilsey (enters after shooting bus. stands. bus. drops to chair) they wouldn't lissen-- (looks men over--bus.) it sure is goin' to be a whole lot tougher in hell now! curtain daddy-long-legs by jean webster copyright by the century company to you blue wednesday the first wednesday in every month was a perfectly awful day--a day to be awaited with dread, endured with courage and forgotten with haste. every floor must be spotless, every chair dustless, and every bed without a wrinkle. ninety-seven squirming little orphans must be scrubbed and combed and buttoned into freshly starched ginghams; and all ninety-seven reminded of their manners, and told to say, 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir,' whenever a trustee spoke. it was a distressing time; and poor jerusha abbott, being the oldest orphan, had to bear the brunt of it. but this particular first wednesday, like its predecessors, finally dragged itself to a close. jerusha escaped from the pantry where she had been making sandwiches for the asylum's guests, and turned upstairs to accomplish her regular work. her special care was room f, where eleven little tots, from four to seven, occupied eleven little cots set in a row. jerusha assembled her charges, straightened their rumpled frocks, wiped their noses, and started them in an orderly and willing line towards the dining-room to engage themselves for a blessed half hour with bread and milk and prune pudding. then she dropped down on the window seat and leaned throbbing temples against the cool glass. she had been on her feet since five that morning, doing everybody's bidding, scolded and hurried by a nervous matron. mrs. lippett, behind the scenes, did not always maintain that calm and pompous dignity with which she faced an audience of trustees and lady visitors. jerusha gazed out across a broad stretch of frozen lawn, beyond the tall iron paling that marked the confines of the asylum, down undulating ridges sprinkled with country estates, to the spires of the village rising from the midst of bare trees. the day was ended--quite successfully, so far as she knew. the trustees and the visiting committee had made their rounds, and read their reports, and drunk their tea, and now were hurrying home to their own cheerful firesides, to forget their bothersome little charges for another month. jerusha leaned forward watching with curiosity--and a touch of wistfulness--the stream of carriages and automobiles that rolled out of the asylum gates. in imagination she followed first one equipage, then another, to the big houses dotted along the hillside. she pictured herself in a fur coat and a velvet hat trimmed with feathers leaning back in the seat and nonchalantly murmuring 'home' to the driver. but on the door-sill of her home the picture grew blurred. jerusha had an imagination--an imagination, mrs. lippett told her, that would get her into trouble if she didn't take care--but keen as it was, it could not carry her beyond the front porch of the houses she would enter. poor, eager, adventurous little jerusha, in all her seventeen years, had never stepped inside an ordinary house; she could not picture the daily routine of those other human beings who carried on their lives undiscommoded by orphans. je-ru-sha ab-bott you are wan-ted in the of-fice, and i think you'd better hurry up! tommy dillon, who had joined the choir, came singing up the stairs and down the corridor, his chant growing louder as he approached room f. jerusha wrenched herself from the window and refaced the troubles of life. 'who wants me?' she cut into tommy's chant with a note of sharp anxiety. mrs. lippett in the office, and i think she's mad. ah-a-men! tommy piously intoned, but his accent was not entirely malicious. even the most hardened little orphan felt sympathy for an erring sister who was summoned to the office to face an annoyed matron; and tommy liked jerusha even if she did sometimes jerk him by the arm and nearly scrub his nose off. jerusha went without comment, but with two parallel lines on her brow. what could have gone wrong, she wondered. were the sandwiches not thin enough? were there shells in the nut cakes? had a lady visitor seen the hole in susie hawthorn's stocking? had--o horrors!--one of the cherubic little babes in her own room f 'sauced' a trustee? the long lower hall had not been lighted, and as she came downstairs, a last trustee stood, on the point of departure, in the open door that led to the porte-cochere. jerusha caught only a fleeting impression of the man--and the impression consisted entirely of tallness. he was waving his arm towards an automobile waiting in the curved drive. as it sprang into motion and approached, head on for an instant, the glaring headlights threw his shadow sharply against the wall inside. the shadow pictured grotesquely elongated legs and arms that ran along the floor and up the wall of the corridor. it looked, for all the world, like a huge, wavering daddy-long-legs. jerusha's anxious frown gave place to quick laughter. she was by nature a sunny soul, and had always snatched the tiniest excuse to be amused. if one could derive any sort of entertainment out of the oppressive fact of a trustee, it was something unexpected to the good. she advanced to the office quite cheered by the tiny episode, and presented a smiling face to mrs. lippett. to her surprise the matron was also, if not exactly smiling, at least appreciably affable; she wore an expression almost as pleasant as the one she donned for visitors. 'sit down, jerusha, i have something to say to you.' jerusha dropped into the nearest chair and waited with a touch of breathlessness. an automobile flashed past the window; mrs. lippett glanced after it. 'did you notice the gentleman who has just gone?' 'i saw his back.' 'he is one of our most affluential trustees, and has given large sums of money towards the asylum's support. i am not at liberty to mention his name; he expressly stipulated that he was to remain unknown.' jerusha's eyes widened slightly; she was not accustomed to being summoned to the office to discuss the eccentricities of trustees with the matron. 'this gentleman has taken an interest in several of our boys. you remember charles benton and henry freize? they were both sent through college by mr.--er--this trustee, and both have repaid with hard work and success the money that was so generously expended. other payment the gentleman does not wish. heretofore his philanthropies have been directed solely towards the boys; i have never been able to interest him in the slightest degree in any of the girls in the institution, no matter how deserving. he does not, i may tell you, care for girls.' 'no, ma'am,' jerusha murmured, since some reply seemed to be expected at this point. 'to-day at the regular meeting, the question of your future was brought up.' mrs. lippett allowed a moment of silence to fall, then resumed in a slow, placid manner extremely trying to her hearer's suddenly tightened nerves. 'usually, as you know, the children are not kept after they are sixteen, but an exception was made in your case. you had finished our school at fourteen, and having done so well in your studies--not always, i must say, in your conduct--it was determined to let you go on in the village high school. now you are finishing that, and of course the asylum cannot be responsible any longer for your support. as it is, you have had two years more than most.' mrs. lippett overlooked the fact that jerusha had worked hard for her board during those two years, that the convenience of the asylum had come first and her education second; that on days like the present she was kept at home to scrub. 'as i say, the question of your future was brought up and your record was discussed--thoroughly discussed.' mrs. lippett brought accusing eyes to bear upon the prisoner in the dock, and the prisoner looked guilty because it seemed to be expected--not because she could remember any strikingly black pages in her record. 'of course the usual disposition of one in your place would be to put you in a position where you could begin to work, but you have done well in school in certain branches; it seems that your work in english has even been brilliant. miss pritchard, who is on our visiting committee, is also on the school board; she has been talking with your rhetoric teacher, and made a speech in your favour. she also read aloud an essay that you had written entitled, "blue wednesday".' jerusha's guilty expression this time was not assumed. 'it seemed to me that you showed little gratitude in holding up to ridicule the institution that has done so much for you. had you not managed to be funny i doubt if you would have been forgiven. but fortunately for you, mr.--, that is, the gentleman who has just gone--appears to have an immoderate sense of humour. on the strength of that impertinent paper, he has offered to send you to college.' 'to college?' jerusha's eyes grew big. mrs. lippett nodded. 'he waited to discuss the terms with me. they are unusual. the gentleman, i may say, is erratic. he believes that you have originality, and he is planning to educate you to become a writer.' 'a writer?' jerusha's mind was numbed. she could only repeat mrs. lippett's words. 'that is his wish. whether anything will come of it, the future will show. he is giving you a very liberal allowance, almost, for a girl who has never had any experience in taking care of money, too liberal. but he planned the matter in detail, and i did not feel free to make any suggestions. you are to remain here through the summer, and miss pritchard has kindly offered to superintend your outfit. your board and tuition will be paid directly to the college, and you will receive in addition during the four years you are there, an allowance of thirty-five dollars a month. this will enable you to enter on the same standing as the other students. the money will be sent to you by the gentleman's private secretary once a month, and in return, you will write a letter of acknowledgment once a month. that is--you are not to thank him for the money; he doesn't care to have that mentioned, but you are to write a letter telling of the progress in your studies and the details of your daily life. just such a letter as you would write to your parents if they were living. 'these letters will be addressed to mr. john smith and will be sent in care of the secretary. the gentleman's name is not john smith, but he prefers to remain unknown. to you he will never be anything but john smith. his reason in requiring the letters is that he thinks nothing so fosters facility in literary expression as letter-writing. since you have no family with whom to correspond, he desires you to write in this way; also, he wishes to keep track of your progress. he will never answer your letters, nor in the slightest particular take any notice of them. he detests letter-writing and does not wish you to become a burden. if any point should ever arise where an answer would seem to be imperative--such as in the event of your being expelled, which i trust will not occur--you may correspond with mr. griggs, his secretary. these monthly letters are absolutely obligatory on your part; they are the only payment that mr. smith requires, so you must be as punctilious in sending them as though it were a bill that you were paying. i hope that they will always be respectful in tone and will reflect credit on your training. you must remember that you are writing to a trustee of the john grier home.' jerusha's eyes longingly sought the door. her head was in a whirl of excitement, and she wished only to escape from mrs. lippett's platitudes and think. she rose and took a tentative step backwards. mrs. lippett detained her with a gesture; it was an oratorical opportunity not to be slighted. 'i trust that you are properly grateful for this very rare good fortune that has befallen you? not many girls in your position ever have such an opportunity to rise in the world. you must always remember--' 'i--yes, ma'am, thank you. i think, if that's all, i must go and sew a patch on freddie perkins's trousers.' the door closed behind her, and mrs. lippett watched it with dropped jaw, her peroration in mid-air. the letters of miss jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith fergussen hall th september dear kind-trustee-who-sends-orphans-to-college, here i am! i travelled yesterday for four hours in a train. it's a funny sensation, isn't it? i never rode in one before. college is the biggest, most bewildering place--i get lost whenever i leave my room. i will write you a description later when i'm feeling less muddled; also i will tell you about my lessons. classes don't begin until monday morning, and this is saturday night. but i wanted to write a letter first just to get acquainted. it seems queer to be writing letters to somebody you don't know. it seems queer for me to be writing letters at all--i've never written more than three or four in my life, so please overlook it if these are not a model kind. before leaving yesterday morning, mrs. lippett and i had a very serious talk. she told me how to behave all the rest of my life, and especially how to behave towards the kind gentleman who is doing so much for me. i must take care to be very respectful. but how can one be very respectful to a person who wishes to be called john smith? why couldn't you have picked out a name with a little personality? i might as well write letters to dear hitching-post or dear clothes-prop. i have been thinking about you a great deal this summer; having somebody take an interest in me after all these years makes me feel as though i had found a sort of family. it seems as though i belonged to somebody now, and it's a very comfortable sensation. i must say, however, that when i think about you, my imagination has very little to work upon. there are just three things that i know: i. you are tall. ii. you are rich. iii. you hate girls. i suppose i might call you dear mr. girl-hater. only that's rather insulting to me. or dear mr. rich-man, but that's insulting to you, as though money were the only important thing about you. besides, being rich is such a very external quality. maybe you won't stay rich all your life; lots of very clever men get smashed up in wall street. but at least you will stay tall all your life! so i've decided to call you dear daddy-long-legs. i hope you won't mind. it's just a private pet name we won't tell mrs. lippett. the ten o'clock bell is going to ring in two minutes. our day is divided into sections by bells. we eat and sleep and study by bells. it's very enlivening; i feel like a fire horse all of the time. there it goes! lights out. good night. observe with what precision i obey rules--due to my training in the john grier home. yours most respectfully, jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith st october dear daddy-long-legs, i love college and i love you for sending me--i'm very, very happy, and so excited every moment of the time that i can scarcely sleep. you can't imagine how different it is from the john grier home. i never dreamed there was such a place in the world. i'm feeling sorry for everybody who isn't a girl and who can't come here; i am sure the college you attended when you were a boy couldn't have been so nice. my room is up in a tower that used to be the contagious ward before they built the new infirmary. there are three other girls on the same floor of the tower--a senior who wears spectacles and is always asking us please to be a little more quiet, and two freshmen named sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. sallie has red hair and a turn-up nose and is quite friendly; julia comes from one of the first families in new york and hasn't noticed me yet. they room together and the senior and i have singles. usually freshmen can't get singles; they are very scarce, but i got one without even asking. i suppose the registrar didn't think it would be right to ask a properly brought-up girl to room with a foundling. you see there are advantages! my room is on the north-west corner with two windows and a view. after you've lived in a ward for eighteen years with twenty room-mates, it is restful to be alone. this is the first chance i've ever had to get acquainted with jerusha abbott. i think i'm going to like her. do you think you are? tuesday they are organizing the freshman basket-ball team and there's just a chance that i shall get in it. i'm little of course, but terribly quick and wiry and tough. while the others are hopping about in the air, i can dodge under their feet and grab the ball. it's loads of fun practising--out in the athletic field in the afternoon with the trees all red and yellow and the air full of the smell of burning leaves, and everybody laughing and shouting. these are the happiest girls i ever saw--and i am the happiest of all! i meant to write a long letter and tell you all the things i'm learning (mrs. lippett said you wanted to know), but th hour has just rung, and in ten minutes i'm due at the athletic field in gymnasium clothes. don't you hope i'll get in the team? yours always, jerusha abbott ps. ( o'clock.) sallie mcbride just poked her head in at my door. this is what she said: 'i'm so homesick that i simply can't stand it. do you feel that way?' i smiled a little and said no; i thought i could pull through. at least homesickness is one disease that i've escaped! i never heard of anybody being asylum-sick, did you? th october dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever hear of michael angelo? he was a famous artist who lived in italy in the middle ages. everybody in english literature seemed to know about him, and the whole class laughed because i thought he was an archangel. he sounds like an archangel, doesn't he? the trouble with college is that you are expected to know such a lot of things you've never learned. it's very embarrassing at times. but now, when the girls talk about things that i never heard of, i just keep still and look them up in the encyclopedia. i made an awful mistake the first day. somebody mentioned maurice maeterlinck, and i asked if she was a freshman. that joke has gone all over college. but anyway, i'm just as bright in class as any of the others--and brighter than some of them! do you care to know how i've furnished my room? it's a symphony in brown and yellow. the wall was tinted buff, and i've bought yellow denim curtains and cushions and a mahogany desk (second hand for three dollars) and a rattan chair and a brown rug with an ink spot in the middle. i stand the chair over the spot. the windows are up high; you can't look out from an ordinary seat. but i unscrewed the looking-glass from the back of the bureau, upholstered the top and moved it up against the window. it's just the right height for a window seat. you pull out the drawers like steps and walk up. very comfortable! sallie mcbride helped me choose the things at the senior auction. she has lived in a house all her life and knows about furnishing. you can't imagine what fun it is to shop and pay with a real five-dollar bill and get some change--when you've never had more than a few cents in your life. i assure you, daddy dear, i do appreciate that allowance. sallie is the most entertaining person in the world--and julia rutledge pendleton the least so. it's queer what a mixture the registrar can make in the matter of room-mates. sallie thinks everything is funny--even flunking--and julia is bored at everything. she never makes the slightest effort to be amiable. she believes that if you are a pendleton, that fact alone admits you to heaven without any further examination. julia and i were born to be enemies. and now i suppose you've been waiting very impatiently to hear what i am learning? i. latin: second punic war. hannibal and his forces pitched camp at lake trasimenus last night. they prepared an ambuscade for the romans, and a battle took place at the fourth watch this morning. romans in retreat. ii. french: pages of the three musketeers and third conjugation, irregular verbs. iii. geometry: finished cylinders; now doing cones. iv. english: studying exposition. my style improves daily in clearness and brevity. v. physiology: reached the digestive system. bile and the pancreas next time. yours, on the way to being educated, jerusha abbott ps. i hope you never touch alcohol, daddy? it does dreadful things to your liver. wednesday dear daddy-long-legs, i've changed my name. i'm still 'jerusha' in the catalogue, but i'm 'judy' everywhere else. it's really too bad, isn't it, to have to give yourself the only pet name you ever had? i didn't quite make up the judy though. that's what freddy perkins used to call me before he could talk plainly. i wish mrs. lippett would use a little more ingenuity about choosing babies' names. she gets the last names out of the telephone book--you'll find abbott on the first page--and she picks the christian names up anywhere; she got jerusha from a tombstone. i've always hated it; but i rather like judy. it's such a silly name. it belongs to the kind of girl i'm not--a sweet little blue-eyed thing, petted and spoiled by all the family, who romps her way through life without any cares. wouldn't it be nice to be like that? whatever faults i may have, no one can ever accuse me of having been spoiled by my family! but it's great fun to pretend i've been. in the future please always address me as judy. do you want to know something? i have three pairs of kid gloves. i've had kid mittens before from the christmas tree, but never real kid gloves with five fingers. i take them out and try them on every little while. it's all i can do not to wear them to classes. (dinner bell. goodbye.) friday what do you think, daddy? the english instructor said that my last paper shows an unusual amount of originality. she did, truly. those were her words. it doesn't seem possible, does it, considering the eighteen years of training that i've had? the aim of the john grier home (as you doubtless know and heartily approve of) is to turn the ninety-seven orphans into ninety-seven twins. the unusual artistic ability which i exhibit was developed at an early age through drawing chalk pictures of mrs. lippett on the woodshed door. i hope that i don't hurt your feelings when i criticize the home of my youth? but you have the upper hand, you know, for if i become too impertinent, you can always stop payment of your cheques. that isn't a very polite thing to say--but you can't expect me to have any manners; a foundling asylum isn't a young ladies' finishing school. you know, daddy, it isn't the work that is going to be hard in college. it's the play. half the time i don't know what the girls are talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that every one but me has shared. i'm a foreigner in the world and i don't understand the language. it's a miserable feeling. i've had it all my life. at the high school the girls would stand in groups and just look at me. i was queer and different and everybody knew it. i could feel 'john grier home' written on my face. and then a few charitable ones would make a point of coming up and saying something polite. i hated every one of them--the charitable ones most of all. nobody here knows that i was brought up in an asylum. i told sallie mcbride that my mother and father were dead, and that a kind old gentleman was sending me to college which is entirely true so far as it goes. i don't want you to think i am a coward, but i do want to be like the other girls, and that dreadful home looming over my childhood is the one great big difference. if i can turn my back on that and shut out the remembrance, i think, i might be just as desirable as any other girl. i don't believe there's any real, underneath difference, do you? anyway, sallie mcbride likes me! yours ever, judy abbott (nee jerusha.) saturday morning i've just been reading this letter over and it sounds pretty un-cheerful. but can't you guess that i have a special topic due monday morning and a review in geometry and a very sneezy cold? sunday i forgot to post this yesterday, so i will add an indignant postscript. we had a bishop this morning, and what do you think he said? 'the most beneficent promise made us in the bible is this, "the poor ye have always with you." they were put here in order to keep us charitable.' the poor, please observe, being a sort of useful domestic animal. if i hadn't grown into such a perfect lady, i should have gone up after service and told him what i thought. th october dear daddy-long-legs, i'm in the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on my left shoulder. it's blue and mahogany with little streaks of orange. julia pendleton tried for the team, but she didn't get in. hooray! you see what a mean disposition i have. college gets nicer and nicer. i like the girls and the teachers and the classes and the campus and the things to eat. we have ice-cream twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush. you only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn't you? and i've been peppering you with letters every few days! but i've been so excited about all these new adventures that i must talk to somebody; and you're the only one i know. please excuse my exuberance; i'll settle pretty soon. if my letters bore you, you can always toss them into the wastebasket. i promise not to write another till the middle of november. yours most loquaciously, judy abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, listen to what i've learned to-day. the area of the convex surface of the frustum of a regular pyramid is half the product of the sum of the perimeters of its bases by the altitude of either of its trapezoids. it doesn't sound true, but it is--i can prove it! you've never heard about my clothes, have you, daddy? six dresses, all new and beautiful and bought for me--not handed down from somebody bigger. perhaps you don't realize what a climax that marks in the career of an orphan? you gave them to me, and i am very, very, very much obliged. it's a fine thing to be educated--but nothing compared to the dizzying experience of owning six new dresses. miss pritchard, who is on the visiting committee, picked them out--not mrs. lippett, thank goodness. i have an evening dress, pink mull over silk (i'm perfectly beautiful in that), and a blue church dress, and a dinner dress of red veiling with oriental trimming (makes me look like a gipsy), and another of rose-coloured challis, and a grey street suit, and an every-day dress for classes. that wouldn't be an awfully big wardrobe for julia rutledge pendleton, perhaps, but for jerusha abbott--oh, my! i suppose you're thinking now what a frivolous, shallow little beast she is, and what a waste of money to educate a girl? but, daddy, if you'd been dressed in checked ginghams all your life, you'd appreciate how i feel. and when i started to the high school, i entered upon another period even worse than the checked ginghams. the poor box. you can't know how i dreaded appearing in school in those miserable poor-box dresses. i was perfectly sure to be put down in class next to the girl who first owned my dress, and she would whisper and giggle and point it out to the others. the bitterness of wearing your enemies' cast-off clothes eats into your soul. if i wore silk stockings for the rest of my life, i don't believe i could obliterate the scar. latest war bulletin! news from the scene of action. at the fourth watch on thursday the th of november, hannibal routed the advance guard of the romans and led the carthaginian forces over the mountains into the plains of casilinum. a cohort of light armed numidians engaged the infantry of quintus fabius maximus. two battles and light skirmishing. romans repulsed with heavy losses. i have the honour of being, your special correspondent from the front, j. abbott ps. i know i'm not to expect any letters in return, and i've been warned not to bother you with questions, but tell me, daddy, just this once--are you awfully old or just a little old? and are you perfectly bald or just a little bald? it is very difficult thinking about you in the abstract like a theorem in geometry. given a tall rich man who hates girls, but is very generous to one quite impertinent girl, what does he look like? r.s.v.p. th december dear daddy-long-legs, you never answered my question and it was very important. are you bald? i have it planned exactly what you look like--very satisfactorily--until i reach the top of your head, and then i am stuck. i can't decide whether you have white hair or black hair or sort of sprinkly grey hair or maybe none at all. here is your portrait: but the problem is, shall i add some hair? would you like to know what colour your eyes are? they're grey, and your eyebrows stick out like a porch roof (beetling, they're called in novels), and your mouth is a straight line with a tendency to turn down at the corners. oh, you see, i know! you're a snappy old thing with a temper. (chapel bell.) . p.m. i have a new unbreakable rule: never, never to study at night no matter how many written reviews are coming in the morning. instead, i read just plain books--i have to, you know, because there are eighteen blank years behind me. you wouldn't believe, daddy, what an abyss of ignorance my mind is; i am just realizing the depths myself. the things that most girls with a properly assorted family and a home and friends and a library know by absorption, i have never heard of. for example: i never read mother goose or david copperfield or ivanhoe or cinderella or blue beard or robinson crusoe or jane eyre or alice in wonderland or a word of rudyard kipling. i didn't know that henry the eighth was married more than once or that shelley was a poet. i didn't know that people used to be monkeys and that the garden of eden was a beautiful myth. i didn't know that r. l. s. stood for robert louis stevenson or that george eliot was a lady. i had never seen a picture of the 'mona lisa' and (it's true but you won't believe it) i had never heard of sherlock holmes. now, i know all of these things and a lot of others besides, but you can see how much i need to catch up. and oh, but it's fun! i look forward all day to evening, and then i put an 'engaged' on the door and get into my nice red bath robe and furry slippers and pile all the cushions behind me on the couch, and light the brass student lamp at my elbow, and read and read and read one book isn't enough. i have four going at once. just now, they're tennyson's poems and vanity fair and kipling's plain tales and--don't laugh--little women. i find that i am the only girl in college who wasn't brought up on little women. i haven't told anybody though (that would stamp me as queer). i just quietly went and bought it with $ . of my last month's allowance; and the next time somebody mentions pickled limes, i'll know what she is talking about! (ten o'clock bell. this is a very interrupted letter.) saturday sir, i have the honour to report fresh explorations in the field of geometry. on friday last we abandoned our former works in parallelopipeds and proceeded to truncated prisms. we are finding the road rough and very uphill. sunday the christmas holidays begin next week and the trunks are up. the corridors are so filled up that you can hardly get through, and everybody is so bubbling over with excitement that studying is getting left out. i'm going to have a beautiful time in vacation; there's another freshman who lives in texas staying behind, and we are planning to take long walks and if there's any ice--learn to skate. then there is still the whole library to be read--and three empty weeks to do it in! goodbye, daddy, i hope that you are feeling as happy as i am. yours ever, judy ps. don't forget to answer my question. if you don't want the trouble of writing, have your secretary telegraph. he can just say: mr. smith is quite bald, or mr. smith is not bald, or mr. smith has white hair. and you can deduct the twenty-five cents out of my allowance. goodbye till january--and a merry christmas! towards the end of the christmas vacation. exact date unknown dear daddy-long-legs, is it snowing where you are? all the world that i see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. it's late afternoon--the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and i am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you. your five gold pieces were a surprise! i'm not used to receiving christmas presents. you have already given me such lots of things--everything i have, you know--that i don't quite feel that i deserve extras. but i like them just the same. do you want to know what i bought with my money? i. a silver watch in a leather case to wear on my wrist and get me to recitations in time. ii. matthew arnold's poems. iii. a hot water bottle. iv. a steamer rug. (my tower is cold.) v. five hundred sheets of yellow manuscript paper. (i'm going to commence being an author pretty soon.) vi. a dictionary of synonyms. (to enlarge the author's vocabulary.) vii. (i don't much like to confess this last item, but i will.) a pair of silk stockings. and now, daddy, never say i don't tell all! it was a very low motive, if you must know it, that prompted the silk stockings. julia pendleton comes into my room to do geometry, and she sits cross-legged on the couch and wears silk stockings every night. but just wait--as soon as she gets back from vacation i shall go in and sit on her couch in my silk stockings. you see, daddy, the miserable creature that i am but at least i'm honest; and you knew already, from my asylum record, that i wasn't perfect, didn't you? to recapitulate (that's the way the english instructor begins every other sentence), i am very much obliged for my seven presents. i'm pretending to myself that they came in a box from my family in california. the watch is from father, the rug from mother, the hot water bottle from grandmother who is always worrying for fear i shall catch cold in this climate--and the yellow paper from my little brother harry. my sister isabel gave me the silk stockings, and aunt susan the matthew arnold poems; uncle harry (little harry is named after him) gave me the dictionary. he wanted to send chocolates, but i insisted on synonyms. you don't object, do you, to playing the part of a composite family? and now, shall i tell you about my vacation, or are you only interested in my education as such? i hope you appreciate the delicate shade of meaning in 'as such'. it is the latest addition to my vocabulary. the girl from texas is named leonora fenton. (almost as funny as jerusha, isn't it?) i like her, but not so much as sallie mcbride; i shall never like any one so much as sallie--except you. i must always like you the best of all, because you're my whole family rolled into one. leonora and i and two sophomores have walked 'cross country every pleasant day and explored the whole neighbourhood, dressed in short skirts and knit jackets and caps, and carrying shiny sticks to whack things with. once we walked into town--four miles--and stopped at a restaurant where the college girls go for dinner. broiled lobster ( cents), and for dessert, buckwheat cakes and maple syrup ( cents). nourishing and cheap. it was such a lark! especially for me, because it was so awfully different from the asylum--i feel like an escaped convict every time i leave the campus. before i thought, i started to tell the others what an experience i was having. the cat was almost out of the bag when i grabbed it by its tail and pulled it back. it's awfully hard for me not to tell everything i know. i'm a very confiding soul by nature; if i didn't have you to tell things to, i'd burst. we had a molasses candy pull last friday evening, given by the house matron of fergussen to the left-behinds in the other halls. there were twenty-two of us altogether, freshmen and sophomores and juniors and seniors all united in amicable accord. the kitchen is huge, with copper pots and kettles hanging in rows on the stone wall--the littlest casserole among them about the size of a wash boiler. four hundred girls live in fergussen. the chef, in a white cap and apron, fetched out twenty-two other white caps and aprons--i can't imagine where he got so many--and we all turned ourselves into cooks. it was great fun, though i have seen better candy. when it was finally finished, and ourselves and the kitchen and the door-knobs all thoroughly sticky, we organized a procession and still in our caps and aprons, each carrying a big fork or spoon or frying pan, we marched through the empty corridors to the officers' parlour, where half-a-dozen professors and instructors were passing a tranquil evening. we serenaded them with college songs and offered refreshments. they accepted politely but dubiously. we left them sucking chunks of molasses candy, sticky and speechless. so you see, daddy, my education progresses! don't you really think that i ought to be an artist instead of an author? vacation will be over in two days and i shall be glad to see the girls again. my tower is just a trifle lonely; when nine people occupy a house that was built for four hundred, they do rattle around a bit. eleven pages--poor daddy, you must be tired! i meant this to be just a short little thank-you note--but when i get started i seem to have a ready pen. goodbye, and thank you for thinking of me--i should be perfectly happy except for one little threatening cloud on the horizon. examinations come in february. yours with love, judy ps. maybe it isn't proper to send love? if it isn't, please excuse. but i must love somebody and there's only you and mrs. lippett to choose between, so you see--you'll have to put up with it, daddy dear, because i can't love her. on the eve dear daddy-long-legs, you should see the way this college is studying! we've forgotten we ever had a vacation. fifty-seven irregular verbs have i introduced to my brain in the past four days--i'm only hoping they'll stay till after examinations. some of the girls sell their text-books when they're through with them, but i intend to keep mine. then after i've graduated i shall have my whole education in a row in the bookcase, and when i need to use any detail, i can turn to it without the slightest hesitation. so much easier and more accurate than trying to keep it in your head. julia pendleton dropped in this evening to pay a social call, and stayed a solid hour. she got started on the subject of family, and i couldn't switch her off. she wanted to know what my mother's maiden name was--did you ever hear such an impertinent question to ask of a person from a foundling asylum? i didn't have the courage to say i didn't know, so i just miserably plumped on the first name i could think of, and that was montgomery. then she wanted to know whether i belonged to the massachusetts montgomerys or the virginia montgomerys. her mother was a rutherford. the family came over in the ark, and were connected by marriage with henry the viii. on her father's side they date back further than adam. on the topmost branches of her family tree there's a superior breed of monkeys with very fine silky hair and extra long tails. i meant to write you a nice, cheerful, entertaining letter tonight, but i'm too sleepy--and scared. the freshman's lot is not a happy one. yours, about to be examined, judy abbott sunday dearest daddy-long-legs, i have some awful, awful, awful news to tell you, but i won't begin with it; i'll try to get you in a good humour first. jerusha abbott has commenced to be an author. a poem entitled, 'from my tower', appears in the february monthly--on the first page, which is a very great honour for a freshman. my english instructor stopped me on the way out from chapel last night, and said it was a charming piece of work except for the sixth line, which had too many feet. i will send you a copy in case you care to read it. let me see if i can't think of something else pleasant-- oh, yes! i'm learning to skate, and can glide about quite respectably all by myself. also i've learned how to slide down a rope from the roof of the gymnasium, and i can vault a bar three feet and six inches high--i hope shortly to pull up to four feet. we had a very inspiring sermon this morning preached by the bishop of alabama. his text was: 'judge not that ye be not judged.' it was about the necessity of overlooking mistakes in others, and not discouraging people by harsh judgments. i wish you might have heard it. this is the sunniest, most blinding winter afternoon, with icicles dripping from the fir trees and all the world bending under a weight of snow--except me, and i'm bending under a weight of sorrow. now for the news--courage, judy!--you must tell. are you surely in a good humour? i failed in mathematics and latin prose. i am tutoring in them, and will take another examination next month. i'm sorry if you're disappointed, but otherwise i don't care a bit because i've learned such a lot of things not mentioned in the catalogue. i've read seventeen novels and bushels of poetry--really necessary novels like vanity fair and richard feverel and alice in wonderland. also emerson's essays and lockhart's life of scott and the first volume of gibbon's roman empire and half of benvenuto cellini's life--wasn't he entertaining? he used to saunter out and casually kill a man before breakfast. so you see, daddy, i'm much more intelligent than if i'd just stuck to latin. will you forgive me this once if i promise never to fail again? yours in sackcloth, judy dear daddy-long-legs, this is an extra letter in the middle of the month because i'm rather lonely tonight. it's awfully stormy. all the lights are out on the campus, but i drank black coffee and i can't go to sleep. i had a supper party this evening consisting of sallie and julia and leonora fenton--and sardines and toasted muffins and salad and fudge and coffee. julia said she'd had a good time, but sallie stayed to help wash the dishes. i might, very usefully, put some time on latin tonight but, there's no doubt about it, i'm a very languid latin scholar. we've finished livy and de senectute and are now engaged with de amicitia (pronounced damn icitia). should you mind, just for a little while, pretending you are my grandmother? sallie has one and julia and leonora each two, and they were all comparing them tonight. i can't think of anything i'd rather have; it's such a respectable relationship. so, if you really don't object--when i went into town yesterday, i saw the sweetest cap of cluny lace trimmed with lavender ribbon. i am going to make you a present of it on your eighty-third birthday. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! that's the clock in the chapel tower striking twelve. i believe i am sleepy after all. good night, granny. i love you dearly. judy the ides of march dear d.-l.-l., i am studying latin prose composition. i have been studying it. i shall be studying it. i shall be about to have been studying it. my re-examination comes the th hour next tuesday, and i am going to pass or bust. so you may expect to hear from me next, whole and happy and free from conditions, or in fragments. i will write a respectable letter when it's over. tonight i have a pressing engagement with the ablative absolute. yours--in evident haste j. a. th march mr. d.-l.-l. smith, sir: you never answer any questions; you never show the slightest interest in anything i do. you are probably the horridest one of all those horrid trustees, and the reason you are educating me is, not because you care a bit about me, but from a sense of duty. i don't know a single thing about you. i don't even know your name. it is very uninspiring writing to a thing. i haven't a doubt but that you throw my letters into the waste-basket without reading them. hereafter i shall write only about work. my re-examinations in latin and geometry came last week. i passed them both and am now free from conditions. yours truly, jerusha abbott nd april dear daddy-long-legs, i am a beast. please forget about that dreadful letter i sent you last week--i was feeling terribly lonely and miserable and sore-throaty the night i wrote. i didn't know it, but i was just sickening for tonsillitis and grippe and lots of things mixed. i'm in the infirmary now, and have been here for six days; this is the first time they would let me sit up and have a pen and paper. the head nurse is very bossy. but i've been thinking about it all the time and i shan't get well until you forgive me. here is a picture of the way i look, with a bandage tied around my head in rabbit's ears. doesn't that arouse your sympathy? i am having sublingual gland swelling. and i've been studying physiology all the year without ever hearing of sublingual glands. how futile a thing is education! i can't write any more; i get rather shaky when i sit up too long. please forgive me for being impertinent and ungrateful. i was badly brought up. yours with love, judy abbott the infirmary th april dearest daddy-long-legs, yesterday evening just towards dark, when i was sitting up in bed looking out at the rain and feeling awfully bored with life in a great institution, the nurse appeared with a long white box addressed to me, and filled with the loveliest pink rosebuds. and much nicer still, it contained a card with a very polite message written in a funny little uphill back hand (but one which shows a great deal of character). thank you, daddy, a thousand times. your flowers make the first real, true present i ever received in my life. if you want to know what a baby i am i lay down and cried because i was so happy. now that i am sure you read my letters, i'll make them much more interesting, so they'll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around them--only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. i'd hate to think that you ever read it over. thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable freshman cheerful. probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don't know what it feels like to be alone. but i do. goodbye--i'll promise never to be horrid again, because now i know you're a real person; also i'll promise never to bother you with any more questions. do you still hate girls? yours for ever, judy th hour, monday dear daddy-long-legs, i hope you aren't the trustee who sat on the toad? it went off--i was told--with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter trustee. do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the laundry windows in the john grier home? every spring when the hoptoad season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. we were severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of all discouragement the toads would collect. and one day--well, i won't bore you with particulars--but somehow, one of the fattest, biggest, juciest toads got into one of those big leather arm chairs in the trustees' room, and that afternoon at the trustees' meeting--but i dare say you were there and recall the rest? looking back dispassionately after a period of time, i will say that punishment was merited, and--if i remember rightly--adequate. i don't know why i am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. the only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it. after chapel, thursday what do you think is my favourite book? just now, i mean; i change every three days. wuthering heights. emily bronte was quite young when she wrote it, and had never been outside of haworth churchyard. she had never known any men in her life; how could she imagine a man like heathcliffe? i couldn't do it, and i'm quite young and never outside the john grier asylum--i've had every chance in the world. sometimes a dreadful fear comes over me that i'm not a genius. will you be awfully disappointed, daddy, if i don't turn out to be a great author? in the spring when everything is so beautiful and green and budding, i feel like turning my back on lessons, and running away to play with the weather. there are such lots of adventures out in the fields! it's much more entertaining to live books than to write them. ow ! ! ! ! ! ! that was a shriek which brought sallie and julia and (for a disgusted moment) the senior from across the hall. it was caused by a centipede like this: only worse. just as i had finished the last sentence and was thinking what to say next--plump!--it fell off the ceiling and landed at my side. i tipped two cups off the tea table in trying to get away. sallie whacked it with the back of my hair brush--which i shall never be able to use again--and killed the front end, but the rear fifty feet ran under the bureau and escaped. this dormitory, owing to its age and ivy-covered walls, is full of centipedes. they are dreadful creatures. i'd rather find a tiger under the bed. friday, . p.m. such a lot of troubles! i didn't hear the rising bell this morning, then i broke my shoestring while i was hurrying to dress and dropped my collar button down my neck. i was late for breakfast and also for first-hour recitation. i forgot to take any blotting paper and my fountain pen leaked. in trigonometry the professor and i had a disagreement touching a little matter of logarithms. on looking it up, i find that she was right. we had mutton stew and pie-plant for lunch--hate 'em both; they taste like the asylum. the post brought me nothing but bills (though i must say that i never do get anything else; my family are not the kind that write). in english class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson. this was it: i asked no other thing, no other was denied. i offered being for it; the mighty merchant smiled. brazil? he twirled a button without a glance my way: but, madam, is there nothing else that we can show today? that is a poem. i don't know who wrote it or what it means. it was simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered to comment upon it. when i read the first verse i thought i had an idea--the mighty merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in return for virtuous deeds--but when i got to the second verse and found him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and i hastily changed my mind. the rest of the class was in the same predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank paper and equally blank minds. getting an education is an awfully wearing process! but this didn't end the day. there's worse to come. it rained so we couldn't play golf, but had to go to gymnasium instead. the girl next to me banged my elbow with an indian club. i got home to find that the box with my new blue spring dress had come, and the skirt was so tight that i couldn't sit down. friday is sweeping day, and the maid had mixed all the papers on my desk. we had tombstone for dessert (milk and gelatin flavoured with vanilla). we were kept in chapel twenty minutes later than usual to listen to a speech about womanly women. and then--just as i was settling down with a sigh of well-earned relief to the portrait of a lady, a girl named ackerly, a dough-faced, deadly, unintermittently stupid girl, who sits next to me in latin because her name begins with a (i wish mrs. lippett had named me zabriski), came to ask if monday's lesson commenced at paragraph or , and stayed one hour. she has just gone. did you ever hear of such a discouraging series of events? it isn't the big troubles in life that require character. anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--i really think that requires spirit. it's the kind of character that i am going to develop. i am going to pretend that all life is just a game which i must play as skilfully and fairly as i can. if i lose, i am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if i win. anyway, i am going to be a sport. you will never hear me complain again, daddy dear, because julia wears silk stockings and centipedes drop off the wall. yours ever, judy answer soon. th may daddy-long-legs, esq. dear sir: i am in receipt of a letter from mrs. lippett. she hopes that i am doing well in deportment and studies. since i probably have no place to go this summer, she will let me come back to the asylum and work for my board until college opens. i hate the john grier home. i'd rather die than go back. yours most truthfully, jerusha abbott cher daddy-jambes-longes, vous etes un brick! je suis tres heureuse about the farm, parceque je n'ai jamais been on a farm dans ma vie and i'd hate to retourner chez john grier, et wash dishes tout l'ete. there would be danger of quelque chose affreuse happening, parceque j'ai perdue ma humilite d'autre fois et j'ai peur that i would just break out quelque jour et smash every cup and saucer dans la maison. pardon brievete et paper. je ne peux pas send des mes nouvelles parceque je suis dans french class et j'ai peur que monsieur le professeur is going to call on me tout de suite. he did! au revoir, je vous aime beaucoup. judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever see this campus? (that is merely a rhetorical question. don't let it annoy you.) it is a heavenly spot in may. all the shrubs are in blossom and the trees are the loveliest young green--even the old pines look fresh and new. the grass is dotted with yellow dandelions and hundreds of girls in blue and white and pink dresses. everybody is joyous and carefree, for vacation's coming, and with that to look forward to, examinations don't count. isn't that a happy frame of mind to be in? and oh, daddy! i'm the happiest of all! because i'm not in the asylum any more; and i'm not anybody's nursemaid or typewriter or bookkeeper (i should have been, you know, except for you). i'm sorry now for all my past badnesses. i'm sorry i was ever impertinent to mrs. lippett. i'm sorry i ever slapped freddie perkins. i'm sorry i ever filled the sugar bowl with salt. i'm sorry i ever made faces behind the trustees' backs. i'm going to be good and sweet and kind to everybody because i'm so happy. and this summer i'm going to write and write and write and begin to be a great author. isn't that an exalted stand to take? oh, i'm developing a beautiful character! it droops a bit under cold and frost, but it does grow fast when the sun shines. that's the way with everybody. i don't agree with the theory that adversity and sorrow and disappointment develop moral strength. the happy people are the ones who are bubbling over with kindliness. i have no faith in misanthropes. (fine word! just learned it.) you are not a misanthrope are you, daddy? i started to tell you about the campus. i wish you'd come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say: 'that is the library. this is the gas plant, daddy dear. the gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the tudor romanesque beside it is the new infirmary.' oh, i'm fine at showing people about. i've done it all my life at the asylum, and i've been doing it all day here. i have honestly. and a man, too! that's a great experience. i never talked to a man before (except occasional trustees, and they don't count). pardon, daddy, i don't mean to hurt your feelings when i abuse trustees. i don't consider that you really belong among them. you just tumbled on to the board by chance. the trustee, as such, is fat and pompous and benevolent. he pats one on the head and wears a gold watch chain. that looks like a june bug, but is meant to be a portrait of any trustee except you. however--to resume: i have been walking and talking and having tea with a man. and with a very superior man--with mr. jervis pendleton of the house of julia; her uncle, in short (in long, perhaps i ought to say; he's as tall as you.) being in town on business, he decided to run out to the college and call on his niece. he's her father's youngest brother, but she doesn't know him very intimately. it seems he glanced at her when she was a baby, decided he didn't like her, and has never noticed her since. anyway, there he was, sitting in the reception room very proper with his hat and stick and gloves beside him; and julia and sallie with seventh-hour recitations that they couldn't cut. so julia dashed into my room and begged me to walk him about the campus and then deliver him to her when the seventh hour was over. i said i would, obligingly but unenthusiastically, because i don't care much for pendletons. but he turned out to be a sweet lamb. he's a real human being--not a pendleton at all. we had a beautiful time; i've longed for an uncle ever since. do you mind pretending you're my uncle? i believe they're superior to grandmothers. mr. pendleton reminded me a little of you, daddy, as you were twenty years ago. you see i know you intimately, even if we haven't ever met! he's tall and thinnish with a dark face all over lines, and the funniest underneath smile that never quite comes through but just wrinkles up the corners of his mouth. and he has a way of making you feel right off as though you'd known him a long time. he's very companionable. we walked all over the campus from the quadrangle to the athletic grounds; then he said he felt weak and must have some tea. he proposed that we go to college inn--it's just off the campus by the pine walk. i said we ought to go back for julia and sallie, but he said he didn't like to have his nieces drink too much tea; it made them nervous. so we just ran away and had tea and muffins and marmalade and ice-cream and cake at a nice little table out on the balcony. the inn was quite conveniently empty, this being the end of the month and allowances low. we had the jolliest time! but he had to run for his train the minute he got back and he barely saw julia at all. she was furious with me for taking him off; it seems he's an unusually rich and desirable uncle. it relieved my mind to find he was rich, for the tea and things cost sixty cents apiece. this morning (it's monday now) three boxes of chocolates came by express for julia and sallie and me. what do you think of that? to be getting candy from a man! i begin to feel like a girl instead of a foundling. i wish you'd come and have tea some day and let me see if i like you. but wouldn't it be dreadful if i didn't? however, i know i should. bien! i make you my compliments. 'jamais je ne t'oublierai.' judy ps. i looked in the glass this morning and found a perfectly new dimple that i'd never seen before. it's very curious. where do you suppose it came from? th june dear daddy-long-legs, happy day! i've just finished my last examination physiology. and now: three months on a farm! i don't know what kind of a thing a farm is. i've never been on one in my life. i've never even looked at one (except from the car window), but i know i'm going to love it, and i'm going to love being free. i am not used even yet to being outside the john grier home. whenever i think of it excited little thrills chase up and down my back. i feel as though i must run faster and faster and keep looking over my shoulder to make sure that mrs. lippett isn't after me with her arm stretched out to grab me back. i don't have to mind any one this summer, do i? your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too far away to do any harm. mrs. lippett is dead for ever, so far as i am concerned, and the semples aren't expected to overlook my moral welfare, are they? no, i am sure not. i am entirely grown up. hooray! i leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books. yours ever, judy ps. here is my physiology exam. do you think you could have passed? lock willow farm, saturday night dearest daddy-long-legs, i've only just come and i'm not unpacked, but i can't wait to tell you how much i like farms. this is a heavenly, heavenly, heavenly spot! the house is square like this: and old. a hundred years or so. it has a veranda on the side which i can't draw and a sweet porch in front. the picture really doesn't do it justice--those things that look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones that border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks. it stands on the top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows to another line of hills. that is the way connecticut goes, in a series of marcelle waves; and lock willow farm is just on the crest of one wave. the barns used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down. the people are mr. and mrs. semple and a hired girl and two hired men. the hired people eat in the kitchen, and the semples and judy in the dining-room. we had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper--and a great deal of conversation. i have never been so entertaining in my life; everything i say appears to be funny. i suppose it is, because i've never been in the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive ignorance. the room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed, but the one that i occupy. it's big and square and empty, with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch them. and a big square mahogany table--i'm going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel. oh, daddy, i'm so excited! i can't wait till daylight to explore. it's . now, and i am about to blow out my candle and try to go to sleep. we rise at five. did you ever know such fun? i can't believe this is really judy. you and the good lord give me more than i deserve. i must be a very, very, very good person to pay. i'm going to be. you'll see. good night, judy ps. you should hear the frogs sing and the little pigs squeal and you should see the new moon! i saw it over my right shoulder. lock willow, th july dear daddy-long-legs, how did your secretary come to know about lock willow? (that isn't a rhetorical question. i am awfully curious to know.) for listen to this: mr. jervis pendleton used to own this farm, but now he has given it to mrs. semple who was his old nurse. did you ever hear of such a funny coincidence? she still calls him 'master jervie' and talks about what a sweet little boy he used to be. she has one of his baby curls put away in a box, and it is red--or at least reddish! since she discovered that i know him, i have risen very much in her opinion. knowing a member of the pendleton family is the best introduction one can have at lock willow. and the cream of the whole family is master jervis--i am pleased to say that julia belongs to an inferior branch. the farm gets more and more entertaining. i rode on a hay wagon yesterday. we have three big pigs and nine little piglets, and you should see them eat. they are pigs! we've oceans of little baby chickens and ducks and turkeys and guinea fowls. you must be mad to live in a city when you might live on a farm. it is my daily business to hunt the eggs. i fell off a beam in the barn loft yesterday, while i was trying to crawl over to a nest that the black hen has stolen. and when i came in with a scratched knee, mrs. semple bound it up with witch-hazel, murmuring all the time, 'dear! dear! it seems only yesterday that master jervie fell off that very same beam and scratched this very same knee.' the scenery around here is perfectly beautiful. there's a valley and a river and a lot of wooded hills, and way in the distance a tall blue mountain that simply melts in your mouth. we churn twice a week; and we keep the cream in the spring house which is made of stone with the brook running underneath. some of the farmers around here have a separator, but we don't care for these new-fashioned ideas. it may be a little harder to separate the cream in pans, but it's sufficiently better to pay. we have six calves; and i've chosen the names for all of them. . sylvia, because she was born in the woods. . lesbia, after the lesbia in catullus. . sallie. . julia--a spotted, nondescript animal. . judy, after me. . daddy-long-legs. you don't mind, do you, daddy? he's pure jersey and has a sweet disposition. he looks like this--you can see how appropriate the name is. i haven't had time yet to begin my immortal novel; the farm keeps me too busy. yours always, judy ps. i've learned to make doughnuts. ps. ( ) if you are thinking of raising chickens, let me recommend buff orpingtons. they haven't any pin feathers. ps. ( ) i wish i could send you a pat of the nice, fresh butter i churned yesterday. i'm a fine dairy-maid! ps. ( ) this is a picture of miss jerusha abbott, the future great author, driving home the cows. sunday dear daddy-long-legs, isn't it funny? i started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as i got was the heading, 'dear daddy-long-legs', and then i remembered i'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so i went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when i came back today, what do you think i found sitting in the middle of the page? a real true daddy-long-legs! i picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window. i wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. they always remind me of you. we hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the centre to church. it's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three doric columns in front (or maybe ionic--i always get them mixed). a nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the trees outside. i didn't wake up till i found myself on my feet singing the hymn, and then i was awfully sorry i hadn't listened to the sermon; i should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick out such a hymn. this was it: come, leave your sports and earthly toys and join me in celestial joys. or else, dear friend, a long farewell. i leave you now to sink to hell. i find that it isn't safe to discuss religion with the semples. their god (whom they have inherited intact from their remote puritan ancestors) is a narrow, irrational, unjust, mean, revengeful, bigoted person. thank heaven i don't inherit god from anybody! i am free to make mine up as i wish him. he's kind and sympathetic and imaginative and forgiving and understanding--and he has a sense of humour. i like the semples immensely; their practice is so superior to their theory. they are better than their own god. i told them so--and they are horribly troubled. they think i am blasphemous--and i think they are! we've dropped theology from our conversation. this is sunday afternoon. amasai (hired man) in a purple tie and some bright yellow buckskin gloves, very red and shaved, has just driven off with carrie (hired girl) in a big hat trimmed with red roses and a blue muslin dress and her hair curled as tight as it will curl. amasai spent all the morning washing the buggy; and carrie stayed home from church ostensibly to cook the dinner, but really to iron the muslin dress. in two minutes more when this letter is finished i am going to settle down to a book which i found in the attic. it's entitled, on the trail, and sprawled across the front page in a funny little-boy hand: jervis pendleton if this book should ever roam, box its ears and send it home. he spent the summer here once after he had been ill, when he was about eleven years old; and he left on the trail behind. it looks well read--the marks of his grimy little hands are frequent! also in a corner of the attic there is a water wheel and a windmill and some bows and arrows. mrs. semple talks so constantly about him that i begin to believe he really lives--not a grown man with a silk hat and walking stick, but a nice, dirty, tousle-headed boy who clatters up the stairs with an awful racket, and leaves the screen doors open, and is always asking for cookies. (and getting them, too, if i know mrs. semple!) he seems to have been an adventurous little soul--and brave and truthful. i'm sorry to think he is a pendleton; he was meant for something better. we're going to begin threshing oats tomorrow; a steam engine is coming and three extra men. it grieves me to tell you that buttercup (the spotted cow with one horn, mother of lesbia) has done a disgraceful thing. she got into the orchard friday evening and ate apples under the trees, and ate and ate until they went to her head. for two days she has been perfectly dead drunk! that is the truth i am telling. did you ever hear anything so scandalous? sir, i remain, your affectionate orphan, judy abbott ps. indians in the first chapter and highwaymen in the second. i hold my breath. what can the third contain? 'red hawk leapt twenty feet in the air and bit the dust.' that is the subject of the frontispiece. aren't judy and jervie having fun? th september dear daddy, i was weighed yesterday on the flour scales in the general store at the comers. i've gained nine pounds! let me recommend lock willow as a health resort. yours ever, judy dear daddy-long-legs, behold me--a sophomore! i came up last friday, sorry to leave lock willow, but glad to see the campus again. it is a pleasant sensation to come back to something familiar. i am beginning to feel at home in college, and in command of the situation; i am beginning, in fact, to feel at home in the world--as though i really belonged to it and had not just crept in on sufferance. i don't suppose you understand in the least what i am trying to say. a person important enough to be a trustee can't appreciate the feelings of a person unimportant enough to be a foundling. and now, daddy, listen to this. whom do you think i am rooming with? sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. it's the truth. we have a study and three little bedrooms--voila! sallie and i decided last spring that we should like to room together, and julia made up her mind to stay with sallie--why, i can't imagine, for they are not a bit alike; but the pendletons are naturally conservative and inimical (fine word!) to change. anyway, here we are. think of jerusha abbott, late of the john grier home for orphans, rooming with a pendleton. this is a democratic country. sallie is running for class president, and unless all signs fail, she is going to be elected. such an atmosphere of intrigue you should see what politicians we are! oh, i tell you, daddy, when we women get our rights, you men will have to look alive in order to keep yours. election comes next saturday, and we're going to have a torchlight procession in the evening, no matter who wins. i am beginning chemistry, a most unusual study. i've never seen anything like it before. molecules and atoms are the material employed, but i'll be in a position to discuss them more definitely next month. i am also taking argumentation and logic. also history of the whole world. also plays of william shakespeare. also french. if this keeps up many years longer, i shall become quite intelligent. i should rather have elected economics than french, but i didn't dare, because i was afraid that unless i re-elected french, the professor would not let me pass--as it was, i just managed to squeeze through the june examination. but i will say that my high-school preparation was not very adequate. there's one girl in the class who chatters away in french as fast as she does in english. she went abroad with her parents when she was a child, and spent three years in a convent school. you can imagine how bright she is compared with the rest of us--irregular verbs are mere playthings. i wish my parents had chucked me into a french convent when i was little instead of a foundling asylum. oh no, i don't either! because then maybe i should never have known you. i'd rather know you than french. goodbye, daddy. i must call on harriet martin now, and, having discussed the chemical situation, casually drop a few thoughts on the subject of our next president. yours in politics, j. abbott th october dear daddy-long-legs, supposing the swimming tank in the gymnasium were filled full of lemon jelly, could a person trying to swim manage to keep on top or would he sink? we were having lemon jelly for dessert when the question came up. we discussed it heatedly for half an hour and it's still unsettled. sallie thinks that she could swim in it, but i am perfectly sure that the best swimmer in the world would sink. wouldn't it be funny to be drowned in lemon jelly? two other problems are engaging the attention of our table. st. what shape are the rooms in an octagon house? some of the girls insist that they're square; but i think they'd have to be shaped like a piece of pie. don't you? nd. suppose there were a great big hollow sphere made of looking-glass and you were sitting inside. where would it stop reflecting your face and begin reflecting your back? the more one thinks about this problem, the more puzzling it becomes. you can see with what deep philosophical reflection we engage our leisure! did i ever tell you about the election? it happened three weeks ago, but so fast do we live, that three weeks is ancient history. sallie was elected, and we had a torchlight parade with transparencies saying, 'mcbride for ever,' and a band consisting of fourteen pieces (three mouth organs and eleven combs). we're very important persons now in ' .' julia and i come in for a great deal of reflected glory. it's quite a social strain to be living in the same house with a president. bonne nuit, cher daddy. acceptez mez compliments, tres respectueux, je suis, votre judy th november dear daddy-long-legs, we beat the freshmen at basket ball yesterday. of course we're pleased--but oh, if we could only beat the juniors! i'd be willing to be black and blue all over and stay in bed a week in a witch-hazel compress. sallie has invited me to spend the christmas vacation with her. she lives in worcester, massachusetts. wasn't it nice of her? i shall love to go. i've never been in a private family in my life, except at lock willow, and the semples were grown-up and old and don't count. but the mcbrides have a houseful of children (anyway two or three) and a mother and father and grandmother, and an angora cat. it's a perfectly complete family! packing your trunk and going away is more fun than staying behind. i am terribly excited at the prospect. seventh hour--i must run to rehearsal. i'm to be in the thanksgiving theatricals. a prince in a tower with a velvet tunic and yellow curls. isn't that a lark? yours, j. a. saturday do you want to know what i look like? here's a photograph of all three that leonora fenton took. the light one who is laughing is sallie, and the tall one with her nose in the air is julia, and the little one with the hair blowing across her face is judy--she is really more beautiful than that, but the sun was in her eyes. 'stone gate', worcester, mass., st december dear daddy-long-legs, i meant to write to you before and thank you for your christmas cheque, but life in the mcbride household is very absorbing, and i don't seem able to find two consecutive minutes to spend at a desk. i bought a new gown--one that i didn't need, but just wanted. my christmas present this year is from daddy-long-legs; my family just sent love. i've been having the most beautiful vacation visiting sallie. she lives in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street--exactly the kind of house that i used to look at so curiously when i was in the john grier home, and wonder what it could be like inside. i never expected to see with my own eyes--but here i am! everything is so comfortable and restful and homelike; i walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings. it is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fire places for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has lived in the family thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again. and as for families! i never dreamed they could be so nice. sallie has a father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet, and a big, good-looking brother named jimmie, who is a junior at princeton. we have the jolliest times at the table--everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don't have to say grace beforehand. it's a relief not having to thank somebody for every mouthful you eat. (i dare say i'm blasphemous; but you'd be, too, if you'd offered as much obligatory thanks as i have.) such a lot of things we've done--i can't begin to tell you about them. mr. mcbride owns a factory and christmas eve he had a tree for the employees' children. it was in the long packing-room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. jimmie mcbride was dressed as santa claus and sallie and i helped him distribute the presents. dear me, daddy, but it was a funny sensation! i felt as benevolent as a trustee of the john grier home. i kissed one sweet, sticky little boy--but i don't think i patted any of them on the head! and two days after christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for me. it was the first really true ball i ever attended--college doesn't count where we dance with girls. i had a new white evening gown (your christmas present--many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. the only drawback to my perfect, utter, absolute happiness was the fact that mrs. lippett couldn't see me leading the cotillion with jimmie mcbride. tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the j. g. h. yours ever, judy abbott ps. would you be terribly displeased, daddy, if i didn't turn out to be a great author after all, but just a plain girl? . , saturday dear daddy, we started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. i like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain. julia's desirable uncle called again this afternoon--and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. there are advantages, you see, about rooming with julia. our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. we had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. it's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk's certificate attached. (don't i know a lot of law?) and even then i doubt if we could have had our tea if the dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking uncle jervis is. anyway, we had it, with brown bread swiss cheese sandwiches. he helped make them and then ate four. i told him that i had spent last summer at lock willow, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the semples, and the horses and cows and chickens. all the horses that he used to know are dead, except grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit--and poor grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture. he asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry--and they do! he wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture--and there is! amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one master jervis caught when he was a little boy. i called him 'master jervie' to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. julia says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. but julia hasn't a bit of tact; and men, i find, require a great deal. they purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (that isn't a very elegant metaphor. i mean it figuratively.) we're reading marie bashkirtseff's journal. isn't it amazing? listen to this: 'last night i was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.' it makes me almost hope i'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about--and awfully destructive to the furniture. mercy! how it keeps pouring. we shall have to swim to chapel tonight. yours ever, judy th jan. dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy? maybe i am she! if we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn't it? it's really awfully queer not to know what one is--sort of exciting and romantic. there are such a lot of possibilities. maybe i'm not american; lots of people aren't. i may be straight descended from the ancient romans, or i may be a viking's daughter, or i may be the child of a russian exile and belong by rights in a siberian prison, or maybe i'm a gipsy--i think perhaps i am. i have a very wandering spirit, though i haven't as yet had much chance to develop it. do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time i ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? it's down in the books free for any trustee to read. but really, daddy, what could you expect? when you put a hungry little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn't you expect to find her a bit crumby? and then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that it's because she's a thief, wouldn't you expect her to run away? i only ran four miles. they caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week i was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the back yard while the other children were out at recess. oh, dear! there's the chapel bell, and after chapel i have a committee meeting. i'm sorry because i meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time. auf wiedersehen cher daddy, pax tibi! judy ps. there's one thing i'm perfectly sure of i'm not a chinaman. th february dear daddy-long-legs, jimmie mcbride has sent me a princeton banner as big as one end of the room; i am very grateful to him for remembering me, but i don't know what on earth to do with it. sallie and julia won't let me hang it up; our room this year is furnished in red, and you can imagine what an effect we'd have if i added orange and black. but it's such nice, warm, thick felt, i hate to waste it. would it be very improper to have it made into a bath robe? my old one shrank when it was washed. i've entirely omitted of late telling you what i am learning, but though you might not imagine it from my letters, my time is exclusively occupied with study. it's a very bewildering matter to get educated in five branches at once. 'the test of true scholarship,' says chemistry professor, 'is a painstaking passion for detail.' 'be careful not to keep your eyes glued to detail,' says history professor. 'stand far enough away to get a perspective of the whole.' you can see with what nicety we have to trim our sails between chemistry and history. i like the historical method best. if i say that william the conqueror came over in , and columbus discovered america in or or whenever it was, that's a mere detail that the professor overlooks. it gives a feeling of security and restfulness to the history recitation, that is entirely lacking in chemistry. sixth-hour bell--i must go to the laboratory and look into a little matter of acids and salts and alkalis. i've burned a hole as big as a plate in the front of my chemistry apron, with hydrochloric acid. if the theory worked, i ought to be able to neutralize that hole with good strong ammonia, oughtn't i? examinations next week, but who's afraid? yours ever, judy th march dear daddy-long-legs, there is a march wind blowing, and the sky is filled with heavy, black moving clouds. the crows in the pine trees are making such a clamour! it's an intoxicating, exhilarating, calling noise. you want to close your books and be off over the hills to race with the wind. we had a paper chase last saturday over five miles of squashy 'cross country. the fox (composed of three girls and a bushel or so of confetti) started half an hour before the twenty-seven hunters. i was one of the twenty-seven; eight dropped by the wayside; we ended nineteen. the trail led over a hill, through a cornfield, and into a swamp where we had to leap lightly from hummock to hummock. of course half of us went in ankle deep. we kept losing the trail, and we wasted twenty-five minutes over that swamp. then up a hill through some woods and in at a barn window! the barn doors were all locked and the window was up high and pretty small. i don't call that fair, do you? but we didn't go through; we circumnavigated the barn and picked up the trail where it issued by way of a low shed roof on to the top of a fence. the fox thought he had us there, but we fooled him. then straight away over two miles of rolling meadow, and awfully hard to follow, for the confetti was getting sparse. the rule is that it must be at the most six feet apart, but they were the longest six feet i ever saw. finally, after two hours of steady trotting, we tracked monsieur fox into the kitchen of crystal spring (that's a farm where the girls go in bob sleighs and hay wagons for chicken and waffle suppers) and we found the three foxes placidly eating milk and honey and biscuits. they hadn't thought we would get that far; they were expecting us to stick in the barn window. both sides insist that they won. i think we did, don't you? because we caught them before they got back to the campus. anyway, all nineteen of us settled like locusts over the furniture and clamoured for honey. there wasn't enough to go round, but mrs. crystal spring (that's our pet name for her; she's by rights a johnson) brought up a jar of strawberry jam and a can of maple syrup--just made last week--and three loaves of brown bread. we didn't get back to college till half-past six--half an hour late for dinner--and we went straight in without dressing, and with perfectly unimpaired appetites! then we all cut evening chapel, the state of our boots being enough of an excuse. i never told you about examinations. i passed everything with the utmost ease--i know the secret now, and am never going to fail again. i shan't be able to graduate with honours though, because of that beastly latin prose and geometry freshman year. but i don't care. wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy? (that's a quotation. i've been reading the english classics.) speaking of classics, have you ever read hamlet? if you haven't, do it right off. it's perfectly corking. i've been hearing about shakespeare all my life, but i had no idea he really wrote so well; i always suspected him of going largely on his reputation. i have a beautiful play that i invented a long time ago when i first learned to read. i put myself to sleep every night by pretending i'm the person (the most important person) in the book i'm reading at the moment. at present i'm ophelia--and such a sensible ophelia! i keep hamlet amused all the time, and pet him and scold him and make him wrap up his throat when he has a cold. i've entirely cured him of being melancholy. the king and queen are both dead--an accident at sea; no funeral necessary--so hamlet and i are ruling in denmark without any bother. we have the kingdom working beautifully. he takes care of the governing, and i look after the charities. i have just founded some first-class orphan asylums. if you or any of the other trustees would like to visit them, i shall be pleased to show you through. i think you might find a great many helpful suggestions. i remain, sir, yours most graciously, ophelia, queen of denmark. th march, maybe the th dear daddy-long-legs, i don't believe i can be going to heaven--i am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. listen to what has happened. jerusha abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the monthly holds every year. and she's a sophomore! the contestants are mostly seniors. when i saw my name posted, i couldn't quite believe it was true. maybe i am going to be an author after all. i wish mrs. lippett hadn't given me such a silly name--it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it? also i have been chosen for the spring dramatics--as you like it out of doors. i am going to be celia, own cousin to rosalind. and lastly: julia and sallie and i are going to new york next friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'master jervie.' he invited us. julia is going to stay at home with her family, but sallie and i are going to stop at the martha washington hotel. did you ever hear of anything so exciting? i've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the catholic church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count. and what do you think we're going to see? hamlet. think of that! we studied it for four weeks in shakespeare class and i know it by heart. i am so excited over all these prospects that i can scarcely sleep. goodbye, daddy. this is a very entertaining world. yours ever, judy ps. i've just looked at the calendar. it's the th. another postscript. i saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story? th april dear daddy-long-legs, mercy! isn't new york big? worcester is nothing to it. do you mean to tell me that you actually live in all that confusion? i don't believe that i shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. i can't begin to tell you all the amazing things i've seen; i suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself. but aren't the streets entertaining? and the people? and the shops? i never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. it makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes. sallie and julia and i went shopping together saturday morning. julia went into the very most gorgeous place i ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. a perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. i thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats--at least julia was. she sat down in front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all. i can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! there's no doubt about it, daddy; new york would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the john grier home so patiently built up. and after we'd finished our shopping, we met master jervie at sherry's. i suppose you've been in sherry's? picture that, then picture the dining-room of the john grier home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way i felt! i ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed. and after luncheon we went to the theatre--it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable--i dream about it every night. isn't shakespeare wonderful? hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; i appreciated it before, but now, dear me! i think, if you don't mind, that i'd rather be an actress than a writer. wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? and then i'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so i'll surely smile at the right man. it would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if i picked out the wrong one. we came back saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps and negro waiters. i never heard of meals being served in trains before, and i inadvertently said so. 'where on earth were you brought up?' said julia to me. 'in a village,' said i meekly, to julia. 'but didn't you ever travel?' said she to me. 'not till i came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said i to her. she's getting quite interested in me, because i say such funny things. i try hard not to, but they do pop out when i'm surprised--and i'm surprised most of the time. it's a dizzying experience, daddy, to pass eighteen years in the john grier home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the world. but i'm getting acclimated. i don't make such awful mistakes as i did; and i don't feel uncomfortable any more with the other girls. i used to squirm whenever people looked at me. i felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. but i'm not letting the ginghams bother me any more. sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof. i forgot to tell you about our flowers. master jervie gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. wasn't that sweet of him? i never used to care much for men--judging by trustees--but i'm changing my mind. eleven pages--this is a letter! have courage. i'm going to stop. yours always, judy th april dear mr. rich-man, here's your cheque for fifty dollars. thank you very much, but i do not feel that i can keep it. my allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that i need. i am sorry that i wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that i had never seen anything like it before. however, i wasn't begging! and i would rather not accept any more charity than i have to. sincerely yours, jerusha abbott th april dearest daddy, will you please forgive me for the letter i wrote you yesterday? after i posted it i was sorry, and tried to get it back, but that beastly mail clerk wouldn't give it back to me. it's the middle of the night now; i've been awake for hours thinking what a worm i am--what a thousand-legged worm--and that's the worst i can say! i've closed the door very softly into the study so as not to wake julia and sallie, and am sitting up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book. i just wanted to tell you that i am sorry i was so impolite about your cheque. i know you meant it kindly, and i think you're an old dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat. i ought to have returned it very much more graciously. but in any case, i had to return it. it's different with me than with other girls. they can take things naturally from people. they have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but i can't be on any such relations with any one. i like to pretend that you belong to me, just to play with the idea, but of course i know you don't. i'm alone, really--with my back to the wall fighting the world--and i get sort of gaspy when i think about it. i put it out of my mind, and keep on pretending; but don't you see, daddy? i can't accept any more money than i have to, because some day i shall be wanting to pay it back, and even as great an author as i intend to be won't be able to face a perfectly tremendous debt. i'd love pretty hats and things, but i mustn't mortgage the future to pay for them. you'll forgive me, won't you, for being so rude? i have an awful habit of writing impulsively when i first think things, and then posting the letter beyond recall. but if i sometimes seem thoughtless and ungrateful, i never mean it. in my heart i thank you always for the life and freedom and independence that you have given me. my childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now i am so happy every moment of the day that i can't believe it's true. i feel like a made-up heroine in a story-book. it's a quarter past two. i'm going to tiptoe out to post this off now. you'll receive it in the next mail after the other; so you won't have a very long time to think bad of me. good night, daddy, i love you always, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, field day last saturday. it was a very spectacular occasion. first we had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white linen, the seniors carrying blue and gold japanese umbrellas, and the juniors white and yellow banners. our class had crimson balloons--very fetching, especially as they were always getting loose and floating off--and the freshmen wore green tissue-paper hats with long streamers. also we had a band in blue uniforms hired from town. also about a dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus, to keep the spectators entertained between events. julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and whiskers and baggy umbrella. patsy moriarty (patrici really. did you ever hear such a name? mrs. lippett couldn't have done better) who is tall and thin was julia's wife in a absurd green bonnet over one ear. waves of laughter followed them the whole length of the course. julia played the part extremely well. i never dreamed that a pendleton could display so much comedy spirit--begging master jervie's pardon; i don't consider him a true pendleton though, any more than i consider you a true trustee. sallie and i weren't in the parade because we were entered for the events. and what do you think? we both won! at least in something. we tried for the running broad jump and lost; but sallie won the pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches) and i won the fifty-yard sprint (eight seconds). i was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling: what's the matter with judy abbott? she's all right. who's all right? judy ab-bott! that, daddy, is true fame. then trotting back to the dressing tent and being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. you see we're very professional. it's a fine thing to win an event for your class, because the class that wins the most gets the athletic cup for the year. the seniors won it this year, with seven events to their credit. the athletic association gave a dinner in the gymnasium to all of the winners. we had fried soft-shell crabs, and chocolate ice-cream moulded in the shape of basket balls. i sat up half of last night reading jane eyre. are you old enough, daddy, to remember sixty years ago? and, if so, did people talk that way? the haughty lady blanche says to the footman, 'stop your chattering, knave, and do my bidding.' mr. rochester talks about the metal welkin when he means the sky; and as for the mad woman who laughs like a hyena and sets fire to bed curtains and tears up wedding veils and bites--it's melodrama of the purest, but just the same, you read and read and read. i can't see how any girl could have written such a book, especially any girl who was brought up in a churchyard. there's something about those brontes that fascinates me. their books, their lives, their spirit. where did they get it? when i was reading about little jane's troubles in the charity school, i got so angry that i had to go out and take a walk. i understood exactly how she felt. having known mrs. lippett, i could see mr. brocklehurst. don't be outraged, daddy. i am not intimating that the john grier home was like the lowood institute. we had plenty to eat and plenty to wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar. but there was one deadly likeness. our lives were absolutely monotonous and uneventful. nothing nice ever happened, except ice-cream on sundays, and even that was regular. in all the eighteen years i was there i only had one adventure--when the woodshed burned. we had to get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in case the house should catch. but it didn't catch and we went back to bed. everybody likes a few surprises; it's a perfectly natural human craving. but i never had one until mrs. lippett called me to the office to tell me that mr. john smith was going to send me to college. and then she broke the news so gradually that it just barely shocked me. you know, daddy, i think that the most necessary quality for any person to have is imagination. it makes people able to put themselves in other people's places. it makes them kind and sympathetic and understanding. it ought to be cultivated in children. but the john grier home instantly stamped out the slightest flicker that appeared. duty was the one quality that was encouraged. i don't think children ought to know the meaning of the word; it's odious, detestable. they ought to do everything from love. wait until you see the orphan asylum that i am going to be the head of! it's my favourite play at night before i go to sleep. i plan it out to the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and study and amusements and punishments; for even my superior orphans are sometimes bad. but anyway, they are going to be happy. i think that every one, no matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have a happy childhood to look back upon. and if i ever have any children of my own, no matter how unhappy i may be, i am not going to let them have any cares until they grow up. (there goes the chapel bell--i'll finish this letter sometime). thursday when i came in from laboratory this afternoon, i found a squirrel sitting on the tea table helping himself to almonds. these are the kind of callers we entertain now that warm weather has come and the windows stay open-- saturday morning perhaps you think, last night being friday, with no classes today, that i passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of stevenson that i bought with my prize money? but if so, you've never attended a girls' college, daddy dear. six friends dropped in to make fudge, and one of them dropped the fudge--while it was still liquid--right in the middle of our best rug. we shall never be able to clean up the mess. i haven't mentioned any lessons of late; but we are still having them every day. it's sort of a relief though, to get away from them and discuss life in the large--rather one-sided discussions that you and i hold, but that's your own fault. you are welcome to answer back any time you choose. i've been writing this letter off and on for three days, and i fear by now vous etes bien bored! goodbye, nice mr. man, judy mr. daddy-long-legs smith, sir: having completed the study of argumentation and the science of dividing a thesis into heads, i have decided to adopt the following form for letter-writing. it contains all necessary facts, but no unnecessary verbiage. i. we had written examinations this week in: a. chemistry. b. history. ii. a new dormitory is being built. a. its material is: (a) red brick. (b) grey stone. b. its capacity will be: (a) one dean, five instructors. (b) two hundred girls. (c) one housekeeper, three cooks, twenty waitresses, twenty chambermaids. iii. we had junket for dessert tonight. iv. i am writing a special topic upon the sources of shakespeare's plays. v. lou mcmahon slipped and fell this afternoon at basket ball, and she: a. dislocated her shoulder. b. bruised her knee. vi. i have a new hat trimmed with: a. blue velvet ribbon. b. two blue quills. c. three red pompoms. vii. it is half past nine. viii. good night. judy nd june dear daddy-long-legs, you will never guess the nice thing that has happened. the mcbrides have asked me to spend the summer at their camp in the adirondacks! they belong to a sort of club on a lovely little lake in the middle of the woods. the different members have houses made of logs dotted about among the trees, and they go canoeing on the lake, and take long walks through trails to other camps, and have dances once a week in the club house--jimmie mcbride is going to have a college friend visiting him part of the summer, so you see we shall have plenty of men to dance with. wasn't it sweet of mrs. mcbride to ask me? it appears that she liked me when i was there for christmas. please excuse this being short. it isn't a real letter; it's just to let you know that i'm disposed of for the summer. yours, in a very contented frame of mind, judy th june dear daddy-long-legs, your secretary man has just written to me saying that mr. smith prefers that i should not accept mrs. mcbride's invitation, but should return to lock willow the same as last summer. why, why, why, daddy? you don't understand about it. mrs. mcbride does want me, really and truly. i'm not the least bit of trouble in the house. i'm a help. they don't take up many servants, and sallie an i can do lots of useful things. it's a fine chance for me to learn housekeeping. every woman ought to understand it, and i only know asylum-keeping. there aren't any girls our age at the camp, and mrs. mcbride wants me for a companion for sallie. we are planning to do a lot of reading together. we are going to read all of the books for next year's english and sociology. the professor said it would be a great help if we would get our reading finished in the summer; and it's so much easier to remember it if we read together and talk it over. just to live in the same house with sallie's mother is an education. she's the most interesting, entertaining, companionable, charming woman in the world; she knows everything. think how many summers i've spent with mrs. lippett and how i'll appreciate the contrast. you needn't be afraid that i'll be crowding them, for their house is made of rubber. when they have a lot of company, they just sprinkle tents about in the woods and turn the boys outside. it's going to be such a nice, healthy summer exercising out of doors every minute. jimmie mcbride is going to teach me how to ride horseback and paddle a canoe, and how to shoot and--oh, lots of things i ought to know. it's the kind of nice, jolly, care-free time that i've never had; and i think every girl deserves it once in her life. of course i'll do exactly as you say, but please, please let me go, daddy. i've never wanted anything so much. this isn't jerusha abbott, the future great author, writing to you. it's just judy--a girl. th june mr. john smith, sir: yours of the th inst. at hand. in compliance with the instructions received through your secretary, i leave on friday next to spend the summer at lock willow farm. i hope always to remain, (miss) jerusha abbott lock willow farm, rd august dear daddy-long-legs, it has been nearly two months since i wrote, which wasn't nice of me, i know, but i haven't loved you much this summer--you see i'm being frank! you can't imagine how disappointed i was at having to give up the mcbrides' camp. of course i know that you're my guardian, and that i have to regard your wishes in all matters, but i couldn't see any reason. it was so distinctly the best thing that could have happened to me. if i had been daddy, and you had been judy, i should have said, 'bless you my child, run along and have a good time; see lots of new people and learn lots of new things; live out of doors, and get strong and well and rested for a year of hard work.' but not at all! just a curt line from your secretary ordering me to lock willow. it's the impersonality of your commands that hurts my feelings. it seems as though, if you felt the tiniest little bit for me the way i feel for you, you'd sometimes send me a message that you'd written with your own hand, instead of those beastly typewritten secretary's notes. if there were the slightest hint that you cared, i'd do anything on earth to please you. i know that i was to write nice, long, detailed letters without ever expecting any answer. you're living up to your side of the bargain--i'm being educated--and i suppose you're thinking i'm not living up to mine! but, daddy, it is a hard bargain. it is, really. i'm so awfully lonely. you are the only person i have to care for, and you are so shadowy. you're just an imaginary man that i've made up--and probably the real you isn't a bit like my imaginary you. but you did once, when i was ill in the infirmary, send me a message, and now, when i am feeling awfully forgotten, i get out your card and read it over. i don't think i am telling you at all what i started to say, which was this: although my feelings are still hurt, for it is very humiliating to be picked up and moved about by an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, omnipotent, invisible providence, still, when a man has been as kind and generous and thoughtful as you have heretofore been towards me, i suppose he has a right to be an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, invisible providence if he chooses, and so--i'll forgive you and be cheerful again. but i still don't enjoy getting sallie's letters about the good times they are having in camp! however--we will draw a veil over that and begin again. i've been writing and writing this summer; four short stories finished and sent to four different magazines. so you see i'm trying to be an author. i have a workroom fixed in a corner of the attic where master jervie used to have his rainy-day playroom. it's in a cool, breezy corner with two dormer windows, and shaded by a maple tree with a family of red squirrels living in a hole. i'll write a nicer letter in a few days and tell you all the farm news. we need rain. yours as ever, judy th august mr. daddy-long-legs, sir: i address you from the second crotch in the willow tree by the pool in the pasture. there's a frog croaking underneath, a locust singing overhead and two little 'devil downheads' darting up and down the trunk. i've been here for an hour; it's a very comfortable crotch, especially after being upholstered with two sofa cushions. i came up with a pen and tablet hoping to write an immortal short story, but i've been having a dreadful time with my heroine--i can't make her behave as i want her to behave; so i've abandoned her for the moment, and am writing to you. (not much relief though, for i can't make you behave as i want you to, either.) if you are in that dreadful new york, i wish i could send you some of this lovely, breezy, sunshiny outlook. the country is heaven after a week of rain. speaking of heaven--do you remember mr. kellogg that i told you about last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the corners. well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. i went half a dozen times to hear him preach and got very well acquainted with his theology. he believed to the end exactly the same things he started with. it seems to me that a man who can think straight along for forty-seven years without changing a single idea ought to be kept in a cabinet as a curiosity. i hope he is enjoying his harp and golden crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them! there's a new young man, very consequential, in his place. the congregation is pretty dubious, especially the faction led by deacon cummings. it looks as though there was going to be an awful split in the church. we don't care for innovations in religion in this neighbourhood. during our week of rain i sat up in the attic and had an orgy of reading--stevenson, mostly. he himself is more entertaining than any of the characters in his books; i dare say he made himself into the kind of hero that would look well in print. don't you think it was perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the south seas? he lived up to his adventurous creed. if my father had left me ten thousand dollars, i'd do it, too. the thought of vailima makes me wild. i want to see the tropics. i want to see the whole world. i am going to be a great author, or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a great person i turn out to be. i have a terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella and start. 'i shall see before i die the palms and temples of the south.' thursday evening at twilight, sitting on the doorstep. very hard to get any news into this letter! judy is becoming so philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of daily life. but if you must have news, here it is: our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last tuesday, and only eight came back. we don't want to accuse anyone unjustly, but we suspect that widow dowd has one more than she ought to have. mr. weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin yellow--a very ugly colour, but he says it will wear. the brewers have company this week; mrs. brewer's sister and two nieces from ohio. one of our rhode island reds only brought off three chicks out of fifteen eggs. we can't imagine what was the trouble. rhode island reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. i prefer buff orpingtons. the new clerk in the post office at bonnyrigg four corners drank every drop of jamaica ginger they had in stock--seven dollars' worth--before he was discovered. old ira hatch has rheumatism and can't work any more; he never saved his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on the town. there's to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next saturday evening. come and bring your families. i have a new hat that i bought for twenty-five cents at the post office. this is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay. it's getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up. good night, judy friday good morning! here is some news! what do you think? you'd never, never, never guess who's coming to lock willow. a letter to mrs. semple from mr. pendleton. he's motoring through the berkshires, and is tired and wants to rest on a nice quiet farm--if he climbs out at her doorstep some night will she have a room ready for him? maybe he'll stay one week, or maybe two, or maybe three; he'll see how restful it is when he gets here. such a flutter as we are in! the whole house is being cleaned and all the curtains washed. i am driving to the corners this morning to get some new oilcloth for the entry, and two cans of brown floor paint for the hall and back stairs. mrs. dowd is engaged to come tomorrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet). you might think, from this account of our activities, that the house was not already immaculate; but i assure you it was! whatever mrs. semple's limitations, she is a housekeeper. but isn't it just like a man, daddy? he doesn't give the remotest hint as to whether he will land on the doorstep today, or two weeks from today. we shall live in a perpetual breathlessness until he comes--and if he doesn't hurry, the cleaning may all have to be done over again. there's amasai waiting below with the buckboard and grover. i drive alone--but if you could see old grove, you wouldn't be worried as to my safety. with my hand on my heart--farewell. judy ps. isn't that a nice ending? i got it out of stevenson's letters. saturday good morning again! i didn't get this enveloped yesterday before the postman came, so i'll add some more. we have one mail a day at twelve o'clock. rural delivery is a blessing to the farmers! our postman not only delivers letters, but he runs errands for us in town, at five cents an errand. yesterday he brought me some shoe-strings and a jar of cold cream (i sunburned all the skin off my nose before i got my new hat) and a blue windsor tie and a bottle of blacking all for ten cents. that was an unusual bargain, owing to the largeness of my order. also he tells us what is happening in the great world. several people on the route take daily papers, and he reads them as he jogs along, and repeats the news to the ones who don't subscribe. so in case a war breaks out between the united states and japan, or the president is assassinated, or mr. rockefeller leaves a million dollars to the john grier home, you needn't bother to write; i'll hear it anyway. no sign yet of master jervie. but you should see how clean our house is--and with what anxiety we wipe our feet before we step in! i hope he'll come soon; i am longing for someone to talk to. mrs. semple, to tell you the truth, gets rather monotonous. she never lets ideas interrupt the easy flow of her conversation. it's a funny thing about the people here. their world is just this single hilltop. they are not a bit universal, if you know what i mean. it's exactly the same as at the john grier home. our ideas there were bounded by the four sides of the iron fence, only i didn't mind it so much because i was younger, and was so awfully busy. by the time i'd got all my beds made and my babies' faces washed and had gone to school and come home and had washed their faces again and darned their stockings and mended freddie perkins's trousers (he tore them every day of his life) and learned my lessons in between--i was ready to go to bed, and i didn't notice any lack of social intercourse. but after two years in a conversational college, i do miss it; and i shall be glad to see somebody who speaks my language. i really believe i've finished, daddy. nothing else occurs to me at the moment--i'll try to write a longer letter next time. yours always, judy ps. the lettuce hasn't done at all well this year. it was so dry early in the season. th august well, daddy, master jervie's here. and such a nice time as we're having! at least i am, and i think he is, too--he has been here ten days and he doesn't show any signs of going. the way mrs. semple pampers that man is scandalous. if she indulged him as much when he was a baby, i don't know how he ever turned out so well. he and i eat at a little table set on the side porch, or sometimes under the trees, or--when it rains or is cold--in the best parlour. he just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and carrie trots after him with the table. then if it has been an awful nuisance, and she has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar under the sugar bowl. he is an awfully companionable sort of man, though you would never believe it to see him casually; he looks at first glance like a true pendleton, but he isn't in the least. he is just as simple and unaffected and sweet as he can be--that seems a funny way to describe a man, but it's true. he's extremely nice with the farmers around here; he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion that disarms them immediately. they were very suspicious at first. they didn't care for his clothes! and i will say that his clothes are rather amazing. he wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets and white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers. whenever he comes down in anything new, mrs. semple, beaming with pride, walks around and views him from every angle, and urges him to be careful where he sits down; she is so afraid he will pick up some dust. it bores him dreadfully. he's always saying to her: 'run along, lizzie, and tend to your work. you can't boss me any longer. i've grown up.' it's awfully funny to think of that great big, long-legged man (he's nearly as long-legged as you, daddy) ever sitting in mrs. semple's lap and having his face washed. particularly funny when you see her lap! she has two laps now, and three chins. but he says that once she was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he. such a lot of adventures we're having! we've explored the country for miles, and i've learned to fish with funny little flies made of feathers. also to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. also to ride horseback--there's an astonishing amount of life in old grove. we fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost ran away with me. wednesday we climbed sky hill monday afternoon. that's a mountain near here; not an awfully high mountain, perhaps--no snow on the summit--but at least you are pretty breathless when you reach the top. the lower slopes are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and open moor. we stayed up for the sunset and built a fire and cooked our supper. master jervie did the cooking; he said he knew how better than me and he did, too, because he's used to camping. then we came down by moonlight, and, when we reached the wood trail where it was dark, by the light of an electric bulb that he had in his pocket. it was such fun! he laughed and joked all the way and talked about interesting things. he's read all the books i've ever read, and a lot of others besides. it's astonishing how many different things he knows. we went for a long tramp this morning and got caught in a storm. our clothes were drenched before we reached home but our spirits not even damp. you should have seen mrs. semple's face when we dripped into her kitchen. 'oh, master jervie--miss judy! you are soaked through. dear! dear! what shall i do? that nice new coat is perfectly ruined.' she was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten years old, and she a distracted mother. i was afraid for a while that we weren't going to get any jam for tea. saturday i started this letter ages ago, but i haven't had a second to finish it. isn't this a nice thought from stevenson? the world is so full of a number of things, i am sure we should all be as happy as kings. it's true, you know. the world is full of happiness, and plenty to go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your way. the whole secret is in being pliable. in the country, especially, there are such a lot of entertaining things. i can walk over everybody's land, and look at everybody's view, and dabble in everybody's brook; and enjoy it just as much as though i owned the land--and with no taxes to pay! it's sunday night now, about eleven o'clock, and i am supposed to be getting some beauty sleep, but i had black coffee for dinner, so--no beauty sleep for me! this morning, said mrs. semple to mr. pendleton, with a very determined accent: 'we have to leave here at a quarter past ten in order to get to church by eleven.' 'very well, lizzie,' said master jervie, 'you have the buggy ready, and if i'm not dressed, just go on without waiting.' 'we'll wait,' said she. 'as you please,' said he, 'only don't keep the horses standing too long.' then while she was dressing, he told carrie to pack up a lunch, and he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and we slipped out the back way and went fishing. it discommoded the household dreadfully, because lock willow of a sunday dines at two. but he ordered dinner at seven--he orders meals whenever he chooses; you would think the place were a restaurant--and that kept carrie and amasai from going driving. but he said it was all the better because it wasn't proper for them to go driving without a chaperon; and anyway, he wanted the horses himself to take me driving. did you ever hear anything so funny? and poor mrs. semple believes that people who go fishing on sundays go afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! she is awfully troubled to think that she didn't train him better when he was small and helpless and she had the chance. besides--she wished to show him off in church. anyway, we had our fishing (he caught four little ones) and we cooked them on a camp-fire for lunch. they kept falling off our spiked sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them. we got home at four and went driving at five and had dinner at seven, and at ten i was sent to bed and here i am, writing to you. i am getting a little sleepy, though. good night. here is a picture of the one fish i caught. ship ahoy, cap'n long-legs! avast! belay! yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. guess what i'm reading? our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical. isn't treasure island fun? did you ever read it, or wasn't it written when you were a boy? stevenson only got thirty pounds for the serial rights--i don't believe it pays to be a great author. maybe i'll be a school-teacher. excuse me for filling my letters so full of stevenson; my mind is very much engaged with him at present. he comprises lock willow's library. i've been writing this letter for two weeks, and i think it's about long enough. never say, daddy, that i don't give details. i wish you were here, too; we'd all have such a jolly time together. i like my different friends to know each other. i wanted to ask mr. pendleton if he knew you in new york--i should think he might; you must move in about the same exalted social circles, and you are both interested in reforms and things--but i couldn't, for i don't know your real name. it's the silliest thing i ever heard of, not to know your name. mrs. lippett warned me that you were eccentric. i should think so! affectionately, judy ps. on reading this over, i find that it isn't all stevenson. there are one or two glancing references to master jervie. th september dear daddy, he has gone, and we are missing him! when you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation. i'm finding mrs. semple's conversation pretty unseasoned food. college opens in two weeks and i shall be glad to begin work again. i have worked quite a lot this summer though--six short stories and seven poems. those i sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude. but i don't mind. it's good practice. master jervie read them--he brought in the post, so i couldn't help his knowing--and he said they were dreadful. they showed that i didn't have the slightest idea of what i was talking about. (master jervie doesn't let politeness interfere with truth.) but the last one i did--just a little sketch laid in college--he said wasn't bad; and he had it typewritten, and i sent it to a magazine. they've had it two weeks; maybe they're thinking it over. you should see the sky! there's the queerest orange-coloured light over everything. we're going to have a storm. it commenced just that moment with tremendously big drops and all the shutters banging. i had to run to close the windows, while carrie flew to the attic with an armful of milk pans to put under the places where the roof leaks and then, just as i was resuming my pen, i remembered that i'd left a cushion and rug and hat and matthew arnold's poems under a tree in the orchard, so i dashed out to get them, all quite soaked. the red cover of the poems had run into the inside; dover beach in the future will be washed by pink waves. a storm is awfully disturbing in the country. you are always having to think of so many things that are out of doors and getting spoiled. thursday daddy! daddy! what do you think? the postman has just come with two letters. st. my story is accepted. $ . alors! i'm an author. nd. a letter from the college secretary. i'm to have a scholarship for two years that will cover board and tuition. it was founded for 'marked proficiency in english with general excellency in other lines.' and i've won it! i applied for it before i left, but i didn't have an idea i'd get it, on account of my freshman bad work in maths and latin. but it seems i've made it up. i am awfully glad, daddy, because now i won't be such a burden to you. the monthly allowance will be all i'll need, and maybe i can earn that with writing or tutoring or something. i'm longing to go back and begin work. yours ever, jerusha abbott, author of when the sophomores won the game. for sale at all news stands, price ten cents. th september dear daddy-long-legs, back at college again and an upper classman. our study is better than ever this year--faces the south with two huge windows and oh! so furnished. julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever for settling. we have new wall paper and oriental rugs and mahogany chairs--not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. it's very gorgeous, but i don't feel as though i belonged in it; i'm nervous all the time for fear i'll get an ink spot in the wrong place. and, daddy, i found your letter waiting for me--pardon--i mean your secretary's. will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why i should not accept that scholarship? i don't understand your objection in the least. but anyway, it won't do the slightest good for you to object, for i've already accepted it and i am not going to change! that sounds a little impertinent, but i don't mean it so. i suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you'd like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end. but look at it just a second from my point of view. i shall owe my education to you just as much as though i let you pay for the whole of it, but i won't be quite so much indebted. i know that you don't want me to return the money, but nevertheless, i am going to want to do it, if i possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. i was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, but now i shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it. i hope you understand my position and won't be cross. the allowance i shall still most gratefully accept. it requires an allowance to live up to julia and her furniture! i wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate. this isn't much of a letter; i meant to have written a lot--but i've been hemming four window curtains and three portieres (i'm glad you can't see the length of the stitches), and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work), and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it doesn't seem believable that jerusha abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between. opening day is a joyous occasion! good night, daddy dear, and don't be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. she's growing up into an awfully energetic little hen--with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you). affectionately, judy th september dear daddy, are you still harping on that scholarship? i never knew a man so obstinate, and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people's-point-of-view, as you. you prefer that i should not be accepting favours from strangers. strangers!--and what are you, pray? is there anyone in the world that i know less? i shouldn't recognize you if i met you in the street. now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering fatherly letters to your little judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl--then, perhaps, she wouldn't have flouted you in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be. strangers indeed! you live in a glass house, mr. smith. and besides, this isn't a favour; it's like a prize--i earned it by hard work. if nobody had been good enough in english, the committee wouldn't have awarded the scholarship; some years they don't. also-- but what's the use of arguing with a man? you belong, mr. smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. to bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. i scorn to coax men for what i wish. therefore, i must be disagreeable. i refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, i won't accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid freshmen. that is my ultimatum! and listen--i have a further thought. since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship i am depriving someone else of an education, i know a way out. you can apply the money that you would have spent for me towards educating some other little girl from the john grier home. don't you think that's a nice idea? only, daddy, educate the new girl as much as you choose, but please don't like her any better than me. i trust that your secretary won't be hurt because i pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but i can't help it if he is. he's a spoiled child, daddy. i've meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time i intend to be firm. yours, with a mind, completely and irrevocably and world-without-end made-up, jerusha abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, i started down town today to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream and a cake of castile soap--all very necessary; i couldn't be happy another day without them--and when i tried to pay the car fare, i found that i had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. so i had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium. it's a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats! julia pendleton has invited me to visit her for the christmas holidays. how does that strike you, mr. smith? fancy jerusha abbott, of the john grier home, sitting at the tables of the rich. i don't know why julia wants me--she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. i should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to sallie's, but julia asked me first, so if i go anywhere it must be to new york instead of to worcester. i'm rather awed at the prospect of meeting pendletons en masse, and also i'd have to get a lot of new clothes--so, daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, i will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility. i'm engaged at odd moments with the life and letters of thomas huxley--it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. do you know what an archaeopteryx is? it's a bird. and a stereognathus? i'm not sure myself, but i think it's a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. no, it isn't either; i've just looked in the book. it's a mesozoic mammal. i've elected economics this year--very illuminating subject. when i finish that i'm going to take charity and reform; then, mr. trustee, i'll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. don't you think i'd make an admirable voter if i had my rights? i was twenty-one last week. this is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as i would be. yours always, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, thank you for permission to visit julia--i take it that silence means consent. such a social whirl as we've been having! the founder's dance came last week--this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed. i invited jimmie mcbride, and sallie invited his room-mate at princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp--an awfully nice man with red hair--and julia invited a man from new york, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. he is connected with the de la mater chichesters. perhaps that means something to you? it doesn't illuminate me to any extent. however--our guests came friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. the hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. jimmie mcbride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus. at seven-thirty they came back for the president's reception and dance. our functions commence early! we had the men's cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we'd leave them in groups, under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. jimmie mcbride, for example, would stand patiently under 'm' until he was claimed. (at least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with 'r's' and 's's' and all sorts of letters.) i found him a very difficult guest; he was sulky because he had only three dances with me. he said he was bashful about dancing with girls he didn't know! the next morning we had a glee club concert--and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? it's the truth. she did. oh, i tell you, daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person! anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and i think the men enjoyed it. some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. our two princeton men had a beautiful time--at least they politely said they had, and they've invited us to their dance next spring. we've accepted, so please don't object, daddy dear. julia and sallie and i all had new dresses. do you want to hear about them? julia's was cream satin and gold embroidery and she wore purple orchids. it was a dream and came from paris, and cost a million dollars. sallie's was pale blue trimmed with persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. it didn't cost quite a million, but was just as effective as julia's. mine was pale pink crepe de chine trimmed with ecru lace and rose satin. and i carried crimson roses which j. mcb. sent (sallie having told him what colour to get). and we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match. you must be deeply impressed by these millinery details. one can't help thinking, daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and venetian point and hand embroidery and irish crochet are to him mere empty words. whereas a woman--whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or plato or bridge--is fundamentally and always interested in clothes. it's the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (that isn't original. i got it out of one of shakespeare's plays). however, to resume. do you want me to tell you a secret that i've lately discovered? and will you promise not to think me vain? then listen: i'm pretty. i am, really. i'd be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room. a friend ps. this is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels. th december dear daddy-long-legs, i've just a moment, because i must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suit-case, and catch the four-o'clock train--but i couldn't go without sending a word to let you know how much i appreciate my christmas box. i love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse--and most of all i love you! but daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way. i'm only human--and a girl at that. how can i keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities? i have strong suspicions now as to which one of the john grier trustees used to give the christmas tree and the sunday ice-cream. he was nameless, but by his works i know him! you deserve to be happy for all the good things you do. goodbye, and a very merry christmas. yours always, judy ps. i am sending a slight token, too. do you think you would like her if you knew her? th january i meant to write to you from the city, daddy, but new york is an engrossing place. i had an interesting--and illuminating--time, but i'm glad i don't belong to such a family! i should truly rather have the john grier home for a background. whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretence about it. i know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by things. the material atmosphere of that house was crushing; i didn't draw a deep breath until i was on an express train coming back. all the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people i met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it's the truth, daddy, i never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. i don't think an idea ever entered the front door. mrs. pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dressmakers and social engagements. she did seem a different kind of mother from mrs. mcbride! if i ever marry and have a family, i'm going to make them as exactly like the mcbrides as i can. not for all the money in the world would i ever let any children of mine develop into pendletons. maybe it isn't polite to criticize people you've been visiting? if it isn't, please excuse. this is very confidential, between you and me. i only saw master jervie once when he called at tea time, and then i didn't have a chance to speak to him alone. it was really disappointing after our nice time last summer. i don't think he cares much for his relatives--and i am sure they don't care much for him! julia's mother says he's unbalanced. he's a socialist--except, thank heaven, he doesn't let his hair grow and wear red ties. she can't imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been church of england for generations. he throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. he does buy candy with it though! he sent julia and me each a box for christmas. you know, i think i'll be a socialist, too. you wouldn't mind, would you, daddy? they're quite different from anarchists; they don't believe in blowing people up. probably i am one by rights; i belong to the proletariat. i haven't determined yet just which kind i am going to be. i will look into the subject over sunday, and declare my principles in my next. i've seen loads of theatres and hotels and beautiful houses. my mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding and mosaic floors and palms. i'm still pretty breathless but i am glad to get back to college and my books--i believe that i really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm i find more bracing than new york. college is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. we spend a whole evening in nothing but talk--talk--talk--and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. and filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense--just silly jokes about the little things that come up but very satisfying. we do appreciate our own witticisms! it isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones--i've discovered the true secret of happiness, daddy, and that is to live in the now. not to be for ever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. it's like farming. you can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, i am going to have intensive living after this. i'm going to enjoy every second, and i'm going to know i'm enjoying it while i'm enjoying it. most people don't live; they just race. they are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not. i've decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if i never become a great author. did you ever know such a philosopheress as i am developing into? yours ever, judy ps. it's raining cats and dogs tonight. two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill. dear comrade, hooray! i'm a fabian. that's a socialist who's willing to wait. we don't want the social revolution to come tomorrow morning; it would be too upsetting. we want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock. in the meantime, we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms. yours, with fraternal love, judy monday, rd hour th february dear d.-l.-l., don't be insulted because this is so short. it isn't a letter; it's just a line to say that i'm going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. it is not only necessary that i pass, but pass well. i have a scholarship to live up to. yours, studying hard, j. a. th march dear daddy-long-legs, president cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. he says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavour and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude towards organized authority. we no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors. i came away from chapel very sober. am i too familiar, daddy? ought i to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?--yes, i'm sure i ought. i'll begin again. my dear mr. smith, you will be pleased to hear that i passed successfully my mid-year examinations, and am now commencing work in the new semester. i am leaving chemistry--having completed the course in qualitative analysis--and am entering upon the study of biology. i approach this subject with some hesitation, as i understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs. an extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon roman remains in southern france. i have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject. we are reading wordsworth's tintern abbey in connection with our course in english literature. what an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conceptions of pantheism! the romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as shelley, byron, keats, and wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the classical period that preceded it. speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of tennyson's called locksley hall? i am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. a proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. the gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. my room-mate, miss mcbride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and i am about to begin swimming lessons. we had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. only vegetable dyes are used in colouring the food. the college is very much opposed, both from aesthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes. the weather of late has been ideal--bright sunshine and clouds interspersed with a few welcome snow-storms. i and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes--particularly from. trusting, my dear mr. smith, that this will find you in your usual good health, i remain, most cordially yours, jerusha abbott th april dear daddy, spring has come again! you should see how lovely the campus is. i think you might come and look at it for yourself. master jervie dropped in again last friday--but he chose a most unpropitious time, for sallie and julia and i were just running to catch a train. and where do you think we were going? to princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! i didn't ask you if i might go, because i had a feeling that your secretary would say no. but it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and mrs. mcbride chaperoned us. we had a charming time--but i shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated. saturday up before dawn! the night watchman called us--six of us--and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of one tree hill to see the sun rise. we had to scramble up the last slope! the sun almost beat us! and perhaps you think we didn't bring back appetites to breakfast! dear me, daddy, i seem to have a very ejaculatory style today; this page is peppered with exclamations. i meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for tomorrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and catherine prentiss who has pneumonia, and prexy's angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in fergussen hall for two weeks until a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses--white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match--but i am too sleepy. i am always making this an excuse, am i not? but a girls' college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! particularly when the day begins at dawn. affectionately, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else? a very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car today, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. it doesn't seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. anyway, you miss a lot. while she was absorbing that silly sign, i was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings. the accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. it looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it isn't at all; it's a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium. the instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. it would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one's instructor. i'm always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so i keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest i do not make the progress that i otherwise might. very miscellaneous weather we're having of late. it was raining when i commenced and now the sun is shining. sallie and i are going out to play tennis--thereby gaining exemption from gym. a week later i should have finished this letter long ago, but i didn't. you don't mind, do you, daddy, if i'm not very regular? i really do love to write to you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. would you like me to tell you something? you are not the only man to whom i write letters. there are two others! i have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from master jervie (with typewritten envelopes so julia won't recognize the writing). did you ever hear anything so shocking? and every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from princeton. all of which i answer with business-like promptness. so you see--i am not so different from other girls--i get letters, too. did i tell you that i have been elected a member of the senior dramatic club? very recherche organization. only seventy-five members out of one thousand. do you think as a consistent socialist that i ought to belong? what do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? i am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the care of dependent children. the professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me. c'est drole ca n'est pas? there goes the gong for dinner. i'll post this as i pass the box. affectionately, j. th june dear daddy, very busy time--commencement in ten days, examinations tomorrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoor world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside. but never mind, vacation's coming. julia is going abroad this summer--it makes the fourth time. no doubt about it, daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. sallie, as usual, goes to the adirondacks. and what do you think i am going to do? you may have three guesses. lock willow? wrong. the adirondacks with sallie? wrong. (i'll never attempt that again; i was discouraged last year.) can't you guess anything else? you're not very inventive. i'll tell you, daddy, if you'll promise not to make a lot of objections. i warn your secretary in advance that my mind is made up. i am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a mrs. charles paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. i met her through the mcbrides, and she is a very charming woman. i am to give lessons in english and latin to the younger daughter, too, but i shall have a little time to myself, and i shall be earning fifty dollars a month! doesn't that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? she offered it; i should have blushed to ask for more than twenty-five. i finish at magnolia (that's where she lives) the first of september, and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at lock willow--i should like to see the semples again and all the friendly animals. how does my programme strike you, daddy? i am getting quite independent, you see. you have put me on my feet and i think i can almost walk alone by now. princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide--which is an awful blow. sallie and i did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible. goodbye, daddy. have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (that's what you ought to be writing to me!) i haven't any idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. i can't visualize your surroundings. do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate? anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don't forget judy. th june dear daddy, this is the hardest letter i ever wrote, but i have decided what i must do, and there isn't going to be any turning back. it is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to europe this summer--for the moment i was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. it would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! you mustn't get me used to too many luxuries. one doesn't miss what one has never had; but it's awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his--hers (english language needs another pronoun) by natural right. living with sallie and julia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. they have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. the world, they think, owes them everything they want. maybe the world does--in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. but as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. i have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the world will repudiate my claim. i seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor--but i hope you grasp my meaning? anyway, i have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself. magnolia, four days later i'd got just that much written, when--what do you think happened? the maid arrived with master jervie's card. he is going abroad too this summer; not with julia and her family, but entirely by himself i told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. he knows about you, daddy. that is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; i simply didn't have the courage to tell him about the john grier home and all the rest. he thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. i have never told him that i didn't know you--that would seem too queer! anyway, he insisted on my going to europe. he said that it was a necessary part of my education and that i mustn't think of refusing. also, that he would be in paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants. well, daddy, it did appeal to me! i almost weakened; if he hadn't been so dictatorial, maybe i should have entirely weakened. i can be enticed step by step, but i won't be forced. he said i was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me), and that i didn't know what was good for me; i ought to let older people judge. we almost quarrelled--i am not sure but that we entirely did! in any case, i packed my trunk fast and came up here. i thought i'd better see my bridges in flames behind me before i finished writing to you. they are entirely reduced to ashes now. here i am at cliff top (the name of mrs. paterson's cottage) with my trunk unpacked and florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. and it bids fair to be a struggle! she is a most uncommonly spoiled child; i shall have to teach her first how to study--she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water. we use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom--mrs. paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors--and i will say that i find it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! and when i think i might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands--but i won't let myself think of anything but latin grammar. the prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative. so you see, daddy, i am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. don't be cross with me, please, and don't think that i do not appreciate your kindness, for i do--always--always. the only way i can ever repay you is by turning out a very useful citizen (are women citizens? i don't suppose they are.) anyway, a very useful person. and when you look at me you can say, 'i gave that very useful person to the world.' that sounds well, doesn't it, daddy? but i don't wish to mislead you. the feeling often comes over me that i am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability i shan't turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. i may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work. yours ever, judy th august dear daddy-long-legs, my window looks out on the loveliest landscape--ocean-scape, rather--nothing but water and rocks. the summer goes. i spend the morning with latin and english and algebra and my two stupid girls. i don't know how marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. and as for florence, she is hopeless--but oh! such a little beauty. i don't suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? one can't help thinking, though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. i suppose that's quite possible; the world seems to be filled with stupid men; i've met a number this summer. in the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. i can swim in salt water with the utmost ease you see my education is already being put to use! a letter comes from mr. jervis pendleton in paris, rather a short concise letter; i'm not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. however, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at lock willow before college opens, and if i am very nice and sweet and docile, i shall (i am led to infer) be received into favour again. also a letter from sallie. she wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in september. must i ask your permission, or haven't i yet arrived at the place where i can do as i please? yes, i am sure i have--i'm a senior, you know. having worked all summer, i feel like taking a little healthful recreation; i want to see the adirondacks; i want to see sallie; i want to see sallie's brother--he's going to teach me to canoe--and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) i want master jervie to arrive at lock willow and find me not there. i must show him that he can't dictate to me. no one can dictate to me but you, daddy--and you can't always! i'm off for the woods. judy camp mcbride, th september dear daddy, your letter didn't come in time (i am pleased to say). if you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. as you observe, i am here, and have been for five days. the woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the mcbrides, and so is the whole world. i'm very happy! there's jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. goodbye--sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? when i've worked all the summer i deserve two weeks. you are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish. however--i love you still, daddy, in spite of all your faults. judy rd october dear daddy-long-legs, back at college and a senior--also editor of the monthly. it doesn't seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the john grier home? we do arrive fast in america! what do you think of this? a note from master jervie directed to lock willow and forwarded here. he's sorry, but he finds that he can't get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. hopes i've had a nice summer and am enjoying the country. and he knew all the time that i was with the mcbrides, for julia told him so! you men ought to leave intrigue to women; you haven't a light enough touch. julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes--an evening gown of rainbow liberty crepe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in paradise. and i thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. i copied mrs. paterson's wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns didn't turn out quite twins of the originals, i was entirely happy until julia unpacked. but now--i live to see paris! dear daddy, aren't you glad you're not a girl? i suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? it is. no doubt about it. but it's entirely your fault. did you ever hear about the learned herr professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt and favoured sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? his wife, who was an obliging creature, adopted 'dress reform.' and what do you think he did? he eloped with a chorus girl. yours ever, judy ps. the chamber-maid in our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. i am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. i have a reminiscent chill every time i look at them. th november dear daddy-long-legs, such a blight has fallen over my literary career. i don't know whether to tell you or not, but i would like some sympathy--silent sympathy, please; don't re-open the wound by referring to it in your next letter. i've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all the summer when i wasn't teaching latin to my two stupid children. i just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. he kept it two months, and i was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter--but frank! he said he saw from the address that i was still at college, and if i would accept some advice, he would suggest that i put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until i graduated before beginning to write. he enclosed his reader's opinion. here it is: 'plot highly improbable. characterization exaggerated. conversation unnatural. a good deal of humour but not always in the best of taste. tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.' not on the whole flattering, is it, daddy? and i thought i was making a notable addition to american literature. i did truly. i was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before i graduated. i collected the material for it while i was at julia's last christmas. but i dare say the editor is right. probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city. i took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when i came to the gas house, i went in and asked the engineer if i might borrow his furnace. he politely opened the door, and with my own hands i chucked it in. i felt as though i had cremated my only child! i went to bed last night utterly dejected; i thought i was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. but what do you think? i woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and i've been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as i could be. no one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! if i had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, i'd bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set. affectionately, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, i dreamed the funniest dream last night. i thought i went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named the life and letters of judy abbott. i could see it perfectly plainly--red cloth binding with a picture of the john grier home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, 'very truly yours, judy abbott,' written below. but just as i was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, i woke up. it was very annoying! i almost found out whom i'm going to marry and when i'm going to die. don't you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life--written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? and suppose you could only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. how many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises? life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. but imagine how deadly monotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. mercy! daddy, there's a blot, but i'm on the third page and i can't begin a new sheet. i'm going on with biology again this year--very interesting subject; we're studying the alimentary system at present. you should see how sweet a cross-section of the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope. also we've arrived at philosophy--interesting but evanescent. i prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. there's another! and another! this pen is weeping copiously. please excuse its tears. do you believe in free will? i do--unreservedly. i don't agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. that's the most immoral doctrine i ever heard--nobody would be to blame for anything. if a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, 'the lord's will be done,' and continue to sit until he fell over dead. i believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish--and that is the belief that moves mountains. you watch me become a great author! i have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted. this is a very abstruse letter--does your head ache, daddy? i think we'll stop now and make some fudge. i'm sorry i can't send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we're going to make it with real cream and three butter balls. yours affectionately, judy ps. we're having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. you can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. the one at the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me--i mean i. th december my dear, dear, daddy, haven't you any sense? don't you know that you mustn't give one girl seventeen christmas presents? i'm a socialist, please remember; do you wish to turn me into a plutocrat? think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! i should have to engage a moving-van to return your gifts. i am sorry that the necktie i sent was so wobbly; i knit it with my own hands (as you doubtless discovered from internal evidence). you will have to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight. thank you, daddy, a thousand times. i think you're the sweetest man that ever lived--and the foolishest! judy here's a four-leaf clover from camp mcbride to bring you good luck for the new year. th january do you wish to do something, daddy, that will ensure your eternal salvation? there is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. a mother and father and four visible children--the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. the father worked in a glass factory and got consumption--it's awfully unhealthy work--and now has been sent away to a hospital. that took all their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter, who is twenty-four. she dressmakes for $ . a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centrepieces in the evening. the mother isn't very strong and is extremely ineffectual and pious. she sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she doesn't see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter--and i don't either. one hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she needn't worry herself to death when a few days pass and she doesn't get work. you are the richest man i know. don't you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? that girl deserves help a lot more than i ever did. i wouldn't ask it except for the girl; i don't care much what happens to the mother--she is such a jelly-fish. the way people are for ever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, 'perhaps it's all for the best,' when they are perfectly dead sure it's not, makes me enraged. humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. i'm for a more militant religion! we are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy--all of schopenhauer for tomorrow. the professor doesn't seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. he's a queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. he tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism--and we do our best to smile, but i assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. he spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists. i'm sure my sewing girl hasn't any doubt but that it exists! where do you think my new novel is? in the waste-basket. i can see myself that it's no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, what would be the judgment of a critical public? later i address you, daddy, from a bed of pain. for two days i've been laid up with swollen tonsils; i can just swallow hot milk, and that is all. 'what were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when you were a baby?' the doctor wished to know. i'm sure i haven't an idea, but i doubt if they were thinking much about me. yours, j. a. next morning i just read this over before sealing it. i don't know why i cast such a misty atmosphere over life. i hasten to assure you that i am young and happy and exuberant; and i trust you are the same. youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only with alivedness of spirit, so even if your hair is grey, daddy, you can still be a boy. affectionately, judy th jan. dear mr. philanthropist, your cheque for my family came yesterday. thank you so much! i cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl's face! she was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she's only twenty-four. isn't it pitiful? anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. she has steady work ahead for two months--someone's getting married, and there's a trousseau to make. 'thank the good lord!' cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars. 'it wasn't the good lord at all,' said i, 'it was daddy-long-legs.' (mr. smith, i called you.) 'but it was the good lord who put it in his mind,' said she. 'not at all! i put it in his mind myself,' said i. but anyway, daddy, i trust the good lord will reward you suitably. you deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory. yours most gratefully, judy abbott th feb. may it please your most excellent majesty: this morning i did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a goose, and i did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which i had never drank before. don't be nervous, daddy--i haven't lost my mind; i'm merely quoting sam'l pepys. we're reading him in connection with english history, original sources. sallie and julia and i converse now in the language of . listen to this: 'i went to charing cross to see major harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.' and this: 'dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.' seems a little early to commence entertaining, doesn't it? a friend of pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. what do you, a reformer, think of that? i don't believe we're so bad today as the newspapers make out. samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times as much on dress as his wife--that appears to have been the golden age of husbands. isn't this a touching entry? you see he really was honest. 'today came home my fine camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost me much money, and i pray god to make me able to pay for it.' excuse me for being so full of pepys; i'm writing a special topic on him. what do you think, daddy? the self-government association has abolished the ten o'clock rule. we can keep our lights all night if we choose, the only requirement being that we do not disturb others--we are not supposed to entertain on a large scale. the result is a beautiful commentary on human nature. now that we may stay up as long as we choose, we no longer choose. our heads begin to nod at nine o'clock, and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. it's nine-thirty now. good night. sunday just back from church--preacher from georgia. we must take care, he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional natures--but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (pepys again). it doesn't matter what part of the united states or canada they come from, or what denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. why on earth don't they go to men's colleges and urge the students not to allow their manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application? it's a beautiful day--frozen and icy and clear. as soon as dinner is over, sallie and julia and marty keene and eleanor pratt (friends of mine, but you don't know them) and i are going to put on short skirts and walk 'cross country to crystal spring farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have mr. crystal spring drive us home in his buckboard. we are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point tonight and make it eight. farewell, kind sir. i have the honour of subscribing myself, your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant, j. abbott march fifth dear mr. trustee, tomorrow is the first wednesday in the month--a weary day for the john grier home. how relieved they'll be when five o'clock comes and you pat them on the head and take yourselves off! did you (individually) ever pat me on the head, daddy? i don't believe so--my memory seems to be concerned only with fat trustees. give the home my love, please--my truly love. i have quite a feeling of tenderness for it as i look back through a haze of four years. when i first came to college i felt quite resentful because i'd been robbed of the normal kind of childhood that the other girls had had; but now, i don't feel that way in the least. i regard it as a very unusual adventure. it gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand aside and look at life. emerging full grown, i get a perspective on the world, that other people who have been brought up in the thick of things entirely lack. i know lots of girls (julia, for instance) who never know that they are happy. they are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it; but as for me--i am perfectly sure every moment of my life that i am happy. and i'm going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. i'm going to regard them (even toothaches) as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like. 'whatever sky's above me, i've a heart for any fate.' however, daddy, don't take this new affection for the j.g.h. too literally. if i have five children, like rousseau, i shan't leave them on the steps of a foundling asylum in order to insure their being brought up simply. give my kindest regards to mrs. lippett (that, i think, is truthful; love would be a little strong) and don't forget to tell her what a beautiful nature i've developed. affectionately, judy lock willow, th april dear daddy, do you observe the postmark? sallie and i are embellishing lock willow with our presence during the easter vacation. we decided that the best thing we could do with our ten days was to come where it is quiet. our nerves had got to the point where they wouldn't stand another meal in fergussen. dining in a room with four hundred girls is an ordeal when you are tired. there is so much noise that you can't hear the girls across the table speak unless they make their hands into a megaphone and shout. that is the truth. we are tramping over the hills and reading and writing, and having a nice, restful time. we climbed to the top of 'sky hill' this morning where master jervie and i once cooked supper--it doesn't seem possible that it was nearly two years ago. i could still see the place where the smoke of our fire blackened the rock. it is funny how certain places get connected with certain people, and you never go back without thinking of them. i was quite lonely without him--for two minutes. what do you think is my latest activity, daddy? you will begin to believe that i am incorrigible--i am writing a book. i started it three weeks ago and am eating it up in chunks. i've caught the secret. master jervie and that editor man were right; you are most convincing when you write about the things you know. and this time it is about something that i do know--exhaustively. guess where it's laid? in the john grier home! and it's good, daddy, i actually believe it is--just about the tiny little things that happened every day. i'm a realist now. i've abandoned romanticism; i shall go back to it later though, when my own adventurous future begins. this new book is going to get itself finished--and published! you see if it doesn't. if you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying, you do get it in the end. i've been trying for four years to get a letter from you--and i haven't given up hope yet. goodbye, daddy dear, (i like to call you daddy dear; it's so alliterative.) affectionately, judy ps. i forgot to tell you the farm news, but it's very distressing. skip this postscript if you don't want your sensibilities all wrought up. poor old grove is dead. he got so that he couldn't chew and they had to shoot him. nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week. one of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out from bonnyrigg four corners. amasai stayed up all night to give her linseed oil and whisky. but we have an awful suspicion that the poor sick cow got nothing but linseed oil. sentimental tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are afraid he has been caught in a trap. there are lots of troubles in the world! th may dear daddy-long-legs, this is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening, make too much writing. commencement three weeks from next wednesday. i think you might come and make my acquaintance--i shall hate you if you don't! julia's inviting master jervie, he being her family, and sallie's inviting jimmie mcb., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite? just you and lippett, and i don't want her. please come. yours, with love and writer's cramp. judy lock willow, th june dear daddy-long-legs, i'm educated! my diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my two best dresses. commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. thank you for your rosebuds. they were lovely. master jervie and master jimmie both gave me roses, too, but i left theirs in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession. here i am at lock willow for the summer--for ever maybe. the board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life. what more does a struggling author wish? i am mad about my book. i think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. all i want is peace and quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing meals). master jervie is coming up for a week or so in august, and jimmie mcbride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. he's connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. he's going to combine the 'farmers' national' at the corners and me on the same trip. you see that lock willow isn't entirely lacking in society. i'd be expecting to have you come motoring through--only i know now that that is hopeless. when you wouldn't come to my commencement, i tore you from my heart and buried you for ever. judy abbott, a.b. th july dearest daddy-long-legs, isn't it fun to work--or don't you ever do it? it's especially fun when your kind of work is the thing you'd rather do more than anything else in the world. i've been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is that the days aren't long enough to write all the beautiful and valuable and entertaining thoughts i'm thinking. i've finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. it's the sweetest book you ever saw--it is, truly. i think of nothing else. i can barely wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then i write and write and write till suddenly i'm so tired that i'm limp all over. then i go out with colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. it's the most beautiful book you ever saw--oh, pardon--i said that before. you don't think me conceited, do you, daddy dear? i'm not, really, only just now i'm in the enthusiastic stage. maybe later on i'll get cold and critical and sniffy. no, i'm sure i won't! this time i've written a real book. just wait till you see it. i'll try for a minute to talk about something else. i never told you, did i, that amasai and carrie got married last may? they are still working here, but so far as i can see it has spoiled them both. she used to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor, but now--you should hear her scold! and she doesn't curl her hair any longer. amasai, who used to be so obliging about beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a thing. also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where they used to be scarlet and purple. i've determined never to marry. it's a deteriorating process, evidently. there isn't much of any farm news. the animals are all in the best of health. the pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens are laying well. are you interested in poultry? if so, let me recommend that invaluable little work, eggs per hen per year. i am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and raising broilers. you see i'm settled at lock willow permanently. i have decided to stay until i've written novels like anthony trollope's mother. then i shall have completed my life work and can retire and travel. mr. james mcbride spent last sunday with us. fried chicken and ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. i was awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at large exists. poor jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds. the 'farmers' national' at the corners wouldn't have anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and sometimes seven. i think he'll end up by going home to worcester and taking a job in his father's factory. he's too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier. but to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don't you think? just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he'll come to them. i hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person with writer's cramp. but i still love you, daddy dear, and i'm very happy. with beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink--what more does one want in the world? yours as always, judy ps. the postman arrives with some more news. we are to expect master jervie on friday next to spend a week. that's a very pleasant prospect--only i am afraid my poor book will suffer. master jervie is very demanding. th august dear daddy-long-legs, where are you, i wonder? i never know what part of the world you are in, but i hope you're not in new york during this awful weather. i hope you're on a mountain peak (but not in switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. please be thinking about me. i'm quite lonely and i want to be thought about. oh, daddy, i wish i knew you! then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up. i don't think i can stand much more of lock willow. i'm thinking of moving. sallie is going to do settlement work in boston next winter. don't you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we could have a studio together? i would write while she settled and we could be together in the evenings. evenings are very long when there's no one but the semples and carrie and amasai to talk to. i know in advance that you won't like my studio idea. i can read your secretary's letter now: 'miss jerusha abbott. 'dear madam, 'mr. smith prefers that you remain at lock willow. 'yours truly, 'elmer h. griggs.' i hate your secretary. i am certain that a man named elmer h. griggs must be horrid. but truly, daddy, i think i shall have to go to boston. i can't stay here. if something doesn't happen soon, i shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation. mercy! but it's hot. all the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry and the roads are dusty. it hasn't rained for weeks and weeks. this letter sounds as though i had hydrophobia, but i haven't. i just want some family. goodbye, my dearest daddy. i wish i knew you. judy lock willow, th september dear daddy, something has happened and i need advice. i need it from you, and from nobody else in the world. wouldn't it be possible for me to see you? it's so much easier to talk than to write; and i'm afraid your secretary might open the letter. judy ps. i'm very unhappy. lock willow, rd october dear daddy-long-legs, your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--came this morning. i am so sorry that you have been ill; i wouldn't have bothered you with my affairs if i had known. yes, i will tell you the trouble, but it's sort of complicated to write, and very private. please don't keep this letter, but burn it. before i begin--here's a cheque for one thousand dollars. it seems funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? where do you think i got it? i've sold my story, daddy. it's going to be published serially in seven parts, and then in a book! you might think i'd be wild with joy, but i'm not. i'm entirely apathetic. of course i'm glad to begin paying you--i owe you over two thousand more. it's coming in instalments. now don't be horrid, please, about taking it, because it makes me happy to return it. i owe you a great deal more than the mere money, and the rest i will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and affection. and now, daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most worldly advice, whether you think i'll like it or not. you know that i've always had a very special feeling towards you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if i tell you that i have a very much more special feeling for another man? you can probably guess without much trouble who he is. i suspect that my letters have been very full of master jervie for a very long time. i wish i could make you understand what he is like and how entirely companionable we are. we think the same about everything--i am afraid i have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! but he is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has fourteen years' start of me. in other ways, though, he's just an overgrown boy, and he does need looking after--he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains. he and i always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot; it's dreadful when two people's senses of humour are antagonistic. i don't believe there's any bridging that gulf! and he is--oh, well! he is just himself, and i miss him, and miss him, and miss him. the whole world seems empty and aching. i hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. but maybe you've loved somebody, too, and you know? if you have, i don't need to explain; if you haven't, i can't explain. anyway, that's the way i feel--and i've refused to marry him. i didn't tell him why; i was just dumb and miserable. i couldn't think of anything to say. and now he has gone away imagining that i want to marry jimmie mcbride--i don't in the least, i wouldn't think of marrying jimmie; he isn't grown up enough. but master jervie and i got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding and we both hurt each other's feelings. the reason i sent him away was not because i didn't care for him, but because i cared for him so much. i was afraid he would regret it in the future--and i couldn't stand that! it didn't seem right for a person of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his. i never told him about the orphan asylum, and i hated to explain that i didn't know who i was. i may be dreadful, you know. and his family are proud--and i'm proud, too! also, i felt sort of bound to you. after having been educated to be a writer, i must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it. but now that i am going to be able to pay back the money, i feel that i have partially discharged that debt--besides, i suppose i could keep on being a writer even if i did marry. the two professions are not necessarily exclusive. i've been thinking very hard about it. of course he is a socialist, and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he wouldn't mind marrying into the proletariat so much as some men might. perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. of course i want to believe that! but i'd like to get your unemotional opinion. you probably belong to a family also, and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view--so you see how brave i am to lay it before you. suppose i go to him and explain that the trouble isn't jimmie, but is the john grier home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? it would take a great deal of courage. i'd almost rather be miserable for the rest of my life. this happened nearly two months ago; i haven't heard a word from him since he was here. i was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from julia that stirred me all up again. she said--very casually--that 'uncle jervis' had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. and i never knew it. i was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. i think he's pretty unhappy, and i know i am! what seems to you the right thing for me to do? judy th october dearest daddy-long-legs, yes, certainly i'll come--at half-past four next wednesday afternoon. of course i can find the way. i've been in new york three times and am not quite a baby. i can't believe that i am really going to see you--i've been just thinking you so long that it hardly seems as though you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person. you are awfully good, daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you're not strong. take care and don't catch cold. these fall rains are very damp. affectionately, judy ps. i've just had an awful thought. have you a butler? i'm afraid of butlers, and if one opens the door i shall faint upon the step. what can i say to him? you didn't tell me your name. shall i ask for mr. smith? thursday morning my very dearest master-jervie-daddy-long-legs pendleton-smith, did you sleep last night? i didn't. not a single wink. i was too amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. i don't believe i ever shall sleep again--or eat either. but i hope you slept; you must, you know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me. dear man, i can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time i never knew it. when the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. oh, dearest, if that had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me. i suppose that some day in the far future--one of us must leave the other; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be memories to live with. i meant to cheer you up--and instead i have to cheer myself. for in spite of being happier than i ever dreamed i could be, i'm also soberer. the fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on my heart. always before i could be frivolous and care-free and unconcerned, because i had nothing precious to lose. but now--i shall have a great big worry all the rest of my life. whenever you are away from me i shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head, or the dreadful, squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. my peace of mind is gone for ever--but anyway, i never cared much for just plain peace. please get well--fast--fast--fast. i want to have you close by where i can touch you and make sure you are tangible. such a little half hour we had together! i'm afraid maybe i dreamed it. if i were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then i could come and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. but you are cheerful again, aren't you? you were yesterday before i left. the doctor said i must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger. i hope that being in love doesn't make every one ten years younger. will you still care for me, darling, if i turn out to be only eleven? yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. if i live to be ninety-nine i shall never forget the tiniest detail. the girl that left lock willow at dawn was a very different person from the one who came back at night. mrs. semple called me at half-past four. i started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped into my head was, 'i am going to see daddy-long-legs!' i ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious october colouring. the sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. i knew something was going to happen. all the way in the train the rails kept singing, 'you're going to see daddy-long-legs.' it made me feel secure. i had such faith in daddy's ability to set things right. and i knew that somewhere another man--dearer than daddy--was wanting to see me, and somehow i had a feeling that before the journey ended i should meet him, too. and you see! when i came to the house on madison avenue it looked so big and brown and forbidding that i didn't dare go in, so i walked around the block to get up my courage. but i needn't have been a bit afraid; your butler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home at once. 'is this miss abbott?' he said to me, and i said, 'yes,' so i didn't have to ask for mr. smith after all. he told me to wait in the drawing-room. it was a very sombre, magnificent, man's sort of room. i sat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair and kept saying to myself: 'i'm going to see daddy-long-legs! i'm going to see daddy-long-legs!' then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to the library. i was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardly take me up. outside the door he turned and whispered, 'he's been very ill, miss. this is the first day he's been allowed to sit up. you'll not stay long enough to excite him?' i knew from the way he said it that he loved you--and i think he's an old dear! then he knocked and said, 'miss abbott,' and i went in and the door closed behind me. it was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a moment i could scarcely make out anything; then i saw a big easy chair before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. and i realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows with a rug over his knees. before i could stop him he rose--rather shakily--and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at me without a word. and then--and then--i saw it was you! but even with that i didn't understand. i thought daddy had had you come there to meet me or a surprise. then you laughed and held out your hand and said, 'dear little judy, couldn't you guess that i was daddy-long-legs?' in an instant it flashed over me. oh, but i have been stupid! a hundred little things might have told me, if i had had any wits. i wouldn't make a very good detective, would i, daddy? jervie? what must i call you? just plain jervie sounds disrespectful, and i can't be disrespectful to you! it was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me away. i was so dazed when i got to the station that i almost took a train for st louis. and you were pretty dazed, too. you forgot to give me any tea. but we're both very, very happy, aren't we? i drove back to lock willow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining! and this morning i've been out with colin visiting all the places that you and i went to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked. the woods today are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost. it's climbing weather. i wish you were here to climb the hills with me. i am missing you dreadfully, jervie dear, but it's a happy kind of missing; we'll be together soon. we belong to each other now really and truly, no make-believe. doesn't it seem queer for me to belong to someone at last? it seems very, very sweet. and i shall never let you be sorry for a single instant. yours, for ever and ever, judy ps. this is the first love-letter i ever wrote. isn't it funny that i know how? the women of the french salons by amelia gere mason preface it has been a labor of love with many distinguished frenchmen to recall the memories of the women who have made their society so illustrious, and to retouch with sympathetic insight the features which time was beginning to dim. one naturally hesitates to enter a field that has been gleaned so carefully, and with such brilliant results, by men like cousin, sainte-beuve, goncourt, and others of lesser note. but the social life of the two centuries in which women played so important a role in france is always full of human interest from whatever point of view one may regard it. if there is not a great deal to be said that is new, old facts may be grouped afresh, and old modes of life and thought measured by modern standards. in searching through the numerous memoirs, chronicles, letters, and original manuscripts in which the records of these centuries are hidden away, nothing has struck me so forcibly as the remarkable mental vigor and the far-reaching influence of women whose theater was mainly a social one. though society has its frivolities, it has also its serious side, and it is through the phase of social evolution that was begun in the salons that women have attained the position they hold today. however beautiful, or valuable, or poetic may have been the feminine types of other nationalities, it is in france that we find the forerunners of the intelligent, self-poised, clear-sighted, independent modern woman. it is possible that in the search for larger fields the smaller but not less important ones have been in a measure forgotten. the great stream of civilization flows from a thousand unnoted rills that make sweet music in their course, and swell the current as surely as the more noisy torrent. the conditions of the past cannot be revived, nor are they desirable. the present has its own theories and its own methods. but at a time when the reign of luxury is rapidly establishing false standards, and the best intellectual life makes hopeless struggles against an ever aggressive materialism, it may be profitable as well as interesting to consider the possibilities that lie in a society equally removed from frivolity and pretension, inspired by the talent, the sincerity, and the moral force of american women, and borrowing a new element of fascination from the simple and charming but polite informality of the old salons. it has been the aim in these studies to gather within a limited compass the women who represented the social life of their time on its most intellectual side, and to trace lightly their influence upon civilization through the avenues of literature and manners. though the work may lose something in fullness from the effort to put so much into so small a space, perhaps there is some compensation in the opportunity of comparing, in one gallery, the women who exercised the greatest power in france for a period of more than two hundred years. the impossibility of entering into the details of so many lives in a single volume is clearly apparent. only the most salient points can be considered. many who would amply repay a careful study have simply been glanced at, and others have been omitted altogether. as it would be out of the question in a few pages to make an adequate portrait of women who occupy so conspicuous a place in history as mme. de maintenon and mme. de stael, the former has been reluctantly passed with a simple allusion, and the latter outlined in a brief resume not at all proportional to the relative interest or importance of the subject. i do not claim to present a complete picture of french society, and without wishing to give too rose-colored a view, it has not seemed to me necessary to dwell upon its corrupt phases. if truth compels one sometimes to state unpleasant facts in portraying historic characters, it is as needless and unjust as in private life to repeat idle and unproved tales, or to draw imaginary conclusions from questionable data. the conflict of contemporary opinion on the simplest matters leads one often to the suspicion that all personal history is more or less disguised fiction. the best one can do in default of direct records is to accept authorities that are generally regarded as the most trustworthy. this volume is affectionately dedicated to the memory of my mother, who followed the work with appreciative interest in its early stages, but did not live to see its conclusion. amelia gere mason paris, july , table of contents chapter i. salons of the seventeenth century characteristics of french woman--gallic genius for conversation--social conditions--origin of the salons--their power--their composition--their records chapter ii. the hotel de rambouillet mme. de rambouillet--the salon bleu--its habitues--its diversions--corneille--balzac--richelieu--romance of the grand conde--the young bossuet--voiture--the duchesse de longueville--angelique paulet--julie d'angennes--les precieuses ridicules--decline of the salon--influence upon literature and manners chapter iii. mademoiselle de scudery and the samedis salons of the noblesse--"the illustrious sappho"--her romances--the samedis--bons mots of mme. cornuel--estimate of mlle. de scudery chapter iv. la grande mademoiselle her character--her heroic part in the fronde--her exile--literary diversions of her salon--a romantic episode chapter v. a literary salon at port royal mme. de sable--her worldly life--her retreat--her friends--pascal--the maxims of la rochefoucauld--last days of the marquise chapter vi. madame de sevigne her genius--her youth--her unworthy husband--her impertinent cousin--her love for her daughter--her letters--hotel de carnavalet--mme. duplessis guengaud--mme. de coulanges--the curtain falls chapter vii. madame de la fayette her friendship with mme. de sevigne--her education--her devotion to the princess henrietta--her salon--la rochefoucauld-- talent as a diplomatist--comparison with mme. de maintenon--her literary work--sadness of her last days--woman in literature chapter viii. salons of the eighteenth century characteristics of the eighteenth century--its epicurean philosophy--anecdote of mme. du deffand--the salon an engine of political power--great influence of woman--salons defined--literary dinners--etiquette of the salons--an exotic on american soil chapter ix. an antechamber of the academie francaise the marquise de lambert--her "bureau d'esprit"--fontenelle--advice to her son--wise thoughts on the education of women--her love of consideration--her generosity--influence of women upon the academy chapter x. the duchesse du maine her capricious character--her esprit--mlle. de launay--clever portrait of her mistress--perpetual fetes at sceaux--voltaire and the "divine emilie"--dilettante character of this salon chapter xi. madame de tencin and madam du chatelet an intriguing chanoinesse--her singular fascination--her salon--its philosophical character--mlle. aisse--romances of mme. de tencin--d'alembert--la belle emilie--voltaire--the two women compared chapter xii. madame geoffrin and the philosophers cradles of the new philosophy--noted salons of this period--character of mme. geoffrin--her practical education--anecdotes of her husband--composition of her salon--its insidious influence--her journey to warsaw--her death chapter xiii. ultra philosophical salons--madame d'epinay mme. de graffigny--baron d'holbach--mme. d'epinay's portrait of herself--mlle. quinault--rousseau--la chevrette--grimm--diderot--the abbe galiani--estimate of mme. d'epinay chapter xiv. salons of the noblesse--madame du deffand la marechale de luxenbourg--the temple--comtesse de boufflers--mme. du dufand--her convent salon--rupture with mlle. de lespinasse--her friendship with horace walpole--her brilliancy and her ennui chapter xv. mademoiselle de lespinasse a romantic career--companion of mme. du deffand--rival salons--association with the encyclopedists--d'alembert--a heart tragedy--impassioned letters--a type unique in her age chapter xvi. the salon helvetique the swiss pastor's daughter--her social ambition--her friends mme. de marchais--mme. d'houdetot--duchesse de lauzun--character of mme. necker--death at coppet--close of the most brilliant period of the salons chapter xvii. salons of the revolution--madame roland change in the character of the salons--mme. de condorcet--mme. roland's story of her own life--a marriage of reason--enthusiasm for the revolution--her modest salon--her tragical fate chapter xviii. madam de stael supremacy of her genius--her early training--her sensibility--a mariage de convenance--her salon--anecdote of benjamin constant--her exile--life at coppet--secret marriage--close of a stormy life chapter xix. salons of the empire and restoration--madame recamier a transition period--mme. de montesson--mme. de genus--revival of the literary spirit--mme. de beaumont--mme. de remusat--mme. de souza--mme. de duras--mme. de krudener--fascination of mme. recamier--her friends--her convent salon--chateaubriand decline of the salon chapter i. salons of the seventeenth century _characteristics of french woman--gallic genius for conversation--social conditions--origin of the salons--their power--their composition--their records._ "inspire, but do not write," said lebrun to women. whatever we may think today of this rather superfluous advice, we can readily pardon a man living in the atmosphere of the old french salons, for falling somewhat under the special charm of their leaders. it was a charm full of subtle flattery. these women were usually clever and brilliant, but their cleverness and brilliancy were exercised to bring into stronger relief the talents of their friends. it is true that many of them wrote, as they talked, out of the fullness of their own hearts or their own intelligence, and with no thought of a public; but it was only an incident in their lives, another form of diversion, which left them quite free from the dreaded taint of feminine authorship. their peculiar gift was to inspire others, and much of the fascination that gave them such power in their day still clings to their memories. even at this distance, they have a perpetual interest for us. it may be that the long perspective lends them a certain illusion which a closer view might partly dispel. something also may be due to the dark background against which they were outlined. but, in spite of time and change, they stand out upon the pages of history, glowing with an ever-fresh vitality, and personifying the genius of a civilization of which they were the fairest flower. the gallic genius is eminently a social one, but it is, of all others, the most difficult to reproduce. the subtle grace of manner, the magic of spoken words, are gone with the moment. the conversations of two centuries ago are today like champagne which has lost its sparkle. we may recall their tangible forms--the facts, the accessories, the thoughts, even the words, but the flavor is not there. it is the volatile essence of gaiety and wit that especially characterizes french society. it glitters from a thousand facets, it surprises us in a thousand delicate turns of thought, it appears in countless movements and shades of expression. but it refuses to be imprisoned. hence the impossibility of catching the essential spirit of the salons. we know something of the men and women who frequented them, as they have left many records of themselves. we have numerous pictures of their social life from which we may partially reconstruct it and trace its influence. but the nameless attraction that held for so long a period the most serious men of letters as well as the gay world still eludes us. we find the same elusive quality in the women who presided over these reunions. they were true daughters of a race of which mme. de graffigny wittily said that it "escaped from the hands of nature when there had entered into its composition only air and fire." they certainly were not faultless; indeed, some of them were very faulty. nor were they, as a rule, remarkable for learning. even the leaders of noted literary salons often lacked the common essentials of a modern education. but if they wrote badly and spelled badly, they had an abundance of that delicate combination of intellect and wit which the french call esprit. they had also, in superlative measure, the social gifts which women of genius reared in the library or apart from the world, are apt to lack. the close study of books leads to a knowledge of man rather than of men. it tends toward habits of introspection which are fatal to the clear and swift vision required for successful leadership of any sort. social talent is distinct, and implies a happy poise of character and intellect; the delicate blending of many gifts, not the supremacy of one. it implies taste and versatility, with fine discrimination, and the tact to sink one's personality as well as to call out the best in others. it was this flexibility of mind, this active intelligence tempered with sensibility and the native instinct of pleasing, that distinguished the french women who have left such enduring traces upon their time. "it is not sufficient to be wise, it is necessary also to please," said the witty and penetrating ninon, who thus very aptly condensed the feminine philosophy of her race. perhaps she has revealed the secret of their fascination, the indefinable something which is as difficult to analyze as the perfume of a rose. a history of the french salons would include the history of the entire period of which they were so prominent a factor. it would make known to us its statesmen and its warriors; it would trace the great currents of thought; it would give us glimpses of every phase of society, from the diversions of the old noblesse, with their sprinkling of literature and philosophy, to the familiar life of the men of letters, who cast about their intimate coteries the halo of their own genius. these salons were closely interwoven with the best intellectual life of more than two hundred years. differing in tone according to the rank, taste, or character of their leaders, they were rallying points for the most famous men and women of their time. in these brilliant centers, a new literature had its birth. here was found the fine critical sense that put its stamp on a new poem or a new play. here ministers were created and deposed, authors and artists were brought into vogue, and vacant chairs in the academie francaise were filled. here the great philosophy of the eighteenth century was cradled. here sat the arbiters of manners, the makers of social success. to these high tribunals came, at last, every aspirant for fame. it was to the refinement, critical taste, and oral force of a rare woman, half french and half italian, that the first literary salons owed their origin and their distinctive character. in judging of the work of mme. de rambouillet, we have to consider that in the early days of the seventeenth century knowledge was not diffused as it is today. a new light was just dawning upon the world, but learning was still locked in the brains of savants, or in the dusty tomes of languages that were practically obsolete. men of letters were dependent upon the favors of noble but often ignorant patrons, whom they never met on a footing of equality. the position of women was as inferior as their education, and the incredible depravity of morals was a sufficient answer to the oft-repeated fallacy that the purity of the family is best maintained by feminine seclusion. it is true there were exceptions to this reign of illiteracy. with the natural disposition to glorify the past, the writers of the next generation liked to refer to the golden era of the valois and the brilliancy of its voluptuous court. very likely they exaggerated a little the learning of marguerite de navarre, who was said to understand latin, italian, spanish, even greek and hebrew. but she had rare gifts, wrote religious poems, besides the very secular "heptameron" which was not eminently creditable to her refinement, held independent opinions, and surrounded herself with men of letters. this little oasis of intellectual light, shadowed as it was with vices, had its influence, and there were many women in the solitude of remote chateaux who began to cultivate a love for literature. "the very women and maidens aspired to this praise and celestial manna of good learning," said rabelais. but their reading was mainly limited to his own unsavory satires, to spanish pastorals, licentious poems, and their books of devotion. it was on such a foundation that mme. de rambouillet began to rear the social structure upon which her reputation rests. she was eminently fitted for this role by her pure character and fine intelligence; but she added to these the advantages of rank and fortune, which gave her ample facilities for creating a social center of sufficient attraction to focus the best intellectual life of the age, and sufficient power to radiate its light. still it was the tact and discrimination to select from the wealth of material about her, and quietly to reconcile old traditions with the freshness of new ideas, that especially characterized mme. de rambouillet. it was this richness of material, the remarkable variety and originality of the women who clustered round and succeeded their graceful leader, that gave so commanding an influence to the salons of the seventeenth century. no social life has been so carefully studied, no women have been so minutely portrayed. the annals of the time are full of them. they painted one another, and they painted themselves, with realistic fidelity. the lights and shadows are alike defined. we know their joys and their sorrows, their passions and their follies, their tastes and their antipathies. their inmost life has been revealed. they animate, as living figures, a whole class of literature which they were largely instrumental in creating, and upon which they have left the stamp of their own vivid personality. they appear later in the pages of cousin and sainte-beuve, with their radiant features softened and spiritualized by the touch of time. we rise from a perusal of these chronicles of a society long passed away, with the feeling that we have left a company of old friends. we like to recall their pleasant talk of themselves, of their companions, of the lighter happenings, as well as the more serious side of the age which they have illuminated. we seem to see their faces, not their manner, watch the play of intellect and feeling, while they speak. the variety is infinite and full of charm. mme. de sevigne talks upon paper, of the trifling affairs of every-day life, adding here and there a sparkling anecdote, a bit of gossip, a delicate characterization, a trenchant criticism, a dash of wit, a touch of feeling, or a profound thought. all this is lighted up by her passionate love of her daughter, and in this light we read the many-sided life of her time for twenty-five years. mme. de la fayette takes the world more seriously, and replaces the playful fancy of her friend by a richer vein of imagination and sentiment. she sketches for us the court of which madame (title given to the wife of the king's brother) is the central figure--the unfortunate princes henrietta whom she loved so tenderly, and who died so tragically in her arms. she writes novels too; not profound studies of life, but fine and exquisite pictures of that side of the century which appealed most to her poetic sensibility. we follow the leading characters of the age through the ten-volume romances of mlle. de scudery, which have mostly long since fallen into oblivion. doubtless the portraits are a trifle rose-colored, but they accord, in the main, with more veracious history. the grande mademoiselle describes herself and her friends, with the curious naivete of a spoiled child who thinks its smallest experiences of interest to all the world. mme. de maintenon gives us another picture, more serious, more thoughtful, but illuminated with flashes of wonderful insight. most of these women wrote simply to amuse themselves and their friends. it was only another mode of their versatile expression. with rare exceptions, they were not authors consciously or by intention. they wrote spontaneously, and often with reckless disregard of grammar and orthography. but the people who move across their gossiping pages are alive. the century passes in review before us as we read. the men and women who made its literature so brilliant and its salons so famous, become vivid realities. prominent among the fair faces that look out upon us at every turn, from court and salon, is that of the duchesse de longueville, sister of the grand conde, and heroine of the fronde. her lovely blue eyes, with their dreamy languor and "luminous awakenings," turn the heads alike of men and women, of poet and critic, of statesman and priest. we trace her brief career through her pure and ardent youth, her loveless marriage, her fatal passion for la rochefoucauld, the final shattering of all her illusions; and when at last, tired of the world, she bows her beautiful head in penitent prayer, we too love and forgive her, as others have done. were not twenty-five years of suffering and penance an ample expiation? she was one of the three women of whom cardinal mazarin said that they were "capable of governing and overturning three kingdoms." the others were the intriguing duchesse de chevreuse, who dazzled the age by her beauty and her daring escapades, and the fascinating anne de gonzague, better known as the princesse palatine, of whose winning manners, conversational charm, penetrating intellect, and loyal character bossuet spoke so eloquently at her death. we catch pleasant glimpses of mme. deshoulieres, beautiful and a poet; of mme. cornuel, of whom it was said that "every sin she confessed was an epigram"; of mme. de choisy, witty and piquante; of mme. de doulanges, also a wit and femme d'esprit. linked with these by a thousand ties of sympathy and affection were the worthy counterparts of pascal and arnauld, of bossuet and fenelon, the devoted women who poured out their passionate souls at the foot of the cross, and laid their earthly hopes upon the altar of divine love. we follow the devout jacqueline pascal to the cloister in which she buries her brilliant youth to die at thirty-five of a wounded conscience and a broken heart. many a bruised spirit, as it turns from the gay world to the mystic devotion which touches a new chord in its jaded sensibilities, finds support and inspiration in the strong and fervid sympathy of jacqueline arnauld, better known as mere angelique of port royal. this profound spiritual passion was a part of the intense life of the century, which gravitated from love and ambition to the extremes of penitence and asceticism. a multitude of minor figures, graceful and poetic, brilliant and spirituelles, flit across the canvas, leaving the fragrance of an exquisite individuality, and tempting one to extend the list of the versatile women who toned and colored the society of the period. but we have to do, at present, especially with those who gathered and blended this fresh intelligence, delicate fancy, emotional wealth, and religious fervor, into a society including such men as corneille, balzac, bossuet, richelieu, conde, pascal, arnault, and la rochefoucauld--those who are known as leaders of more or less celebrated salons. of these, mme. de rambouillet and mme. de sable were among the best representative types of their time, and the first of the long line of social queens who, through their special gift of leadership, held so potent a sway for two centuries. chapter ii. the hotel de rambouillet _mme. de rambouillet--the salon bleu--its habitues--its diversions--corneille--balzac--richelieu--romance of the grand conde--the young bossuet--voiture--the duchesse de longueville--angelique paulet--julie d'angennes--les precieuses ridicules--decline of the salon--influence upon literature and manners_ the hotel de rambouillet has been called the "cradle of polished society," but the personality of its hostess is less familiar than that of many who followed in her train. this may be partly due to the fact that she left no record of herself on paper. she aptly embodied the kind advice of le brun. it was her special talent to inspire others and to combine the various elements of a brilliant and complex social life. the rare tact which enabled her to do this lay largely in a certain self-effacement and the peculiar harmony of a nature which presented few salient points. she is best represented by the salon of which she was the architect and the animating spirit; but even this is better known today through its faults than its virtues. it is a pleasant task to clear off a little dust from its memorials, and to paint in fresh colors one who played so important a role in the history of literature and manners. catherine de vivonne was born at rome in . her father, the marquis de pisani, was french ambassador, and she belonged through her mother to the old roman families of strozzi and savelli. married at sixteen to the count d'angennes, afterwards marquis de rambouillet, she was introduced to the world at the gay court of henry iv. but the coarse and depraved manners which ruled there were altogether distasteful to her delicate and fastidious nature. at twenty she retired from these brilliant scenes of gilded vice, and began to gather round her the coterie of choice spirits which later became so famous. filled with the poetic ideals and artistic tastes which had been nourished in a thoughtful and elegant seclusion, it seems to have been the aim of her life to give them outward expression. her mind, which inherited the subtle refinement of the land of her birth, had taken its color from the best italian and spanish literature, but she was in no sense a learned woman. she was once going to study latin, in order to read virgil, but was prevented by ill health. it is clear, however, that she had a great diversity of gifts, with a basis of rare good sense and moral elevation. "she was revered, adored," writes mme. de motteville; "a model of courtesy, wisdom, knowledge, and sweetness." she is always spoken of in the chronicles of her time as a loyal wife, a devoted mother, the benefactor of the suffering, and the sympathetic adviser of authors and artists. the poet segrais says: "she was amiable and gracious, of a sound and just mind; it is she who has corrected the bad customs which prevailed before her. she taught politeness to all those of her time who frequented her house. she was also a good friend, and kind to every one." we are told that she was beautiful, but we know only that her face was fair and delicate, her figure tall and graceful, and her manner stately and dignified. her greek love of beauty expressed itself in all her appointments. the unique and original architecture of her hotel,--which was modeled after her own designs,--the arrangement of her salon, the pursuits she chose, and the amusements she planned, were all a part of her own artistic nature. this was shown also in her code of etiquette, which imposed a fine courtesy upon the members of her coterie, and infused into life the spirit of politeness, which one of her countrymen has called the "flower of humanity." but this esthetic quality was tempered with a clear judgment, and a keen appreciation of merit and talent, which led her to gather into her society many not "to the manner born." sometimes she delicately aided a needy man of letters to present a respectable appearance--a kindness much less humiliating in those days of patronage that it would be today. as may readily be imagined, these new elements often jarred upon the tastes and prejudices of her noble guests, but in spite of this it was considered an honor to be received by her, and, though not even a duchess, she was visited by princesses. adding to this spirit of noble independence the prestige of rank, beauty, and fortune; a temper of mingled sweetness and strength; versatile gifts controlled by an admirable reason; a serene and tranquil character; a playful humor, free from the caprices of a too exacting sensibility; a perfect savoir-faire, and we have the unusual combination which enabled her to hold her sway for so many years, without a word of censure from even the most scandal-loving of chroniclers. "we have sought in vain," writes cousin, "for that which is rarely lacking in any life of equal or even less brilliancy, some calumny or scandal, an equivocal word, or the lightest epigram. we have found only a concert of warm eulogies which have run through many generations.... she has disarmed tallemant himself. this caricaturist of the seventeenth century has been pitiless towards the habitues of her illustrious house, but he praises her with a warmth which is very impressive from such a source." the modern spirit of change has long since swept away all vestiges of the old rue saint-thomas-du-lourvre and the time-honored dwellings that ornamented it. conspicuous among these, and not far from the palais royal, was the famous hotel de rambouillet. the salon bleu has become historic. this "sanctuary of the temple of athene," as it was called in the stilted language of the day, has been illuminated for us by the rank, beauty, and talent of the augustan age of france. we are more or less familiar with even the minute details of the spacious room, whose long windows, looking across the little garden towards the tuileries, let in a flood of golden sunlight. we picture to ourselves its draperies of blue and gold, its curious cabinets, its choice works of art, its venetian lamps, and its crystal vases always filled with flowers that scatter the perfume of spring. it was here that mme. de rambouillet held her court for nearly thirty years, her salon reaching the height of its power under richelieu, and practically closing with the fronde. she sought to gather all that was most distinguished, whether for wit, beauty, talent, or birth, into an atmosphere of refinement and simple elegance, which should tone down all discordant elements and raise life to the level of a fine art. there was a strongly intellectual flavor in the amusements, as well as in the discussions of this salon, and the place of honor was given to genius, learning, and good manners, rather than to rank. but it was by no means purely literary. the exclusive spirit of the old aristocracy, with its hauteur and its lofty patronage, found itself face to face with fresh ideals. the position of the hostess enabled her to break the traditional barriers, and form a society upon a new basis, but in spite of the mingling of classes hitherto separated, the dominant life was that of the noblesse. woman of rank gave the tone and made the laws. their code of etiquette was severe. they aimed to combine the graces of italy with the chivalry of spain. the model man must have a keen sense of honor, and wit without pedantry; he must be brave, heroic, generous, gallant, but he must also possess good breeding and gentle courtesy. the coarse passions which had disgraced the court were refined into subtle sentiments, and women were raised upon a pedestal, to be respectfully and platonically adored. in this reaction from extreme license, familiarity was forbidden, and language was subjected to a critical censorship. it was here that the word precieuse was first used to signify a woman of personal distinction, accomplished in the highest sense, with a perfect accord of intelligence, good taste, and good manners. later, when pretension crept into the inferior circles which took this one for a model, the term came to mean a sort of intellectual parvenue, half prude and half pedant, who affected learning, and paraded it like fine clothes, for effect. "do you remember," said flechier, many years later, in his funeral oration on the death of the duchesse de montausier, "the salons which are still regarded with so much veneration, where the spirit was purified, where virtue was revered under the name of the incomparable arthenice; where people of merit and quality assembled, who composed a select court, numerous without confusion, modest without constraint, learned without pride, polished without affectation?" whatever allowance we may be disposed to make for the friendship of the eminent abbe, he spoke with the authority of personal knowledge, and at a time when the memories of the hotel de rambouillet were still fresh. it is true that those who belonged to this professed school of morals were not all patterns of decorum. but we cannot judge by the anglo-saxon standards of the nineteenth century the faults of an age in which a ninon de l'enclos lives on terms of veiled intimacy with a strait-laced mme. de maintenon, and, when age has given her a certain title to respectability, receives in her salon women of as spotless reputation as mme. de la fayette. measured from the level of their time, the lives of the rambouillet coterie stand out white and shining. the pure character of the marquise and her daughters was above reproach, and they were quoted as "models whom all the world cited, all the world admired, and every one tried to imitate." to be a precieuse was in itself an evidence of good conduct. "this salon was a resort not only for all the fine wits, but for every one who frequented the court," writes mme. de motteville. "it was a sort of academy of beaux esprits, of gallantry, of virtue, and of science," says st. simon; "for these things accorded marvelously. it was a rendevous of all that was most distinguished in condition and in merit; a tribunal with which it was necessary to count, and whose decisions upon the conduct and reputation of people of the court and the world, had great weight." corneille read most of his dramas here, and, if report be true, read them very badly. he says of himself: et l'on peut rarement m'ecouter sans ennui, que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui. he was shy, awkward, ill at ease, not clear in speech, and rather heavy in conversation, but the chivalric and heroic character of his genius was quite in accord with the lofty and rather romantic standards affected by this circle, and made him one of its central literary figures. another was balzac, whose fine critical taste did so much for the elegance and purity of the french language, and who was as noted in his day as was his namesake, the brilliant author of the "comedie humaine," two centuries later. his long letters to the marquise, on the romans, were read and discussed in his absence, and it was through his influence, added to her own classic ideals, that roman dignity and urbanity were accepted as models in the new code of manners; indeed, it was he who introduced the word urbanite into the language. armand du plessis, who aimed to be poet as well as statesman, read here in his youth a thesis on love. when did a frenchman ever fail to write with facility upon this fertile theme? after he became cardinal de richelieu he feared the influence of the hotel de rambouillet, and sent a request to its hostess to report what was said of him there. she replied with consummate tact, that her guests were so strongly persuaded of her friendship for his eminence, that no one would have the temerity to speak ill of him in her presence. even the grand conde courted the muses, and wrote verses which were bad for a poet, though fairly good for a warrior. if it be true that every man is a poet once in his life, we may infer that this was about the time of his sad little romance with the pretty and charming mlle. du vigean, who was one of the youthful attractions of this coterie. family ambition stood in the way of their marriage, and the prince yielded to the wishes of his friends. the grande mademoiselle tells us that this was the only veritable passion of the brave young hero of many battles, and that he fainted at the final separation. united to a wife he did not love, and whom he did not scruple to treat very ill, he gave himself to glory and, it must be added, to unworthy intrigues. the pure-hearted young girl buried her beauty and her sorrows in the convent of the carmelites, and was no more heard of in the gay world. it is evident that the great soldier sometimes forgot the urbanity which was so strongly insisted upon in this society. he is said to have carried the impetuosity of his character into his conversation. when he had a good cause, he sustained it with grace and amiability. if it was a bad one, however, his eyes flashed, and he became so violent that it was thought prudent not to contradict him. it is related that boileau, after yielding one day in a dispute, remarked in a low voice to a friend: "hereafter i shall always be of the opinion of the prince when he is wrong." bossuet, when a boy of seventeen, improvised here one evening a sermon on a given theme, which was so eloquent that it held the company until near midnight. "i have never heard any one preach so early and so late," remarked the witty voiture, as he congratulated the youthful orator at the close. this famous bel esprit played a very prominent part here. his role was to amuse, and his talents gave him great vogue, but at this distance his small vanities strike one much more vividly than the wit which flashed out with the moment, or the vers de societe on which his fame rests. he owed his social success to a rather high-flown love letter which he evidently thought too good to be lost to the world. he sent it to a friend, who had it printed and circulated. what the lady thought does not appear, but it made the fortune of the poet. though the son of a wine merchant, and without rank, he had little more of the spirit of a courtier than voltaire, and his biting epigrams were no less feared. "if he were one of us, he would be insupportable," said conde. but his caprices were tolerated for the sake of his inexhaustible wit, and he was petted and spoiled to the end. a list of the men of letters who appeared from time to time at the hotel de rambouillet would include the most noted names of the century, besides many which were famous in their day, but at present are little more than historical shadows. the conversations were often learned, doubtless sometimes pretentious. one is inclined to wonder if these noble cavaliers and high-born woman did not yawn occasionally over the scholarly discourse of corneille and balzac upon the romans, the endless disputes about rival sonnets, and the long discussions on the value of a word. "doubtless it is a very beautiful poem, but also very tiresome," said mme. de longueville, after chapelain had finished reading his "pucelle"--a work which aimed to be the iliad of france, but succeeded only in being very long and rather heavy. this lovely young princess, who at sixteen had the exaltation of a religieuse, and was with difficulty won from her dreams of renunciation and a cloister, had become the wife of a man many years her senior, whom she did not love, and the idol of the brilliant world in which she lived. la rochefoucauld had not yet disturbed the serenity of her heart, nor political intrigues her peace of mind. it was before the fronde, in which she was destined to play so conspicuous a part, and she was still content with the role of a reigning beauty; but she was not at all averse to the literary entertainments of this salon, in which her own fascinations were so delightfully sung. she found the flattering verses of voiture more to her taste than the stately epic of chapelain, took his side warmly against benserade in the famous dispute as to the merits of their two sonnets, "job" and "urania," and won him a doubtful victory. the poems of voiture lose much of their flavor in translation, but i venture to give a verse in the original, which was addressed to the charming princesse, and which could hardly fail to win the favor of a young and beautiful woman. de perles, d'astres, et de fleurs, bourbon, le ciel fit tes couleurs, et mit dedans tout ce melange l'esprit d'une ange. but the diversions were by no means always grave or literary. life was represented on many sides, one secret, doubtless, of the wide influence of this society. the daughters of mme. de rambouillet, and her son, the popular young marquis de pisani, formed a nucleus of youth and gaiety. to these we may add the beautiful angelique paulet, who at seventeen had turned the head of henri iv, and escaped the fatal influence of that imperious sovereign's infatuation by his timely, or untimely, death. fair and brilliant, the best singer of her time, skilled also in playing the lute, and gifted with a special dramatic talent, she was always a favorite, much loved by her friends and much sung by the poets. her proud and impetuous character, her frank and original manners, together with her luxuriance of blonde hair, gained her the sobriquet of la belle lionne. nor must we forget mlle. de scudery, one of the most constant literary lights of this salon, and in some sense its chronicler; nor the fastidious mme. de sable. the brightest ornament of the hotel de rambouillet, however, was julie d'angennes, the petted daughter of the house, the devoted companion and clever assistant of her mother. her gaiety of heart, amiable temper, ready wit, and gracious manners surrounded her with an atmosphere of perpetual sunshine. fertile in resources, of fine intelligence, winning the love alike of men and women, she was the soul of the serious conversations, as well as of the amusements which relieved them. these amusements were varied and often original. they played little comedies. they had mythological fetes, draping themselves as antique gods and goddesses. sometimes they indulged in practical jokes and surprises, which were more laughable than dignified. malherbe and racan, the latter sighing hopelessly over the attractions of the dignified marquise, gave her the romantic name of arthenice, and forthwith the other members of the coterie took some nom de parnasse, by which they were familiarly known. they read the "astree" of d'urfe, that platonic dream of a disillusioned lover; discussed the romances of calprenede and the sentimental bergeries of racan. such arcadian pictures seemed to have a singular fascination for these courtly dames and plumed cavaliers. they tried to reproduce them. assuming the characters of the rather insipid strephons and florimels, they made love in pastoral fashion, with pipe and lute--these rustic diversions serving especially to while away the long summer days in the country at rambouillet, at chantilly, or at ruel. they improvised sonnets and madrigals; they praised each other in verse; they wrote long letters on the slightest pretext. as a specimen of the badinage so much in vogue, i quote from a letter written by voiture to one of the daughters of mme. de rambouillet, who was an abbess, and had sent him a present of a cat. "madame, i was already so devoted to you that i supposed you knew there was no need of winning me by presents, or trying to take me like a rat, with a cat. nevertheless, if there was anything in my thought that was not wholly yours, the cat which you have sent me has captured it." after a eulogy upon the cat, he adds: "i can only say that it is very difficult to keep, and for a cat religiously brought up it is very little inclined to seclusion. it never sees a window without wishing to jump out, it would have leaped over the wall twenty times if it had not been prevented, and no secular cat could be more lawless or more self-willed." the wit here is certainly rather attenuated, but the subject is an ungrateful one. mme. de sevigne finds voiture "libre, badin, charmant," and disposes of his critics by saying, "so much the worse for those who do not understand him." one is often puzzled to detect this rare spirituelle quality; but it is fair to presume that it was of the volatile sort that evaporates with time. all this sentimental masquerading and exaggerated gallantry suggests the vulnerable side of the hotel de rambouillet, and the side which its enemies have been disposed to make very prominent. among those who tried to imitate this salon, spanish chivalry doubtless degenerated into a thousand absurdities, and it must be admitted that the salon itself was not free from reproach on this point. it became the fashion to write and talk in the language of hyperbole. sighing lovers were consumed with artificial fires, and ready to die with affected languors. like the old poets of provence, whose spirit they caught and whose phrases they repeated, they were dying of love they did not feel. the eyes of phyllis extinguished the sun. the very nightingales expired of jealousy, after hearing the voice of angelique. it would be difficult, perhaps, to find anywhere a company of clever people bent upon amusing themselves and passing every day more or less together, whose sayings and doings would bear to be exactly chronicled. the literary diversions and poetic ideals of this circle, too, gave a certain color to the charge of affectation, among people of less refined instincts, who found its esprit incomprehensible, its manners prudish, and its virtue a tacit reproach; but the dignified and serious character of many of its constant habitues should be a sufficient guarantee that it did not greatly pass the limits of good taste and good sense. the only point upon which mme. de rambouillet seems to have been open to criticism was a certain formal reserve and an over-fastidious delicacy; but in an age when the standards of both refinement and morals were so low, this implies a virtue rather than a defect. nor does her character appear to have been at all tinged with pretension. "i should fear from your example to write in a style too elevated," says voiture, in a letter to her. but traditions are strong, and people do not readily adapt themselves to new models. character and manners are a growth. that which is put on, and not ingrained, is apt to lack true balance and proportion. hence it is not strange that this new order of things resulted in many crudities and exaggerations. it is not worth while to criticize too severely the plumed knights who took the heroes of corneille as models, played the harmless lover, and paid the tribute of chivalric deference to women. the strained politeness may have been artificial, and the forms of chivalry very likely outran the feeling, but they served at least to keep it alive, while the false platonism and ultra-refined sentiment were simply moral protests against the coarse vices of the time. the prudery which reached a satirical climax in "les precieuses ridicules" was a natural reaction from the sensuality of a marguerite and a gabrielle. mme. de rambouillet saw and enjoyed the first performance of this celebrated play, nor does it appear that she was at all disturbed by the keen satire which was generally supposed to have been directed toward her salon. moliere himself disclaims all intention of attacking the true precieuse; but the world is not given to fine discrimination, and the true suffers from the blow aimed at the false. this brilliant comedian, whose manners were not of the choicest, was more at home in the lax and epicurean world of ninon and mme. de la sabliere--a world which naturally did not find the decorum of the precieuses at all to its taste; the witticism of ninon, who defined them as the "jansenists of love," is well known. it is not unlikely that moliere shared her dislike of the powerful and fastidious coterie whose very virtues might easily have furnished salient points for his scathing wit. but whatever affectations may have grown out of the new code of manners, it had a more lasting result in the fine and stately courtesy which pervaded the later social life of the century. we owe, too, a profound gratitude to these women who exacted and were able to command a consideration which with many shades of variation has been left as a permanent heritage to their sex. we may smile at some of their follies; have we not our own which some nineteenth century moliere may serve up for the delight and possible misleading of future generations? there is a warm human side to this daily intercourse, with its sweet and gracious courtesies. the women who discuss grave questions and make or unmake literary reputations in the salon, are capable of rare sacrifices and friendships that seem quixotic in their devotion. cousin, who has studied them so carefully and so sympathetically, has saved from oblivion many private letters which give us pleasant glimpses of their everyday life. as we listen to their quiet exchange of confidences, we catch the smile that plays over the light badinage, or the tear that lurks in the tender words. a little son of mme. de rambouillet has the small pox, and his sister julie shares the care of him with her mother, when every one else has fled. at his death, she devotes herself to her friend mme. de longueville, who soon after her marriage is attacked with the same dreaded malady. mme. de sable is afraid of contagion, and refuses to see mlle. de rambouillet, who writes her a characteristic letter. as it gives us a vivid idea of her esprit as well as of her literary style, i copy it in full, though it has been made already familiar to the english reader by george eliot, in her admirable review of cousin's "life of mme. de sable." mlle de chalais (dame de compagnie to the marquise) will please read this letter to mme. la marquise, out of the wind. madame, i cannot begin my treaty with you too early, for i am sure that between the first proposition made for me to see you, and the conclusion, you will have so many reflections to make, so many physicians to consult, and so many fears to overcome, that i shall have full leisure to air myself. the conditions which i offer are, not to visit you until i have been three days absent from the hotel de conde, to change all my clothing, to choose a day when it has frozen, not to approach you within four paces, not to sit down upon more than one seat. you might also have a great fire in your room, burn juniper in the four corners, surround yourself with imperial vinegar, rue, and wormwood. if you can feel safe under these conditions, without my cutting off my hair, i swear to you to execute them religiously; and if you need examples to fortify you, i will tell you that the queen saw m. de chaudebonne when he came from mlle. de bourbon's room, and that mme. d'aiguillon, who has good taste and is beyond criticism on such points, has just sent me word that if i did not go to see her, she should come after me. mme. de sable retorts in a satirical vein, that her friend is too well instructed in the needed precautions, to be quite free from the charge of timidity, adding the hope that since she understands the danger, she will take better care of herself in the future. this calls forth another letter, in which mlle. de rambouillet says, "one never fears to see those whom one loves. i would have given much, for your sake, if this had not occurred." she closes this spicy correspondence, however, with a very affectionate letter which calms the ruffled temper of her sensitive companion. mme. de sable has another friend, mlle. d'attichy, who figures quite prominently in the social life of a later period, as the comtesse de maure. this lady was just leaving paris to visit her in the country, when she learned that mme. de sable had written to mme. de rambouillet that she could conceive of no greater happiness than to pass her life alone with julie d'angennes. this touches her sensibilities so keenly that she changes her plans, and refuses to visit one who could find her pleasure away from her. mme. de sable tries in vain to appease her exacting friend, who replies to her explanations by a long letter in which she recalls their tender and inviolable friendship, and closes with these words: malheurteuse est l'ignorance, et plus malheureux le savoir. having thus lost a confidence which alone rendered life supportable to me, i cannot dream of taking the journey so much talked of; for there would be no propriety in traveling sixty leagues at this season, in order to burden you with a person so uninteresting to you, that after years of a passion without parallel you cannot help thinking that the greatest pleasure would consist in passing life without her. i return then into my solitude, to examine the faults which cause me so much unhappiness, and unless i can correct them, i should have less joy than confusion in seeing you. i kiss your hands very humbly. how this affair was adjusted does not appear, but as they remained devoted friends through life, unable to live apart, or pass a day happily without seeing each other, it evidently did not end in a serious alienation. it suggests, however, a delicacy and an exaltation of feeling which we are apt to accord only to love, and which go far toward disproving the verdict of mongaigne, that "the soul of a woman is not firm enough for so durable a tie as friendship." we like to dwell upon these inner phases of a famous and powerful coterie, not only because they bring before us so vividly the living, moving, thinking, loving women who composed it, letting us into their intimate life with its quiet shadings, its fantastic humors, and its wayward caprices, but because they lead us to the fountain head of a new form of literary expression. we have seen that the formal letters of balzac were among the early entertainments of the hotel de rambouillet, and that voiture had a witty or sentimental note for every occasion. mlle. de scudery held a ready pen, and was in the habit of noting down in her letters to absent friends the conversation, which ran over a great variety of topics, from the gossip of the moment to the gravest questions. there was no morning journal with its columns of daily news, no magazine with its sketches of contemporary life, and these private letters were passed from one to another to be read and discussed. the craze for clever letters spread. conversations literally overflowed upon paper. a romantic adventure, a bit of scandal, a drawing room incident, or a personal pique, was a fruitful theme. everybody aimed to excel in an art which brought a certain prestige. these letters, most of which had their brief day, were often gathered into little volumes. many have long since disappeared, or found burial in the dust of old libraries from which they are occasionally exhumed to throw fresh light upon some forgotten nook and by way of an age whose habits and manners, virtues and follies, they so faithfully record. a few, charged with the vitality of genius, retain their freshness and live among the enduring monuments of the society that gave them birth. the finest outcome of this prevailing taste was mme. de sevigne, who still reigns as the queen of graceful letter writers. although her maturity belongs to a later period, she was familiar with the rambouillet circle in her youth, and inherited its best spirit. the charm of this literature is its spontaneity. it has no ulterior aim, but delights in simple expression. these people write because they like to write. they are original because they sketch from life. there is something naive and fresh in their vivid pictures. they give us all the accessories. they tell us how they lived, how they dressed, how they thought, how they acted. they talk of their plans, their loves, and their private piques, with the same ingenuous frankness. they condense for us their worldly philosophy, their sentiments, and their experience. the style of these letters is sometimes heavy and stilted, the wit is often strained and far-fetched, but many of them are written with an easy grace and a lightness of touch as fascinating as inimitable. the marriage of julie d'angennes, in , deprived the hotel de rambouillet of one of its chief attractions. it was only through the earnest wish of her family that, after a delay of thirteen years, she yielded at last to the persevering suit of the marquis, afterwards the duc de montausier, and became his wife. she was then thirty-eight, and he three years younger. the famous "guirlande de julie," which he dedicated and presented to her, still exists, as the unique memorial of his patient and enduring love. this beautiful volume, richly bound, decorated with a flower exquisitely painted on each of the twenty-nine leaves and accompanied by a madrigal written by the marquis himself or by some of the poets who frequented her house, was a remarkable tribute to the graces of the woman whose praises were so delicately sung. the faithful lover, who was a protestant, gave a crowning proof of his devotion, in changing his religion. so much adoration could hardly fail to touch the most capricious and obdurate of hearts. we cannot dismiss this woman, whom cousin regards as the most accomplished type of the society she adorned, without a word more. though her ambition was gratified by the honors that fell upon her husband, who after holding many high positions was finally entrusted with the education of the dauphin; and though her own appointment of dame d'honneur to the queen gave her an envied place at court, we trace with regret the close of her brilliant career. as has been already indicated, she added to much esprit a character of great sweetness, and manners facile, gracious, even caressing. with less elevation, less independence, and less firmness than her mother, she had more of the sympathetic quality, the frank unreserve, that wins the heart. no one had so many adorers; no one scattered so many hopeless passions; no one so gently tempered these into friendships. she knew always how to say the fitting word, to charm away the clouds of ill humor, to conciliate opposing interests. but this spirit of complaisance which, however charming it may be, is never many degrees removed from the spirit of the courtier, proved to be the misfortune of her later life. too amiable, perhaps too diplomatic, to frown openly upon the king's irregularities, she was accused, whether justly or otherwise, of tacitly favoring his relations with mme. de montespan. the husband of this lady took his wife's infidelity very much to heart, and, failing to find any redress, forced himself one day into the presence of madam de montausier, and made a violent scene which so affected her that she fell into a profound melancholy and an illness from which she never rallied. there is always an air of mystery thrown about this affair, and it is difficult to fathom the exact truth; but the results were sufficiently tragical to the woman who was quoted by her age as a model of virtue and decorum. in , the troubles of the fronde, which divided friends and added fuel to petty social rivalries, scattered the most noted guests of the hotel de rambouillet. voiture was dead; angelique paulet died two years later. the young marquis de pisani, the only son and the hope of his family, had fallen with many brave comrades on the field of nordlingen. of the five daughters, three were abbesses of convents. the health of the marquise, which had always been delicate, was still further enfeebled by the successive griefs which darkened her closing years. her husband, of whom we know little save that he was sent on various foreign missions, and "loved his wife always as a lover," died in . she survived him thirteen years, living to see the death of her youngest daughter, angelique, wife of the comte de grignan who was afterwards the son-in-law of mme. de sevigne. she witnessed the elevation of her favorite julie, but was spared the grief of her death which occurred five or six years after her own. the aged marquise, true to her early tastes, continued to receive her friends in her ruelle, and her salon had a brief revival when the duchesse de montausier returned from the provinces, after the second fronde; but its freshness had faded with its draperies of blue and gold. the brilliant company that made it so famous was dispersed, and the glory of the salon bleu was gone. there is something infinitely pathetic in the epitaph this much-loved and successful woman wrote for herself when she felt that the end was near: ici git arthenice, exempte des rigueurs don't la rigueur du sort l'a touours poursuivie. et si tu veux, passant, compter tous ses malheurs, tu n'aura qu'a, compter les moments de sa vie. the spirit of unrest is there beneath the calm exterior. it may be some hidden wound; it may be only the old, old weariness, the inevitable burden of the race. "mon dieu!" wrote mme. de maintenon, in the height of her worldly success, "how sad life is! i pass my days without other consolation than the thought that death will end it all." mme. de rambouillet had worked unconsciously toward a very important end. she found a language crude and inelegant, manners coarse and licentious, morals dissolute and vicious. her influence was at its height in the age of corneille and descartes, and she lived almost to the culmination of the era of racine and moliere, of boileau and la bruyere, of bossuet and fenelon, the era of simple and purified language, of refined and stately manners, and of at least outward respect for morality. to these results she largely contributed. her salon was the social and literary power of the first half of the century. in an age of political espionage, it maintained its position and its dignity. it sustained corneille against the persecutions of richelieu, and numbered among its habitues the founders of the academie francaise, who continued the critical reforms begun there. as a school of politeness, it has left permanent traces. this woman of fine ideals and exalted standards exacted of others the purity of character, delicacy of thought, and urbanity of manner, which she possessed in so eminent a degree herself. her code was founded upon the best instincts of humanity, and whatever modifications of form time has wrought its essential spirit remains unchanged. "politeness does not always inspire goodness, equity, complaisance, gratitude," says la bruyere, "but it gives at least the appearance of these qualities, and makes man seem externally what he ought to be internally." it was in this salon, too, that the modern art of conversation, which has played so conspicuous a part in french life, may be said to have had its birth. men and women met on a footing of equality, with similar tastes and similar interests. different ranks and conditions were represented, giving a certain cosmopolitan character to a society which had hitherto been narrow in its scope and limited in its aims. naturally conversation assumed a new importance, and was subject to new laws. to quote again from labruyere, who has so profoundly penetrated the secrets of human nature: "the esprit of conversation consists much less in displaying itself than in drawing out the wit of others... men do not like to admire you, they wish to please; they seek less to be instructed or even to be entertained, than to be appreciated and applauded, and the most delicate pleasure is to make that of others." "to please others," says la rochefoucauld, "one must speak of the things they love and which concern them, avoid disputes upon indifferent maters, ask questions rarely, and never let them think that one is more in the right than themselves." many among the great writers of the age touch in the same tone upon the philosophy underlying the various rules of manners and conversation which were first discussed at the hotel de rambouillet, and which have passed into permanent though unwritten laws--unfortunately a little out of fashion in the present generation. it is difficult to estimate the impulse given to intelligence and literary taste by this breaking up of old social crystallizations. what the savant had learned in his closet passed more or less into current coin. conversation gave point to thought, clearness to expression, simplicity to language. women of rank and recognized ability imposed the laws of good taste, and their vivid imaginations changed lifeless abstractions into something concrete and artistic. men of letters, who had held an inferior and dependent position, were penetrated with the spirit of a refined society, while men of the world, in a circle where wit and literary skill were distinctions, began to aspire to the role of a bel esprit, to pride themselves upon some intellectual gift and the power to write without labor and without pedantry, as became their rank. many of them lacked seriousness, dealing mainly with delicate fancies and trivial incidents, but pleasures of the intellect and taste became the fashion. burlesques and chansons disputed the palm with madrigals and sonnets. a neatly turned epigram or a clever letter made a social success. perhaps it was not a school for genius of the first order. society favors graces of form and expression rather than profound and serious thought. no homer, nor aeschylus, nor milton, nor dante is the outgrowth of such a soil. the prophet or seer shines by the light of his own soul. he deals with problems and emotions that lie deep in the pulsing heart of humanity, but he does not best interpret his generation. it is the man living upon the level of his time, and finding his inspiration in the world of events, who reflects its life, marks its currents, and registers its changes. matthew arnold has aptly said that "the qualities of genius are less transferable than the qualities of intelligence, less can be immediately learned and appropriated from their product; they are less direct and stringent intellectual agencies, though they may be more beautiful and divine." it was this quality of intelligence that eminently characterized the literature of the seventeenth century. it was a mirror of social conditions, or their natural outcome. the spirit of its social life penetrated its thought, colored its language, and molded its forms. we trace it in the letters and vers de societe which were the pastime of the hotel de rambouillet and the samedis of mlle. de scudery, as well as in the romances which reflected their sentiments and pictured their manners. we trace it in the literary portraits which were the diversion of the coterie of mademoiselle, at the luxembourg, and in the voluminous memoirs and chronicles which grew out of it. we trace it also in the "maxims" and "thoughts" which were polished and perfected in the convent salon of mme. de sable, and were the direct fruits of a wide experience and observation of the great world. it would be unfair to say that anything so complex as the growth of a new literature was wholly due to any single influence, but the intellectual drift of the time seems to have found its impulse in the salons. they were the alembics in which thought was fused and crystallized. they were the schools in which the french mind cultivated its extraordinary clearness and flexibility. as the century advanced, the higher literature was tinged and modified by the same spirit. society, with its follies and affectations, inspired the mocking laughter of moliere, but its unwritten laws tempered his language and refined his wit. its fine urbanity was reflected in the harmony and delicacy of racine, as well as in the critical decorum of boileau. the artistic sentiment rules in letters, as in social life. it was not only the thought that counted, but the setting of the thought. the majestic periods of bossuet, the tender persuasiveness of fenelon, gave even truth a double force. the moment came when this critical refinement, this devotion to form, passed its limits, and the inevitable reaction followed. the great literary wave of the seventeenth century reached its brilliant climax and broke upon the shores of a new era. but the seeds of thought had been scattered, to spring up in the great literature of humanity that marked the eighteenth century. chapter iii. mademoiselle de scudery and the samedis _salons of the noblesse--"the illustrious sappho"--her romances--the samedis--bon mots of mme. cornuel--estimate of mlle. de scudery_ there were a few contemporary salons among the noblesse, modeled more or less after the hotel de rambouillet, but none of their leaders had the happy art of conciliating so many elements. they had a literary flavor, and patronized men of letters, often doubtless, because it was the fashion and the name of a well-known litterateur gave them a certain eclat; but they were not cosmopolitan, and have left no marked traces. one of the most important of these was the hotel de conde, over which the beautiful charlotte de montmorency presided with such dignity and grace, during the youth of her daughter, the duchesse de longueville. another was the hotel de nevers, where the gifted marie de gonzague, afterward queen of poland, and her charming sister, the princesse palatine, were the central attractions of a brilliant and intellectual society. richelieu, recognizing the power of the rambouillet circle, wished to transfer it to the salon of his niece at the petit luxembourg. we have a glimpse of the young and still worldly pascal, explaining here his discoveries in mathematics and his experiments in physics. the tastes of this courtly company were evidently rather serious, as we find another celebrity, of less enduring fame, discoursing upon the immortality of the soul. but the rank, talent, and masterful character of the duchesse d'aiguillon did not suffice to give her salon the wide influence of its model; it was tainted by her own questionable character, and always hampered by the suspicion of political intrigues. there were smaller coteries, however, which inherited the spirit and continued the traditions of the hotel de rambouillet. prominent among these was that of madeleine de scudery, who held her samedis in modest fashion in the marais. these famous reunions lacked the prestige and the fine tone of their model, but they had a definite position, and a wide though not altogether favorable influence. as the forerunner of mme. de la fayette and mme. de sevigne, and one of the most eminent literary women of the century with which her life ran parallel, mlle. de scudery has a distinct interest for us and it is to her keen observation and facile pen that we are indebted for the most complete and vivid picture of the social life of the period. the "illustrious sappho," as she was pleased to be called, certainly did not possess the beauty popularly accorded to her namesake and prototype. she was tall and thin, with a long, dark, and not at all regular face; mme. cornuel said that one could see clearly "she was destined by providence to blacken paper, as she sweat ink from every pore." but, if we may credit her admirers, who were numerous, she had fine eyes, a pleasing expression, and an agreeable address. she evidently did not overestimate her personal attractions, as will be seen from the following quatrain, which she wrote upon a portrait made by one of her friends. nanteuil, en faisant mon image, a de son art divin signale le pouvoir; je hais mes yeux dans mon miroir, je les aime dans son ouvrage. she had her share, however, of small but harmless vanities, and spoke of her impoverished family, says tallemant, "as one might speak of the overthrow of the greek empire." her father belonged to an old and noble house of provence, but removed to normandy, where he married and died, leaving two children with a heritage of talent and poverty. a trace of the provencal spirit always clung to madeleine, who was born in , and lived until the first year of the following century. after losing her mother, who is said to have been a woman of some distinction, she was carefully educated by an uncle in all the accomplishments of the age, as well as in the serious studies which were then unusual. according to her friend conrart she was a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge both useful and ornamental. "she had a prodigious imagination," he writes, "an excellent memory, an exquisite judgment, a lively temper, and a natural disposition to understand everything curious which she saw done, and everything laudable which she heard talked of. she learned the things that concern agriculture, gardening, housekeeping, cooking, and a life in the country; also the causes and effects of maladies, the composition of an infinite number of remedies, perfumes, scented waters and distillations useful or agreeable. she wished to play the lute, and took some lessons with success." in addition to all this, she mastered spanish and italian, read extensively and conversed brilliantly. at the death of her uncle and in the freshness of her youth, she went to paris with her brother who had some pretension as a poet and dramatic writer. he even posed as a rival of corneille, and was sustained by richelieu, but time has long since relegated him to comparative oblivion. his sister, who was a victim of his selfish tyranny, is credited with much of the prose which appeared under his name; indeed, her first romances were thus disguised. her love for conversation was so absorbing, that he is said to have locked her in her room, and refused her to her friends until a certain amount of writing was done. but, in spite of this surveillance, her life was so largely in the world that it was a mystery when she did her voluminous work. of winning temper and pleasing address, with this full equipment of knowledge and imagination, versatility and ambition, she was at an early period domesticated in the family of mme. de rambouillet as the friend and companion of julie d'angennes. her graces of mind and her amiability made her a favorite with those who frequented the house, and she was thus brought into close contact with the best society of her time. she has painted it carefully and minutely in the "grand cyrus," a romantic allegory in which she transfers the french aristocracy and french manners of the seventeenth century to an oriental court. the hotel de rambouillet plays an important part as the hotel cleomire. when we consider that the central figures were the prince de conde and his lovely sister the duchesse de longueville, also that the most distinguished men and women of the age saw their own portraits, somewhat idealized but quite recognizable through the thin disguise of persians, greeks, armenians, or egyptians, it is easy to imagine that the ten volumes of rather exalted sentiment were eagerly sought and read. she lacked incident and constructive power, but excelled in vivid portraits, subtle analysis, and fine conversations. she made no attempt at local color; her plots were strained and unnatural, her style heavy and involved. but her penetrating intellect was thoroughly tinged with the romantic spirit, and she had the art of throwing a certain glamour over everything she touched. cousin, who has rescued the memory of mlle. de scudery from many unjust aspersions, says that she was the "creator of the psychological romance." unquestionably her skill in character painting set the fashion for the pen portraits which became a mania a few years later. she depicts herself as sapppho, whose opinions may be supposed to reflect her own. in these days, when the position of women is discussed from every possible point of view, it may be interesting to know how it was regarded by one who represented the thoughtful side of the age in which their social power was first distinctly asserted. she classes her critics and enemies under several heads. among them are the "light and coquettish women whose only occupation is to adorn their persons and pass their lives in fetes and amusements--women who think that scrupulous virtue requires them to know nothing but to be the wife of a husband, the mother of children, and the mistress of a family; and men who regard women as upper servants, and forbid their daughters to read anything but their prayer books." "one does not wish women to be coquettes," she writes again, "but permits them to learn carefully all that fits them for gallantry, without teaching them anything which can fortify their virtue or occupy their minds. they devote ten or a dozen years to learning to appear well, to dress in good style, to dance and sing, for five or six; but this same person, who requires judgment all her life and must talk until her last sigh, learns nothing which can make her converse more agreeably, or act with more wisdom." but she does not like a femme savante, and ridicules, under the name of damophile, a character which might have been the model for moliere's philaminte. this woman has five or six masters, of whom the least learned teaches astrology. she poses as a muse, and is always surrounded with books, pencils, and mathematical instruments, while she uses large words in a grave and imperious tone, although she speaks only of little things. after many long conversations about her, sappho concludes thus: "i wish it to be said of a woman that she knows a hundred things of which she does not boast, that she has a well-informed mind, is familiar with fine works, speaks well, writes correctly, and knows the world; but i do not wish it to be said of her that she is a femme savante. the two characters have no resemblance." she evidently recognized the fact that when knowledge has penetrated the soul, it does not need to be worn on the outside, as it shines through the entire personality. after some further discussion, to the effect that the wise woman will conceal superfluous learning and especially avoid pedantry, she defines the limit to which a woman may safely go in knowledge without losing her right to be regarded as the "ornament of the world, made to be served and adored." one may know some foreign languages and confess to reading homer, hesiod, and the works of the illustrious aristee (chapelain), without being too learned. one may express an opinion so modestly that, without offending the propriety of her sex, she may permit it to be seen that she has wit, knowledge, and judgment. that which i wish principally to teach women is not to speak too much of that which they know well, never to speak of that which they do not know at all, and to speak reasonably. we note always a half-apologetic tone, a spirit of compromise between her conscious intelligence and the traditional prejudice which had in no wise diminished since martial included, in his picture of a domestic menage, "a wife not too learned..." she is not willing to lose a woman's birthright of love and devotion, but is not quite sure how far it might be affected by her ability to detect a solecism. hence, she offers a great deal of subtle flattery to masculine self-love. with curious naivete she says: whoever should write all that was said by fifteen or twenty women together would make the worst book in the world, even if some of them were women of intelligence. but if a man should enter, a single one, and not even a man of distinction, the same conversation would suddenly become more spirituelle and more agreeable. the conversation of men is doubtless less sprightly when there are no women present; but ordinarily, although it may be more serious, it is still rational, and they can do without us more easily than we can do without them. she attaches great importance to conversation as "the bond of society, the greatest pleasure of well-bred people, and the best means of introducing, not only politeness into the world, but a purer morality." she dwells always upon the necessity of "a spirit of urbanity, which banishes all bitter railleries, as well as everything that can offend the taste," also of a certain "esprit de joie." we find here the code which ruled the hotel de rambouillet, and the very well-defined character of the precieuse. but it may be noted that mlle. de scudery, who was among the avant-coureurs of the modern movement for the advancement of women, always preserved the forms of the old traditions, while violating their spirit. true to her gallic instincts, she presented her innovations sugar-coated. she had the fine sense of fitness which is the conscience of her race, and which gave so much power to the women who really revolutionized society without antagonizing it. her conversations, which were full of wise suggestions and showed a remarkable insight into human character, were afterwards published in detached form and had a great success. mme. de sevigne writes to her daughter: "mlle. de scudery has just sent me two little volumes of conversations; it is impossible that they should not be good, when they are not drowned in a great romance." when the hotel de rambouillet was closed, mlle. de scudery tried to replace its pleasant reunions by receiving her friends on saturdays. these informal receptions were frequented by a few men and women of rank, but the prevailing tone was literary and slightly bourgeois. we find there, from time to time, mme. de sable, the duc and duchesse de montausier, and others of the old circle who were her lifelong friends. la rochefoucauld is there occasionally, also mme. de. la fayette, mme. de sevigne, and the young mme. scarron whose brilliant future is hardly yet in her dreams. among those less known today, but of note in their age, were the comtesse de la suze, a favorite writer of elegies, who changed her faith and became a catholic, as she said, that she "might not meet her husband in this world or the next;" the versatile mlle. cheron who had some celebrity as a poet, musician, and painter; mlle. de la vigne and mme. deshoulieres, also poets; mlle. descartes, niece of the great philosopher; and, at rare intervals, the clever abbess de rohan who tempered her piety with a little sage worldliness. one of the most brilliant lights in this galaxy of talent was mme. cornuel, whose bons mots sparkle from so many pages in the chronicles of the period. a woman of high bourgeois birth and of the best associations, she had a swift vision, a penetrating sense, and a clear intellect prompt to seize the heart of a situation. mlle. de scudery said that she could paint a grand satire in four words. mme. de sevigne found her admirable, and even the grave pomponne begged his friend not to forget to send him all her witticisms. of the agreeable but rather light comtesse de fiesque, she said: "what preserves her beauty is that it is salted in folly." of james ii of england, she remarked, "the holy spirit has eaten up his understanding." the saying that the eight generals appointed at the death of turenne were "the small change for turenne" has been attributed to her. it is certainly not to a woman of such keen insight and ready wit that one can attach any of the affectations which later crept into the samedis. the poet sarasin is the voiture of this salon. conrart, to whose house may be traced the first meetings of the little circle of lettered men which formed the nucleus of the academie francaise, is its secretary; pellisson, another of the founders and the historian of the same learned body, is its chronicler. chapelain is quite at home here, and we find also numerous minor authors and artists whose names have small significance today. the samedis follow closely in the footsteps of the hotel de rambouillet. it is the aim there to speak simply and naturally upon all subjects grave or gay, to preserve always the spirit of delicacy and urbanity, and to avoid vulgar intrigues. there is a superabundance of sentiment, some affectation, and plenty of esprit. they converse upon all the topics of the day, from fashion to politics, from literature and the arts to the last item of gossip. they read their works, talk about them, criticize them, and vie with one another in improvising verses. pellisson takes notes and leaves us a multitude of madrigals, sonnets, chansons and letters of varied merit. he says there reigned a sort of epidemic of little poems. "the secret influence began to fall with the dew. here one recites four verses; there, one writes a dozen. all this is done gaily and without effort. no one bites his nails, or stops laughing and talking. there are challenges, responses, repetitions, attacks, repartees. the pen passes from hand to hand, and the hand does not keep pace with the mind. one makes verses for every lady present." many of these verses were certainly not of the best quality, but it would be difficult, in any age, to find a company of people clever enough to divert themselves by throwing off such poetic trifles on the spur of the moment. in the end, the samedis came to have something of the character of a modern literary club, and were held at different houses. the company was less choice, and the bourgeois coloring more pronounced. these reunions very clearly illustrated the fact that no society can sustain itself above the average of its members. they increased in size, but decreased in quality, with the inevitable result of affectation and pretension. intelligence, taste, and politeness were in fashion. those who did not possess them put on their semblance, and, affecting an intellectual tone, fell into the pedantry which is sure to grow out of the effort to speak above one's altitude. the fine-spun theories of mlle. de scudery also reached a sentimental climax in "clelie," which did not fail of its effect. platonic love and the ton galant were the texts for innumerable follies which finally reacted upon the samedis. after a few years, they lost their influence and were discontinued. but mlle. de scudery retained the position which her brilliant gifts and literary fame had given her, and was the center of a choice circle of friends until a short time before her death at the ripe age of ninety-four. even tallemant, writing of the decline of these reunions, says, "mlle. de scudery is more considered than ever." at sixty-four she received the first prix d'eloquence from the academie francaise, for an essay on glory. this prize was founded by balzac, and the subject was specified. thus the long procession of laureates was led by a woman. in spite of her subtle analysis of love, and her exact map of the empire of tenderness, the sentiment of the "illustrious sappho" seems to have been rather ideal. she had numerous adorers, of whom conrart and pellisson were among the most devoted. during the long imprisonment of the latter for supposed complicity with fouquet, she was of great service to him, and the tender friendship ended only with his life, upon which she wrote a touching eulogy at its close. but she never married. she feared to lose her liberty. "i know," she writes, "that there are many estimable men who merit all my esteem and who can retain a part of my friendship, but as soon as i regard them as husbands, i regard them as masters, and so apt to become tyrants that i must hate them from that moment; and i thank the gods for giving me an inclination very much averse to marriage." it was the misfortune of mlle. de scudery to outlive her literary reputation. the interminable romances which had charmed the eloquent flechier, the grand conde in his cell at vincennes, the ascetic d'andilly at port royal, as well as the dreaming maidens who signed over their fanciful descriptions and impossible adventures, passed their day. the touch of a merciless criticism stripped them of their already fading glory. their subtle analysis and etherealized sentiment were declared antiquated, and fashion ran after new literary idols. it was boileau who gave the severest blow. "this despreaux," said segrais, "knows how to do nothing else but talk of himself and criticize others; why speak ill of mlle. de scudery as he has done?" there has been a disposition to credit the founder of the samedis with many of the affectations which brought such deserved ridicule upon their bourgeois imitators, and to trace in her the original of moliere's "madelon." but cousin has relieved her of such reproach, and does ample justice to the truth and sincerity of her character, the purity of her manners, and the fine quality of her intellect. he calls her "a sort of french sister of addison." perhaps her resemblance to one of the clearest, purest, and simplest of english essayists is not quite apparent on the surface; but as a moralist and a delineator of manners she may have done a similar work in her own way. sainte-beuve, who has left so many vivid and exquisite portraits of his countrywomen, does not paint mlle. de scudery with his usual kindly touch. he admits her merit, her accomplishments, her versatility, and the perfect innocence of her life; but he finds her didactic, pedantic, and tiresome as a writer, and without charm or grace as a woman. doubtless one would find it difficult to read her romances today. she lacks the genius which has no age and belongs to all ages. her literary life pertains to the first half of the seventeenth century, when style had not reached the attic purity and elegance of a later period. she was teacher rather than artist; but no one could be farther from a bas bleu, or more severe upon pedantry or pretension of any sort. she takes the point of view of her time, and dwells always upon the wisdom of veiling the knowledge she claims for her sex behind the purely feminine graces. how far she practiced her own theories, we can know only from the testimony of her contemporaries. it is not possible to perpetuate so indefinable a thing as personal charm, but we are told repeatedly that she had it in an eminent degree. it is certain that no woman without beauty, fortune, or visible rank, living simply and depending mainly upon her own talents, could have retained such powerful and fastidious friends, during a long life, unless she had had some rare attractions. that she was much loved, much praised, and much sought, we have sufficient evidence among the writers of her own time. she was familiarly spoken of as the tenth muse, and she counted among her personal friends the greatest men and women of the century. leibnitz sought her correspondence. the abbe de pure, who was not friendly to the precieuses and made the first severe attack upon them, thus writes of her: "one may call mlle. de scudery the muse of our age and the prodigy of her sex. it is not only her goodness and her sweetness, but her intellect shines with so much modesty, her sentiments are expressed with so much reserve, she speaks with so much discretion, and all that she says is so fit and reasonable, that one cannot help both admiring and loving her. comparing what one sees of her, and what one owes to her personally, with what she writes, one prefers, without hesitation, her conversation to her works. although she has a wonderful mind, her heart outweighs it. it is in the heart of this illustrious woman that one finds true and pure generosity, an immovable constancy, a sincere and solid friendship." the loyalty of her character was conspicuously shown in her brave devotion to the interests of the conde family, through all the reverses of the fronde. in one of her darkest moments mme. de longueville received the last volume of the "grand cyrus," which was dedicated to her, and immediately sent her own portrait encircled with diamonds, as the only thing she had left worthy of this friend who, without sharing ardently her political prejudices, had never deserted her waning fortunes. the same rare quality was seen in her unwavering friendship for fouquet, during his long disgrace and imprisonment. mme. de sevigne, whose satire was so pitiless toward affectation of any sort, writes to her in terms of exaggerated tenderness. "in a hundred thousand words, i could tell you but one truth, which reduces itself to assuring you, mademoiselle, that i shall love you and adore you all my life; it is only this word that can express the idea i have of your extraordinary merit. i am happy to have some part in the friendship and esteem of such a person. as constancy is a perfection, i say to myself that you will not change for me; and i dare to pride myself that i shall never be sufficiently abandoned of god not to be always yours... i take to my son your conversations. i wish him to be charmed with them, after being charmed myself." mlle. de scudery is especially interesting to us as marking a transition point in the history of women; as the author of the first romances of any note written by her sex; as a moral teacher in an age of laxity; and as a woman who combined high aspirations, fine ideals, and versatile talents with a pure and unselfish character. she aimed at universal accomplishments from the distillation of a perfume to the writing of a novel, from the preparation of a rare dish to fine conversation, from playing the lute to the dissection of the human heart. in this versatility she has been likened to mme. de genlis, whom she resembled also in her moral teaching and her factitious sensibility. she was, however, more genuine, more amiable, and far superior in true elevation of character. she was full of theories and loved to air them, hence the people who move across the pages of her novels are often lost in a cloud of speculation. but she gave a fresh impulse to literature, adding a fine quality of grace, tenderness, and pure though often exaggerated sentiment. mme. de la fayette, who had more clearness of mind as well as a finer artistic sense, gave a better form to the novel and pruned it of superfluous matter. the sentiment which casts so soft and delicate a coloring over her romances was more subtle and refined. it may be questioned, however, if she wrote so much that has been incorporated in the thought of her time. chapter iv. la grande mademoiselle _her character--her heroic part in the fronde--her exile--literary diversions of her salon--a romantic episode_ there are certain women preeminently distinguished by diversity of gifts, who fail to leave behind them a fame at all commensurate with their promise. it may be from a lack of unity, resulting from a series of fragmentary efforts, no one of which is of surpassing excellence; it may be that the impression of power they give is quite beyond any practical manifestation of it; or it may be that talents in themselves remarkable are cast into the shade by some exceptional brilliancy of position. the success of life is measured by the harmony between its ideals and its attainments. it is the symmetry of the temple that gives the final word, not the breadth of its foundations nor the wealth of its material. it was this lack of harmony and fine proportion which marred the career of a woman who played a very conspicuous part in the social and political life of her time, and who belongs to my subject only through a single phase of a stormy and eventful history. no study of the salons would be complete without that of the grande mademoiselle, but it was not as the leader of a coterie that she held her special claim to recognition. by the accident of birth she stood apart, subject to many limitations that modified the character of her salon and narrowed its scope, though they emphasized its influence. it was only an incident of her life, but through the quality of its habitues and their unique diversions it became the source of an important literature. anne marie louise d'orleans, duchesse de montpensier, has left a very distinct record of herself in letters, romances, memoirs and portraits, written out of an abounding fullness of nature, but with infinite detail and royal contempt for precision and orthography. she talks naively of her happy childhood, of her small caprices, of the love of her grandmother, marie de medicis, of her innocent impressions of the people about her. she dwells with special pleasure upon a grand fete at the palais royal, in which she posed as an incipient queen. she was then nineteen. "they were three entire days in arranging my costume," she writes. "my robe was covered with diamonds, and trimmed with rose, black, and white tufts. i wore all the jewels of the crown and of the queen of england, who still had some left. no one could be better or more magnificently attired than i was that day, and many people said that my beautiful figure, my imposing mien, my fair complexion, and the splendor of my blonde hair did not adorn me less than all the riches which were upon my person." she sat resplendent upon a raised dais, with the proud consciousness of her right and power to grace a throne. louis xiv, than a child, and the prince of wales, afterwards charles ii, were at her feet. the latter was a devoted suitor. "my heart as well as my eyes regarded the prince de haut en bas," she says. "i had the spirit to wed an emperor." there were negotiations for her marriage with the emperor of austria, and she thought it wise to adapt herself in advance to his tastes. she had heard that he was religious, and immediately began to play the part of a devote so seriously, that she was seized with a violent desire to become a veritable religieuse and enter the convent of the carmelites. she could neither eat nor sleep, and it was feared that she would fall dangerously ill. "i can only say that, during those eight days, the empire was nothing to me," she writes. but she confesses to a certain feeling of vanity at her own spirit of self-sacrifice, and the sensibility which made her weep at the thought of leaving those she loved. this access of piety was of short duration, however, as her father quickly put to flight all her exalted visions of a cloister. her dreams of an emperor for whom she lost a prospective king were alike futile. "she had beauty, talent, wealth, virtue, and a royal birth," says mme. de motteville. "her face was not without defects, and her intellect was not one which always pleases. her vivacity deprived all her actions of the gravity necessary to people of her rank, and her mind was too much carried away by her feelings. as she was fair, had fine eyes, a pleasing mouth, was of good height, and blonde, she had quite the air of a great beauty." but it was beauty of a commanding sort, without delicacy, and dependent largely upon the freshness of youth. the same veracious writer says that "she spoiled all she went about by the eagerness and impatience of her temper. she was always too hasty and pushed things too far." what she may have lacked in grace and charm, she made up by the splendors of rank and position. a princess by birth, closely related to three kings, and glowing with all the fiery instincts of her race, the grand mademoiselle curiously blended the courage of an amazon with the weakness of a passionate and capricious woman. as she was born in , the most brilliant days of her youth were passed amid the excitements of the fronde. she casts a romantic light upon these trivial wars, which were ended at last by her prompt decision and masculine force. we see her at twenty-five, riding victoriously into the city of orleans at the head of her troops and, later, ordering the cannon at the bastile turned against the royal forces, and opening the gates of paris to the exhausted army of conde. this adventure gives us the key-note to her haughty and imperious character. she would have posed well for the heroine of a great drama; indeed, she posed all her life in real dramas. at this time she had hopes of marrying the prince de conde, whom she regarded as a hero worthy of her. his wife, an amiable woman who was sent to a convent after her marriage to learn to read and write, was dangerously ill, and her illustrious husband did not scruple to make tacit arrangements to supply her place. unfortunately for these plans, and fortunately perhaps for a certain interesting phase of literature, she recovered. soon afterwards, mademoiselle found the reward of her heroic adventures in a sudden exile to her estates at saint fargeau. the country life, so foreign to her tastes, pressed upon her very heavily at first, the more so as she was deserted by most of her friends. "i received more compliments than visits," she writes. "i had made everybody ill. all those who did not dare send me word that they feared to embroil themselves with the court pretended that some malady or accident had befallen them." by degrees, however, she adapted herself to her situation, and in her loneliness and disappointment betook herself to pursuits which offered a strong contrast to the dazzling succession of magnificent fetes and military episodes which had given variety and excitement to her life at the tuileries. when she grew tired of her parrots, her dogs, her horses, her comedians and her violin, she found solace in literature, beginning the "memoirs," which were finished thirty years later, and writing romances, after the manner of mlle. de scudery. the drift of the first one, "les nouvelles francaises et les divertissements de la princesse aurelie," is suggested by its title. it was woven from the little stories or adventures which were told to amuse their solitude by the small coterie of women who had followed the clouded fortunes of mademoiselle. a romance of more pretension was the "princesse de paphlagonie," in which the writer pictures her own little court, and introduces many of its members under fictitious names. these romances have small interest for the world today, but the exalted position of their author and their personal character made them much talked of in their time. it was in quite another fashion, however, that the grande mademoiselle made her most important contribution to literature. one day in , while still in the country, she proposed to her friends to make pen portraits of themselves, and set the fashion by writing her own, with a detailed description of her physical, mental, and moral qualities. this was followed by carefully drawn pictures of others, among whom were louis xiv, monsieur, and the grand conde. all were bound in honor to give the lights and shadows with the same fidelity, though it would be hardly wise to call them to too strict an account on this point. as may be readily imagined, the result was something piquant and original. that the amusement was a popular one goes without saying. people like to talk of themselves, not only because the subject is interesting, but because it gives them an opportunity of setting in relief their virtues and tempering their foibles. they like also to know what others think of them--at least, what others say of them. it is too much to expect of human nature, least of all, of french human nature, that an agreeable modicum of subtle flattery should not be added under such conditions. when mademoiselle opened her salon in the luxembourg, on her return from exile, these portraits formed one of its most marked features. the salon was limited mainly to the nobility, with the addition of a few men of letters. among those who frequented it on intimate terms were the marquise de sable, the comtesse de maure, the beautiful and pure-hearted mme. de hautefort, the dame d'honneur of anne of austria, so hopelessly adored by louis xiii, and mme. de choisy, the witty wife of the chancellor of the duc d'orleans. its most brilliant lights were mme. de sevigne, mme. de la fayette, and la rochefoucauld. it was here that mme. de la fayette made the vivid portrait of her friend mme. de sevigne. "it flatters me," said the latter long afterwards, "but those who loved me sixteen years ago may have thought it true." the beautiful comtesse de bregy, who was called one of the muses of the time, portrayed the princess henrietta and the irrepressible queen christine of sweden. mme. de chatillon, known later as the duchesse de mecklenbourg, who was mingled with all the intrigues of this period, traces a very agreeable sketch of herself, which may serve as a specimen of this interesting diversion. after minutely describing her person, which she evidently regards with much complacence, she continues: "i have a temper naturally cheerful and a little given to raillery; but i correct this inclination, for fear of displeasing. i have much esprit, and enter agreeably into conversation. i have a pleasant voice and a modest air. i am very sincere and do not fail my friends. i have not a trifling mind, nor do i cherish a thousand small malices against my neighbor. i love glory and fine actions. i have heart and ambition. i am very sensitive to good and ill, but i never avenge myself for the ill that has been done me, although i might have the inclination; i am restrained by self-love. i have a sweet disposition, take pleasure in serving my friends, and fear nothing so much as the petty drawing-room quarrels which usually grow out of little nothings. i find my person and my temper constructed something after this fashion; and i am so satisfied with both, that i envy no one. i leave to my friends or to my enemies the care of seeking my faults." it was under this stimulating influence that la rochefoucauld made the well-known pen-portrait of himself. "i will lack neither boldness to speak as freely as i can of my good qualities," he writes, "nor sincerity to avow frankly that i have faults." after describing his person, temper, abilities, passions, and tastes, he adds with curious candor: "i am but little given to pity, and do not wish to be so at all. nevertheless there is nothing i would not do for an afflicted person; and i sincerely believe one should do all one can to show sympathy for misfortune, as miserable people are so foolish that this does them the greatest good in the world; but i also hold that we should be content with expressing sympathy, and carefully avoid having any. it is a passion that is wholly worthless in a well-regulated mind, that only serves to weaken the heart, and should be left to people, who, never doing anything from reason, have need of passion to stimulate their actions. i love my friends; and i love them to such an extent that i would not for a moment weigh my interest against theirs. i condescend to them, i patiently endure their bad temper. but i do not make much of their caresses, and i do not feel great uneasiness at their absence." it would be interesting to quote in full this sample of the close and not always flattering self-analysis so much in fashion, but its length forbids. its revelation of the hidden springs of character is at least unique. the poet segrais, who was attached to mademoiselle's household, collected these graphic pictures for private circulation, but they were so much in demand that they were soon printed for the public under the title of "divers portraits." they served the double purpose of furnishing to the world faithful delineations of many more or less distinguished people and of setting a literary fashion. the taste for pen-portraits, which originated in the romances of mlle. de scudery, and received a fresh impulse from this novel and personal application, spread rapidly among all classes. it was taken up by men of letters and men of the world, the nobility, and the bourgeoisie. there were portraits of every grade of excellence and every variety of people, until they culminated, some years later in "les caracteres" of la bruyere, who dropped personalities and gave them the form of permanent types. it is a literature peculiarly adapted to the flexibility and fine perception of the french mind, and one in which it has been preeminent, from the analytic but diffuse mlle. de scudery, and the clear, terse, spirited cardinal de retz, to the fine, penetrating, and exquisitely finished sainte-beuve, the prince of modern critics and literary artists. it was this skill in vivid delineation that gave such point and piquancy to the memoirs of the period, which are little more than a series of brilliant and vigorous sketches of people outlined upon a shifting background of events. in this rapid characterization the french have no rivals. it is the charm of their fiction as well as of their memoirs. balzac, victor hugo, and daudet, are the natural successors of la bruyere and saint-simon. the marriage of louis xiv shattered one of the most brilliant illusions of the grande mademoiselle, and it was about this time that she wrote a characteristic letter to mme. de motteville, picturing an arcadia in some beautiful forest, where people are free to do as they like. the most ardent apostle of socialism could hardly dream of an existence more democratic or more utopian. these favored men and women lead a simple, pastoral life. they take care of the house and the garden, milk the cows, make cheese and cakes, and tend sheep on pleasant days. but this rustic community must have its civilized amusements. they visit, drive, ride on horseback, paint, design, play on the lute or clavecin, and have all the new books sent to them. after reading the lives of heroes and philosophers, the princess is convinced that no one is perfectly happy, and that christianity is desirable, as it gives hope for the future. her platonic and christian republic is composed of "amiable and perfect people," but it is quite free from the entanglements of love and the "vulgar institution of marriage." mme. de motteville replies very gracefully, accepting many of these ideas, but as it is difficult to repress love altogether, she thinks "one will be obliged to permit that error which an old custom has rendered legitimate, and which is called marriage." this curious correspondence takes its color from the spanish pastorals which tinged the romantic literature of the time as well as its social life. the long letters, carefully written on large and heavy sheets yellow with age, have a peculiarly old-time flavor, and throw a vivid light upon the woman who could play the role of a heroine of corneille or of a sentimental shepherdess, as the caprice seized her. a tragical bit of romance colored the mature life of the grande mademoiselle. she had always professed a great aversion to love, regarding it as "unworthy of a well-ordered soul." she even went so far as to say that it was better to marry from reason or any other thing imaginable, dislike included, than from passion that was, in any case, short-lived. but this princess of intrepid spirit, versatile gifts, ideal fancies, and platonic theories, who had aimed at an emperor and missed a throne; this amazon, with her penchant for glory and contempt for love, forgot all her sage precepts, and at forty-two fell a victim to a violent passion for the comte de lauzun. she has traced its course to the finest shades of sentiment. her pride, her infatuation, her scruples, her new-born humility--we are made familiar with them all, even to the finesse of her respectful adorer, and the reluctant confession of love which his discreet silence wrings from her at last.. her royal cousin, after much persuasion, consented to the unequal union. the impression this affair made upon the world is vividly shown in a letter written by mme. de sevigne to her daughter: i am going to tell you a thing the most astonishing, the most surprising, the most marvelous, the most miraculous, the most triumphant, the most astounding, the most unheard of, the most singular, the most extraordinary, the most incredible, the most unexpected, the grandest, the smallest, the rarest, the most common, the most dazzling, the most secret even until today, the most brilliant, the most worthy of envy.... a thing in fine which is to be done sunday, when those who see it will believe themselves dazed; a thing which is to be done sunday and which will not perhaps have been done monday... m. de lauzun marries sunday, at the louvre--guess whom?... he marries sunday at the louvre, with the permission of the king, mademoiselle, mademoiselle de, mademoiselle; guess the name; he marries mademoiselle, ma foi, par ma foi, ma foi juree, mademoiselle, la grande mademoiselle, mademoiselle, daughter of the late monsieur, mademoiselle, grand-daughter of henry iv, mademoiselle d'eu, mademoiselle de dombes, mademoiselle de montpensier, mademoiselle d'orleans, mademoiselle, cousin of the king, mademoiselle, destined to the throne, mademoiselle, the only parti in france worthy of monsieur. voila a fine subject for conversation. if you cry out, if you are beside yourself, if you say that we have deceived you, that it is false, that one trifles with you, that it is a fine bit of raillery, that it is very stupid to imagine, if, in fine, you abuse us, we shall find that you are right; we have done as much ourselves. in spite of the prudent warnings of her friends, the happy princess could not forego the eclat of a grand wedding, and before the hasty arrangements were concluded, the permission was withdrawn. her tears, her entreaties, her cries, her rage, and her despair, were of no avail. louis xiv took her in his arms, and mingled his tears with hers, even reproaching her for the two or three days of delay; but he was inexorable. ten years of loyal devotion to her lover, shortly afterward imprisoned at pignerol, and of untiring efforts for his release which was at last secured at the cost of half her vast estates, ended in a brief reunion. a secret marriage, a swift discovery that her idol was of very common clay, abuse so violent that she was obliged to forbid him forever her presence, and the disenchantment was complete. the sad remnant of her existence was devoted to literature and to conversation; the latter she regarded as "the greatest pleasure in life, and almost the only one." when she died, the count de lauzun wore the deepest mourning, had portraits of her everywhere, and adopted permanently the subdued colors that would fitly express the inconsolable nature of his grief. without tact or fine discrimination, the grande mademoiselle was a woman of generous though undisciplined impulses, loyal disposition, and pure character; but her egotism was colossal. under different conditions, one might readily imagine her a second joan of arc, or a heroine of the revolution. she says of herself: "i know not what it is to be a heroine; i am of a birth to do nothing that is not grand or elevated. one may call that what one likes. as for myself, i call it to follow my own inclination and to go my own way. i am not born to take that of others." she lacked the measure, the form, the delicacy of the typical precieuse; but her quick, restless intellect and ardent imagination were swift to catch the spirit of the hotel de rambouillet, and to apply it in an original fashion. though many subjects were interdicted in her salon, and many people were excluded, it gives us interesting glimpses into the life of the literary noblesse, and furnishes a complete gallery of pen-portraits of more or less noted men and women. with all the brilliant possibilities of her life, it was through the diversion of her idle hours that this princess, author, amazon, prospective queen, and disappointed woman has left the most permanent trace upon the world. chapter v. a literary salon at port royal _mme. de sable--her worldly life--her retreat--her friends--pascal--the maxims of la rochefoucauld--last days of the marquise_ the transition from the restless character and stormy experiences of the grande mademoiselle, to the gentler nature and the convent salon of her friend and literary confidante, mme. de sable, is a pleasant one. perhaps no one better represents the true precieuse of the seventeenth century, the happy blending of social savoir-faire with an amiable temper and a cultivated intellect. without the genius of mme. de sevigne or mme. de la fayette, without the force or the rare attractions of mme. de longueville, without the well-poised character and catholic sympathies of mme. de rambouillet, she played an important part in the life of her time, through her fine insight and her consummate tact in bringing together the choicest spirits, and turning their thoughts into channels that were fresh and unworn. born in , madeleine de souvre passed her childhood in touraine, of which province her father was governor. in the brilliancy of her youth, we find her in paris among the early favorites of the hotel de rambouillet, and on terms of lifelong intimacy with its hostess and her daughter julie. beautiful, versatile, generous, but fastidious and exacting in her friendships, with a dash of coquetry--inevitable when a woman is fascinating and french--she repeated the oft-played role of a mariage de convenance at sixteen, a few brilliant years of social triumphs marred by domestic neglect and suffering, a period of enforced seclusion after the death of her unworthy husband, a brief return to the world, and an old age of mild and comfortable devotion. "the marquise de sable," writes mme. de motteville, "was one of those whose beauty made the most sensation when the queen (anne of austria) came into france. but if she was amiable, she desired still more to appear so. her self-love rendered her a little too sensible to that which men professed for her. there was still in france some remnant of the politeness which catherine de medicis had brought from italy, and mme. de sable found so much delicacy in the new dramas, as well as in other works, in prose and verse, which came from madrid, that she conceived a high idea of the gallantry which the spaniards had learned from the moors. she was persuaded that men may without wrong have tender sentiments for women; that the desire of pleasing them leads men to the greatest and finest actions, arouses their spirit, and inspires them with liberality and all sorts of virtues; but that, on the other side, women, who are the ornaments of the world, and made to be served and adored, ought to permit only respectful attentions. this lady, having sustained her views with much talent and great beauty, gave them authority in her time." the same writer says that she has "much light and sincerity," with "penetration enough to unfold all the secrets of one's heart." mlle. de scudery introduces her in the "grand cyrus," as parthenie, "a tall and graceful woman, with fine eyes, the most beautiful throat in the world, a lovely complexion, blonde hair, and a pleasant mouth, with a charming air, and a fine and eloquent smile, which expresses the sweetness or the bitterness of her soul." she dwells upon her surprising and changeful beauty, upon the charm of her conversation, the variety of her knowledge, the delicacy of her tact, and the generosity of her tender and passionate heart. one may suspect this portrait of being idealized, but it seems to have been in the main correct. of her husband we know very little, excepting that he belonged to the family of montmorency, passed from violent love to heart-breaking indifference, and died about , leaving her with four children and shattered fortunes. to recruit her failing health, and to hide her chagrin and sorrow at seeing herself supplanted by unworthy rivals, she had lived for some time in the country, where she had leisure for the reading and reflection which fitted her for her later life. but after the death of her husband she was obliged to sell her estates, and we find her established in the place royale with her devoted friend, the comtesse de maure, and continuing the traditions of the hotel de rambouillet. her tastes had been formed in this circle, and she had also been under the instruction of the chevalier de mere, a litterateur and courtier who had great vogue, was something of an oracle, and molded the character and manners of divers women of this period, among others the future mme. de maintenon. his confidence in his own power of bringing talent out of mediocrity was certainly refreshing. among his pupils was the duchesse de lesdiguieres, who said to him one day, "i wish to have esprit."--"eh bien, madame," replied the complaisant chevalier, "you shall have it." how much mme. de sable may have been indebted to this modest bel esprit we do not know, but her finished manner, fine taste, exquisite tact, cultivated intellect, and great experience of the world made her an authority in social matters. to be received in her salon was to be received everywhere. cardinal mazarin watched her influence with a jealous eye. "mme. de longueville is very intimate with the marquise de sable," he writes in his private note book. "she is visited constantly by d'andilly, the princesse de guemene, d'enghien and his sister, nemours, and many others. they speak freely of all the world. it is necessary to have some one who will advise us of all that passes there." but the death of her favorite son--a young man distinguished for graces of person, mind, heart, and character, who lost his life in one of the battles of his friend and comrade, the prince de conde--together with the loss of her fortune and the fading of her beauty, turned the thoughts of the marquise to spiritual things. we find many traces of the state of mind which led her first into a mild form of devotion, serious but not too ascetic, and later into pronounced jansenism. in a note to a friend who had neglected her, she dwells upon "the misery and nothingness of the world," recalls the strength of their long friendship, the depth of her own affection, and tries to account for the disloyalty to herself, by the inherent weakness and emptiness of human nature, which renders it impossible for even the most perfect to do anything that is not defective. all this is very charitable, to say the least, as well as a little abstract. time has given a strange humility and forgivingness to the woman who broke with her dearest friend, the unfortunate duc de montmorency, because he presumed to lift his eyes to the queen, saying that she "could not receive pleasantly the regards which she had to share with the greatest princess in the world." the fashion of the period furnished a peaceful and dignified refuge for women, when their beauty waned and the "terrible forties" ended their illusions. to go into brief retreat for penitence and prayer was at all times a graceful thing to do, besides making for safety. it was only a step further to retire altogether from the scenes of pleasure which had begun to pall. the convent offered a haven of repose to the bruised heart, a fresh aim for drooping energies, a needed outlet for devouring emotions, and a comfortable sense of security, not only for this world, but for the next. it was the next world which was beginning to trouble mme. de sable. she had great fear of death, and after many penitential retreats to port royal, she finally obtained permission to build a suite of apartments within its precincts, and retired there about to prepare for that unpleasant event which she put off as long as possible by the most assiduous care of her health. "if she was not devoted, she had the idea of becoming so," said mademoiselle. but her devotion was in quite a mundane fashion. her pleasant rooms were separate and independent, thus enabling her to give herself not only to the care of her health and her soul, but to a select society, to literature, and to conversation. she never practiced the severe asceticism of her friend, mme. de longueville. with a great deal of abstract piety, the iron girdle and the hair shirt were not included. she did not even forego her delicate and fastidious tastes. her elegant dinners and her dainty comfitures were as famous as ever. "will the anger of the marquise go so far, in your opinion, as to refuse me her recipe for salad?" writes mme. de choisy at the close of a letter to the comtesse de maure, in which she has ridiculed her friend's jansenist tendencies; "if so, it will be a great inhumanity, for which she will be punished in this world and the other." she had great skill in delicate cooking, and was in the habit of sending cakes, jellies, and other dainties, prepared by herself, to her intimate friends. la rochefoucauld says, "if i could hope for two dishes of those preserves, which i did not deserve to eat before, i should be indebted to you all my life." mme. de longueville, who is about to visit her, begs her not to give a feast as she has "scruples about such indulgence." this spice of worldliness very much tempered the austerity of her retreat, and lent an added luster to its intellectual attractions. but the marquise had many conflicts between her luxurious tastes and her desire to be devout. her dainty and epicurean habits, her extraordinary anxiety about her health, and her capricious humors were the subject of much light badinage among her friends. the grande mademoiselle sketches these traits with a satiric touch in the "princesse de paphlagonie," where she introduces her with the comtesse de maure. "there are no hours when they do not confer together upon the means of preventing themselves from dying, and upon the art of rendering themselves immortal," she writes. "their conferences are not like those of other people; the fear of breathing an air too cold or too hot, the apprehension that the wind may be too dry or too damp, a fancy that the weather is not as moderate as they judge necessary for the preservation of their health--these are sufficient reasons for writing from one room to another...." if one could find this correspondence, one might derive great advantages in every way; for they were princesses who had nothing mortal, except the knowledge of being so... of mme. de sable she adds: "the princess parthenie had a taste as dainty as her mind; nothing equaled the magnificence of her entertainments; all the viands were exquisite, and her elegance was beyond anything that one could imagine." the fastidious marquise suffered, with all the world, from the defects of her qualities. her extreme delicacy and sensibility appear under many forms and verge often upon weakness; but it is an amiable weakness that does not detract greatly from her fascination. she was not cast in a heroic mold, and her faults are those which the world is pleased to call essentially feminine. the records of her life were preserved by conrart, also by her friend and physician, valant. they give us a clear picture of her character, with its graces and its foibles, as well as of her pleasant intercourse and correspondence with many noted men and women. they give us, too, interesting glimpses of her salon. we find there the celebrated jansenists nicole and arnauld, the eminent lawyer domat, esprit, sometimes pascal, with his sister, mme. perier; the prince and princesse de conti, the grand conde, la rochefoucauld, the penitent mme. de longueville, mme. de la fayette, and many others among the cultivated noblesse, who are attracted by its tone of bel esprit and graceful, but by no means severe, devotion. the duc d'orleans and the lovely but unfortunate madame were intimate and frequent visitors. in this little world, in which religion, literature, and fashion are curiously blended, they talk of theology, morals, physics, cartesianism, friendship, and love. the youth and gaiety of the hotel de rambouillet have given place to more serious thoughts and graver topics. the current which had its source there is divided. at the samedis, in the marais, they are amusing themselves about the same time with letters and vers de societe. at the luxembourg, a more exclusive coterie is exercising its mature talent in sketching portraits. these salons touch at many points, but each has a channel of its own. the reflective nature of mme. de sable turns to more serious and elevated subjects, and her friends take the same tone. they make scientific experiments, discuss calvinism, read the ancient moralists, and indulge in dissertations upon a great variety of topics. mme. de bregy, poet, dame d'honneur and femme d'esprit, who amused the little court of mademoiselle with so many discreetly flattering pen-portraits, has left two badly written and curiously spelled notes upon the merits of socrates and epictetus, which throw a ray of light upon the tastes of this aristocratic and rather speculative circle. mme. de sable writes an essay upon the education of children, which is very much talked about, also a characteristic paper upon friendship. the latter is little more than a series of detached sentences, but it indicates the drift of her thought, and might have served as an antidote to the selfish philosophy of la rochefoucauld. it calls out an appreciative letter from d'andilly, who, in his anchorite's cell, continues to follow the sayings and doings of his friends in the little salon at port royal. "friendship," she writes, "is a kind of virtue which can only be founded upon the esteem of people whom one loves--that is to say, upon qualities of the soul, such as fidelity, generosity, discretion, and upon fine qualities of mind." after insisting that it must be reciprocal, disinterested, and based upon virtue, she continues: "one ought not to give the name of friendship to natural inclinations because they do not depend upon our will or our choice; and, though they render our friendships more agreeable, they should not be the foundation of them. the union which is founded upon the same pleasures and the same occupations does not deserve the name of friendship because it usually comes from a certain egotism which causes us to love that which is similar to ourselves, however imperfect we may be." she dwells also upon the mutual offices and permanent nature of true friendship, adding, "he who loves his friend more than reason and justice, will on some other occasion love his own pleasure and profit more than his friend." the abbe esprit, jansenist and academician, wrote an essay upon "des amities en apparence les plus saints des hommes avec les femmes," which was doubtless suggested by the conversations in this salon, where the subject was freely discussed. the days of chivalry were not so far distant, and the subtle blending of exalted sentiment with thoughtful companionship, which revived their spirit in a new form, was too marked a feature of the time to be overlooked. these friendships, half intellectual, half poetic, and quite platonic, were mostly formed in mature life, on a basis of mental sympathy. "there is a taste in pure friendship which those who are born mediocre do not reach," said la gruyere. mme. de lambert speaks of it as "the product of a perfect social culture, and, of all affections, that which has most charm." the well-known friendship of mme. de la fayette and la rochefoucauld, which illustrates the mutual influence of a critical man of intellect and a deep-hearted, thoughtful woman who has passed the age of romance, began in this salon. its nature was foreshadowed in the tribute la rochefoucauld paid to women in his portrait of himself. "where their intellect is cultivated," he writes, "i prefer their society to that of men. one finds there a gentleness one does not meet with among ourselves; and it seems to me, beyond this, that they express themselves with more neatness, and give a more agreeable turn to the things they talk about." mme. de sable was herself, in less exclusive fashion, the intimate friend and adviser of esprit, d'andilly, and la rochefoucauld. the letters of these men show clearly their warm regard as well as the value they attached to her opinions. "indeed," wrote voiture to her many years before, "those who decry you on the side of tenderness must confess that if you are not the most loving person in the world, you are at least the most obliging. true friendship knows no more sweetness than there is in your words." her character, so delicately shaded and so averse to all violent passions, seems to have been peculiarly fitted for this calm and enduring sentiment which cast a soft radiance, as of indian summer, over her closing years. at a later period, the sacred name of friendship was unfortunately used to veil relations that had lost all the purity and delicacy of their primitive character. this fact has sometimes been rather illogically cited, as an argument not only against the moral influence of the salons but against the intellectual development of women. there is neither excuse nor palliation to be offered for the italian manners and the recognized system of amis intimes, which disgraced the french society the next century. but, while it is greatly to be deplored that the moral sense has not always kept pace with the cultivation of the intellect, there is no reason for believing that license of manners is in any degree the result of it. there is striking evidence to the contrary, in the incredible ignorance and laxity that found its reaction in the early salons; also in the dissolute lives of many distinguished women of rank who had no pretension to wit or education. the fluctuation of morals, which has always existed, must be traced to quite other causes. virtue has not invariably accompanied intelligence, but it has been still less the companion of ignorance. it was mme. de sable who set the fashion of condensing the thoughts and experiences of life into maxims and epigrams. this was her specific gift to literature; but her influence was felt through what she inspired others to do rather than through what she did herself. it was her good fortune to be brought into contact with the genius of a pascal and a la rochefoucauld,--men who reared immortal works upon the pastime of an idle hour. one or two of her own maxims will suffice to indicate her style as well as to show the estimate she placed upon form and measure in the conduct of life: a bad manner spoils everything, even justice and reason. the how constitutes the best part of things, and the air which one gives them gilds, modifies, and softens the most disagreeable. there is a certain command in the manner of speaking and acting, which makes itself felt everywhere, and which gains, in advance, consideration and respect. we find here the spirit that underlies french manners, in which form counts for so much. there is another, which suggests the delicate flavor of sentiment then in vogue: wherever it is, love is always the master. it seems truly that it is to the soul of the one who loves, what the soul is to the body it animates. among the eminent men who lent so much brilliancy to this salon was the great jurist domat. he adds his contribution and falls into the moralizing vein: a little fine weather, a good word, a praise, a caress, draws me from a profound sadness from which i could not draw myself by any effort of meditation. what a machine is my soul, what an abyss of misery and weakness! here is one by the abbe d'ailly, which foreshadows the thought of the next century: too great submission to books, and to the opinions of the ancients, as to the eternal truths revealed of god, spoils the head and makes pedants. the finest and most vigorous of these choice spirits was pascal, who frequented more or less the salon of mme. de sable previous to his final retirement to the gloom and austerity of the cloister. his delicate platonism and refined spirituality go far towards offsetting the cold cynicism of la rochefoucauld. each gives us a different phase of life as reflected in a clear and luminous intelligence. the one led to port royal, the other turned an electric light upon the selfish corruption of courts. many of the pensees of pascal were preserved among the records of this salon, and cousin finds reason for believing that they were first suggested and discussed here; he even thinks it possible, if not probable, that the "discours sur les passions de l'amour," which pertains to his mundane life, and presents the grave and ascetic recluse in a new light, had a like origin. but the presiding genius was la rochefoucauld. he complains that the mode of relaxation is fatiguing, and that the mania for sentences troubles his repose. the subjects were suggested for conversation, and the thoughts were condensed and reduced to writing at leisure. "here are all the maxims i have," he writes to mme. de sable; "but as one gives nothing for nothing, i demand a potage aux carottes, un ragout de mouton, etc." "when la rochefoucauld had composed his sentences," says cousin, "he talked them over before or after dinner, or he sent them at the end of a letter. they were discussed, examined, and observations were made, by which he profited. one could lessen their faults, but one could lend them no beauty. there was not a delicate and rare turn, a fine and keen touch, which did not come from him." after availing himself of the general judgment in this way, he took a novel method of forestalling crtiticism before committing himself to publication. mme. de sable sent a collection of the maxims to her friends, asking for a written opinion. one is tempted to make long extracts from their replies. the men usually indorse the worldly sentiments, the women rarely. the princesse de guemene, who, in the decline of her beauty, was growing devout, and also had apartments for penitential retreat at port royal, responds: "i was just going to write to beg you to send me your carriage as soon as you had dined. i have yet seen only the first maxims, as i had a headache yesterday; but those i have read appear to me to be founded more upon the disposition of the author than upon the truth, for he believes neither in generosity without interest, nor in pity; that is, he judges every one by himself. for the greater number of people, he is right; but surely there are those who desire only to do good." the countesse de maure, who does not believe in the absolute depravity of human nature, and is inclined to an elevated christian philosophy quite opposed to jansenism, writes with so much severity that she begs her friend not to show her letter to the author. mme. de hautefort expresses her disapproval of a theory which drives honor and goodness out of the world. after many clever and well-turned criticisms, she says: "but the maxim which is quite new to me, and which i admire, is that idleness, languid as it is, destroys all the passions. it is true, and he had searched his heart well to find a sentiment so hidden, but so just... i think one ought, at present, to esteem idleness as the only virtue in the world, since it is that which uproots all the vices. as i have always had much respect for it, i am glad it has so much merit." but she adds wisely: "if i were of the opinion of the author, i would not bring to the light those mysteries which will forever deprive him of all the confidence one might have in him." there is one letter, written by the clever and beautiful eleonore de rohan, abbess de malnoue, and addressed to the author, which deserves to be read for its fine and just sentiments. in closing she says: the maxim upon humility appears to me perfectly beautiful; but i have been so surprised to find it there, that i had the greatest difficulty in recognizing it in the midst of all that precedes and follows it. it is assuredly to make this virtue practiced among your own sex, that you have written maxims in which their self-love is so little flattered. i should be very much humiliated on my own part, if i did not say to myself what i have already said to you in this note, that you judge better the hearts of men than those of women, and that perhaps you do not know yourself the true motive which makes you esteem them less. if you had always met those whose temperament had been submitted to virtue, and in whom the senses were less strong than reason, you would think better of a certain number who distinguish themselves always from the multitude; and it seems to me that mme. de la fayette and myself deserve that you should have a better opinion of the sex in general. mme. de la fayette writes to the marquise: "all people of good sense are not so persuaded of the general corruption as is m. de la rochefoucauld. i return to you a thousand thanks for all you have done for this gentleman."--at a later period she said: "la rochefoucauld stimulated my intellect, but i reformed his heart." it is to be regretted that he had not known her sooner. at his request mme. de sable wrote a review of the maxims, which she submitted to him for approval. it seems to have been a fair presentation of both sides, but he thought it too severe, and she kindly gave him permission to change it to suit himself. he took her at her word, dropped the adverse criticisms, retained the eulogies, and published it in the "journal des savants" as he wished it to go to the world. the diplomatic marquise saved her conscience and kept her friend. the maxims of la rochefoucauld, which are familiar to all, have extended into a literature. that he generalized from his own point of view, and applied to universal humanity the motives of a class bent upon favor and precedence, is certainly true. but whatever we may think of his sentiments, which were those of a man of the world whose observations were largely in the atmosphere of courts, we are compelled to admit his unrivaled finish and perfection of form. similar theories of human nature run through the maxims of esprit and saint evremond, without the exquisite turn which makes each one of la rochefoucauld's a gem in itself. his tone was that of a disappointed courtier, with a vein of sadness only half disguised by cold philosophy and bitter cynicism. la bruyere, with a broader outlook upon humanity, had much of the same fine analysis, with less conciseness and elegance of expression. vauvenargues and joubert were his legitimate successors. but how far removed in spirit! "the body has graces," writes vauvenargues, "the mind has talents; has the heart only vices? and man capable of reason, shall he be incapable of virtue?" with a fine and delicate touch, joubert says: "virtue is the health of the soul. it gives a flavor to the smallest leaves of life." these sentiments are in the vein of pascal, who represents the most spiritual element of the little coterie which has left such a legacy of condensed thought to the world. the crowning act of the life of mme. de sable was her defense of port royal. she united with mme. de longueville in protecting the persecuted jansenists, nicole and arnauld, but she had neither the courage, the heroism, nor the partisan spirit of her more ardent companion. with all her devotion she was something of a sybarite and liked repose. she had the tact, during all the troubles which scattered her little circle, to retain her friends, of whatever religious color, though not without a few temporary clouds. her diplomatic moderation did not quite please the religieuses of port royal, and chilled a little her pleasant relations with d'andilly. toward the close of her life, the marquise was in the habit of secluding herself for days together, and declining to see even her dearest friends. the abbe de la victoire, piqued at not being received, spoke of her one day as "the late mme. la marquise de sable." la rochefoucauld writes to her, "i know no more inventions for entering your house; i am refused at the door every day." mme. de la fayette declares herself offended, and cites this as a proof of her attachment, saying, "there are very few people who could displease me by not wishing to see me." but the friends of the marquise are disposed to treat her caprices very leniently. as the years went by and the interests of life receded, mme. de sable became reconciled to the thought that had inspired her with so much dread. when she died at the advanced age of seventy-nine, the longed-for transition was only the quiet passing from fevered dreams to peaceful sleep. it is a singular fact that this refined, exclusive, fastidious woman, in whom the artistic nature was always dominant to the extent of weakness, should have left a request to be buried, without ceremony, in the parish cemetery with the people, remote alike from the tombs of her family and the saints of port royal. chapter vi. madame de sevigne _her genius--her youth--her unworthy husband--her impertinent cousin--her love for her daughter--her letters--hotel de carnavalet--mme. duiplessis guenegaud--mme. de coulanges--the curtain falls_ among the brilliant french women of the seventeenth century, no one is so well-known today as mme. de sevigne. she has not only been sung by poets and portrayed by historians, but she has left us a complete record of her own life and her own character. her letters reflect every shade of her many-sided nature, as well as the events, even the trifling incidents, of the world in which she lived; the lineaments, the experiences, the virtues, and the follies of the people whom she knew. we catch the changeful tints of her mind that readily takes the complexion of those about her, while retaining its independence; we are made familiar with her small joys and sorrows, we laugh with her at her own harmless weaknesses, we feel the inspiration of her sympathy, we hear the innermost throbbings of her heart. no one was ever less consciously a woman of letters. no one would have been more surprised than herself at her own fame. one is instinctively sure that she would never have seated herself deliberately to write a book of any sort whatever. while she was planning a form for her thoughts, they would have flown. she was essentially a woman of the great world, for which she was fitted by her position, her temperament, her esprit, her tastes, and her character. she loved its variety, its movement, its gaiety; she judged leniently even its faults and its frailties. if they often furnished a target for her wit, behind her sharpest epigrams one detects an indulgent smile. the natural outlet for her full mind and heart was in conversation. when she was alone, they found vent in conversation of another sort. she talks on paper. her letters have the unstudied freedom, the rapidity, the shades, the inflections of spoken words. she gives her thoughts their own course, "with reins upon the neck," as she was fond of saying, and without knowing where they will lead her. but it is the personal element that inspires her. let her heart be piqued, or touched by a profound affection, and her mind is illuminated; her pen flies. her nature unveils itself, her emotions chase one another in quick succession, her thoughts crystallize with wonderful brilliancy, and the world is reflected in a thousand varying colors. the sparkling wit, the swift judgment, the subtle insight, the lightness of touch, the indefinable charm of style--these belong to her temperament and her genius. but the clearness, the justness of expression, the precision, the simplicity that was never banal--such qualities nature does not bestow. one must find their source in careful training, in wise criticism, in early familiarity with good models. living from to , mme. de sevigne was en rapport with the best life of the great century of french letters. she was the granddaughter of the mystical mme. de chantal, who was too much occupied with her convents and her devotions to give much attention to the little marie, left an orphan at the age of six years. the child did not inherit much of her grandmother's spirit of reverence, and at a later period was wont to indulge in many harmless pleasantries about her pious ancestress and "our grandfather, st. francois de sales." deprived so early of the care of a mother, she was brought up by an uncle, the good abbe de coulanges--the "bien-bon"--whose life was devoted to her interests. though born in the place royale, that long-faded center of so much that was brilliant and fascinating two centuries ago, much of her youth was passed in the family chateau at livry, where she was carefully educated in a far more solid fashion than was usual among the women of her time. she had an early introduction to the hotel de rambouillet, and readily caught its intellectual tastes, though she always retained a certain bold freedom of speech and manners, quite opposed to its spirit. her instructors were chapelain and menage, both honored habitues of that famous salon. the first was a dull poet, a profound scholar, somewhat of a pedant, and notoriously careless in his dress--le vieux chapelain, his irreverent pupil used to call him. when he died of apoplexy, years afterwards, she wrote to her daughter: "he confesses by pressing the hand; he is like a statue in his chair. so god confounds the pride of philosophers." but he taught her latin, spanish, and italian, made her familiar with the beauties of virgil and tasso, and gave her a critical taste for letters. menage was younger, and aspired to be a man of the world as well as a savant. repeating one day the remark of a friend, that out of ten things he knew he had learned nine in conversation, he added, "i could say about the same thing myself"--a confession that savors more of the salon than of the library. he had a good deal of learning, but much pretension, and moliere has given him an undesirable immortality as vadius in "les femmes savantes," in company with his deadly enemy, the abbe cotin, who figures as "trissotin." it appears that the susceptible savant lost his heart to his lively pupil, and sighed not only in secret but quite openly. he wrote her bad verses in several languages, loaded her with eulogies, and followed her persistently. "the name of mme. de sevigne," said the bishop of laon, "is in the works of menage what bassan's dog is in his portraits. he cannot help putting it there." she treated him in a sisterly fashion that put to flight all sentimental illusions, but she had often to pacify his wounded vanity. one day, in the presence of several friends, she gave him a greeting rather more cordial than dignified. noticing the looks of surprise, she turned away laughing and said, "so they kissed in the primitive church." but the wide knowledge and scholarly criticism of menage were of great value to the versatile woman, who speedily surpassed her master in style if not in learning. evidently she appreciated him, since she addressed him in one of her letters as "friend of all friends, the best." at eighteen the gay and unconventional marie de rabutin-chantal was married to the marquis de sevigne; but her period of happiness was a short one. the husband, who was rich, handsome, and agreeable, proved weak and faithless. he was one of the temporary caprices of the dangerous ninon, led a dashing, irresponsible life, spent his fortune recklessly, and left his pretty young wife to weep alone at a convenient distance, under the somber skies of brittany. fortunately for her and for posterity, his career was rapid and brief. for some trifling affair of so-called honor--a quality of which, from our point of view, he does not seem to have possessed enough to be worth the trouble of defending--he had the kindness to get himself killed in a duel, after seven years of marriage. his spirited wife had loved him sincerely, and first illusions die slowly. she shed many bitter and natural tears, but she never showed any disposition to repeat the experiment. perhaps she was of the opinion of another young widow who thought it "a fine thing to bear the name of a man who can commit no more follies." but it is useless to speculate upon the reasons why a woman does or does not marry. it is certain that the love of her two children filled the heart of mme. de sevigne; her future life was devoted to their training, and to repairing a fortune upon which her husband's extravagance had made heavy inroads. but the fascinating widow of twenty-five had a dangerous path to tread. that she lived in a society so lax and corrupt, unprotected and surrounded by distinguished admirers, without a shadow of suspicion having fallen upon her fair reputation is a strong proof of her good judgment and her discretion. she was not a great beauty, though the flattering verses of her poet friends might lead one to think so. a complexion fresh and fair, eyes of remarkable brilliancy, an abundance of blond hair, a face mobile and animated, and a fine figure--these were her visible attractions. she danced well, sang well, talked well, and had abounding health. mme. de la fayette made a pen-portrait of her, which was thought to be strikingly true. it was in the form of a letter from an unknown man. a few extracts will serve to bring her more vividly before us. "your mind so adorns and embellishes your person, that there is no one in the world so fascinating when you are animated by a conversation from which constraint is banished. all that you say has such a charm, and becomes you so well, that the words attract the smiles and the graces around you; the brilliancy of your intellect gives such luster to your complexion and your eyes, that although it seems that wit should touch only the ears, yours dazzles the sight. "your soul is great and elevated. you are sensitive to glory and to ambition, and not less so to pleasures; you were born for them and they seem to have been made for you... in a word, joy is the true state of your soul, and grief is as contrary to it as possible. you are naturally tender and impassioned; there was never a heart so generous, so noble, so faithful... you are the most courteous and amiable person that ever lived, and the sweet, frank air which is seen in all your actions makes the simplest compliments of politeness seem from your lips protestations of friendship." mlle. de scudery sketches her as the princesse clarinte in "clelie," concluding with these words: "i have never seen together so many attractions, so much gaiety, so much coquetry, so much light, so much innocence and virtue. no one ever understood better the art of having grace without affectation, raillery without malice, gaiety without folly, propriety without constraint, and virtue without severity." her malicious cousin, bussy-rabutin, who was piqued by her indifference, and basely wished to avenge himself, said that her "warmth was in her intellect;" that for a woman of quality she was too badine, too economical, too keenly alive to her own interests; that she made too much account of a few trifling words from the queen, and was too evidently flattered when the king danced with her. this opinion of a vain and jealous man is not entitled to great consideration, especially when we recall that he had already spoken of her as "the delight of mankind," and said that antiquity would have dressed altars for her and she would "surely have been goddess of something." the most incomprehensible page in her history is her complaisance towards the persistent impertinences of this perfidious friend. the only solution of it seems to lie in the strength of family ties, and in her unwillingness to be on bad terms with one of her very few near relatives. bussy-rabutin was handsome, witty, brilliant, a bel esprit, a member of the academie francaise, and very much in love with his charming cousin, who clearly appreciated his talents, if not his character. "you are the fagot of my intellect," she says to him; but she forbids him to talk of love. unfortunately for himself, his vanity got the better of his discretion. he wrote the "histoire amoureuse des gauls," and raised such a storm about his head by his attack upon many fair reputations, that, after a few months of lonely meditation in the bastille, he was exiled from paris for seventeen years. long afterwards he repented the unkind blow he had given to mme. de sevigne, confessed its injustice, apologized, and made his peace. but the world is less forgiving, and wastes little sympathy upon the base but clever and ambitious man who was doomed to wear his restless life away in the uncongenial solitude of his chateau. among the numerous adorers of mme. de sevigne were the prince de conti, the witty comte de lude, the poet segrais, fouquet, and turenne. her friendship for the last two seems to have been the most lively and permanent. we owe to her sympathetic pen the best account of the death of turenne. her devotion to the interests of fouquet and his family lasted though the many years of imprisonment that ended only with his life. there was nothing of the spirit of the courtier in her generous affection for the friends who were out of favor. the loyalty of her character was notably displayed in her unwavering attachment to cardinal de retz, during his long period of exile and misfortune, after the fronde. but one must go outside the ordinary channels to find the veritable romance of mme. de sevigne's life. her sensibility lent itself with great facility to impressions, and her gracious manners, her amiable character, her inexhaustible fund of gaiety could not fail to bring her a host of admirers. she had doubtless a vein of harmless coquetry, but it was little more than the natural and variable grace of a frank and sympathetic woman who likes to please, and who scatters about her the flowers of a rich mind and heart, without taking violent passions too seriously, if, indeed, she heeds them at all. friendship, too, has its shades, its subtleties, its half-perceptible and quite unconscious coquetries. but the supreme passion of mme. de sevigne was her love for her daughter. it was the exaltation of her mystical grandmother, in another form. "to love as i love you makes all other friendships frivolous," she writes. whatever her gifts and attractions may have been, she is known to the world mainly through this affection and the letters which have immortalized it. nowhere in literature has maternal love found such complete and perfect expression. nowhere do we find a character so clearly self-revealed. others have professed to unveil their innermost lives, but there is always a suspicion of posing in deliberate revelations. mme. de sevigne has portrayed herself unconsciously. it is the experience of yesterday, the thought of today, the hope of tomorrow, the love that is at once the joy and sorrow of all the days, that are woven into a thousand varying but living forms. one naturally seeks in the character of the daughter a key to the absorbing sentiment which is the inspiration and soul of these letters; but one does not find it there. more beautiful than her mother, more learned, more accomplished, she lacked her sympathetic charm. cold, reserved, timid, and haughty, without vivacity and apparently without fine sensibility, she was much admired but little loved by the world in which she lived. "when you choose, you are adorable," wrote her mother; but evidently she did not always so choose. bussy-rabutin says of her, "this woman has esprit, but it is esprit soured and of insupportable egotism. she will make as many enemies as her mother makes friends and adorers." he did not like her, and one must again take his opinion with reserve; but she says of herself that she is "of a temperament little communicative." in her mature life she naively writes: "at first people thought me amiable enough, but when they knew me better they loved me no more." "the prettiest girl in france," whose beauty was expected to "set the world on fire," created a mild sensation at court; was noticed by the king, who danced with her, received her share of adulation, and finally became the third wife of the comte de grignan, who carried her off to provence, to the lasting grief of her adoring mother, and to the great advantage of posterity, which owes to this fact the series of incomparable letters that made the fame of their writer, and threw so direct and vivid a light upon an entire generation. the world has been inclined to regard the son of mme. de sevigne as the more lovable of her two children, but she doubtless recognized in his light and inconsequent character many of the qualities of her husband which had given her so much sorrow during the brief years of her marriage. amiable, affectionate, and not without talent, he was nevertheless the source of many anxieties and little pride. he followed in the footsteps of his father, and became a willing victim to the fascinations of ninon; he frequented the society of champmesle, where he met habitually boileau and racine. he recited well, had a fine literary taste, much sensibility, and a gracious ease of manner that made him many friends. "he was almost as much loved as i am," remarked the brilliant mme. de coulanges, after accompanying him on a visit to versailles. he appealed to mme. de la fayette to use her influence with his mother to induce her to pay his numerous debts. there is a touch of satire in the closing line of the note in which she intercedes for him. "the great friendship you have for mme. de grignan," she writes, "makes it necessary to show some for her brother."--but we have glimpses of his weakness and instability in many of his mother's intimate letters. in the end, however, having exhausted the pleasures of life and felt the bitterness of its disappointments, he took refuge in devotion, and died in the odor of sanctity, after the example of his devout ancestress. mme. de grignan certainly offered a more solid foundation for her mother's confidence and affection. it is quite possible, too, that her reserve concealed graces of character only apparent on a close intimacy. but love does not wait for reasons, and this one had all the shades and intensities of a passion, with few of its exactions. d'andilly called the mother a "pretty pagan," because she made such an idol of her daughter. she sometimes has her own misgivings on the score of religion. "i make this a little trappe," she wrote from livry, after the separation. "i wish to pray to god and make a thousand reflections; but, ma pauvre chere, what i do better than all that is to think of you. .. i see you, you are present to me, i think and think again of everything; my head and my mind are racked; but i turn in vain, i seek in vain; the dear child whom i love with so much passion is two hundred leagues away. i have her no more. then i weep without the power to help myself." she rings the changes upon this inexhaustible theme. a responsive word delights her; a brief silence terrifies her; a slight coldness plunges her into despair. "i have an imagination so lively that uncertainty makes me die," she writes. if a shadow of grief touches her idol, her sympathies are overflowing. "you weep, my very dear child; it is an affair for you; it is not the same thing for me, it is my temperament." but though this love pulses and throbs behind all her letters, it does not make up the substance of them. to amuse her daughter she gathers all the gossip of the court, all the news of her friends; she keeps her au courant with the most trifling as well as the most important events. now she entertains her with a witty description of a scene at versailles, a tragical adventure, a gracious word about mme. scarron, "who sups with me every evening," a tender message from mme. de la fayette; now it is a serious reflection upon the death of turenne, a vivid picture of her own life, a bit of philosophy, a spicy anecdote about a dying man who takes forty cups of tea every morning, and is cured. a few touches lay bare a character or sketch a vivid scene. it is this infinite variety of detail that gives such historic value to her letters. in a correspondence so intimate she has no interest to conciliate, no ends to gain. she is simply a mirror in which the world about her is reflected. but the most interesting thing we read in her letters is the life and nature of the woman herself. she has a taste for society and for seclusion, for gaiety and for thought, for friendship and for books. for the moment each one seems dominant. "i am always of the opinion of the one heard last," she says, laughing at her own impressibility. it is an amiable admission, but she has very fine and rational ideas of her own, notwithstanding. in books, for which she had always a passion, she found unfailing consolation. corneille and la fontaine were her favorite traveling companions. "i am well satisfied to be a substance that thinks and reads," she says, finding her good uncle a trifle dull for a compagnon de voyage. her tastes were catholic. she read astree with delight, loved petrarch, ariosto, and montaigne; rabelais made her "die of laughter," she found plutarch admirable, enjoyed tacitus as keenly as did mme. roland a century later, read josephus and lucian, dipped into the history of the crusades and of the iconoclasts, of the holy fathers and of the saints. she preferred the history of france to that of rome because she had "neither relatives nor friends in the latter place." she finds the music of lulli celestial and the preaching of bourdaloue divine. racine she did not quite appreciate. in his youth, she said he wrote tragedies for champmesle and not for posterity. later she modified her opinion, but corneille held always the first place in her affection. she had a great love for books on morals, read and reread the essays of nicole, which she found a perpetual resource against the ills of life--even rain and bad weather. st. augustine she reads with pleasure, and she is charmed with bossuet and pascal; but she is not very devout, though she often tries to be. there is a serious naivete in all her efforts in this direction. she seems to have always one eye upon the world while she prays, and she mourns over her own lack of devotion. "i wish my heart were for god as it is for you," she writes to her daughter. "i am neither of god nor of the devil," she says again; "that state troubles me though, between ourselves, i find it the most natural in the world." her reason quickly pierces to the heart of superstition; sometimes she cannot help a touch of sarcasm. "i fear that this trappe, which wishes to pass humanity, may become a lunatic asylum," she says. she believes little in saints and processions. over the high altar of her chapel she writes soli deo honor et gloria. "it is the way to make no one jealous," she remarks. she was rather inclined toward jansenism, but she could not fathom all the subtleties of her friends the port royalists, and begged them to "have the kindness, out of pity for her, to thicken their religion a little as it evaporated in so much reasoning." as she grows older the tone of seriousness is more perceptible. "if i could only live two hundred years," she writes, "it seems to me that i might be an admirable person." the rationalistic tendencies of mme. de grignan give her some anxiety, and she rallies her often upon the doubtful philosophy of her pere descartes. she could not admit a theory which pretended to prove that her dog marphise had no soul, and she insisted that if the cartesians had any desire to go to heaven, it was out of curiosity. "talk to the cardinal (de retz) a little of your machines; machines that love, machines that have a choice for some one, machines that are jealous, machines that fear. allez, allez, you are jesting! descartes never intended to make us believe all that." in her youth mme. de sevigne did not like the country because it was windy and spoiled her beautiful complexion; perhaps, too, because it was lonely. but with her happy gift of adaptation she came to love its tranquillity. she went often to the solitary old family chateau in brittany to make economies and to retrieve the fortune which suffered successively from the reckless extravagance of her husband and son, and from the expensive tastes of the comte de grignan, who was acting governor of provence, and lived in a state much too magnificent for his resources. of her life at the rocks she has left us many exquisite pictures. "i go out into the pleasant avenues; i have a footman who follows me; i have books, i change place, i vary the direction of my promenade; a book of devotion, a book of history; one changes from one to the other; that gives diversion; one dreams a little of god, of his providence; one possesses one's soul, one thinks of the future." she embellishes her park, superintends the planting of trees, and "a labyrinth from which one could not extricate one's self without the thread of ariadne;" she fills her garden with orange trees and jessamine until the air is so perfumed that she imagines herself in provence. she sits in the shade and embroiders while her son "reads trifles, comedies which he plays like moliere, verses, romances, tales; he is very amusing, he has esprit, he is appreciative, he entertains us." she notes the changing color of the leaves, the budding of the springtime. "it seems to me that in case of need i should know very well how to make a spring," she writes. she loves too the "fine, crystal days of autumn." sometimes, in the evening, she has "gray-brown thoughts which grow black at night," but she never dwells upon these. her "habitual thought--that which one must have for god, if one does his duty"--is for her daughter. "my dear child," she writes, "it is only you that i prefer to the tranquil repose i enjoy here." if her own soul is open to us in all its variable and charming moods, we also catch in her letters many unconscious reflections of her daughter's character. she offers her a little needed worldly advice. "try, my child," she says, "to adjust yourself to the manners and customs of the people with whom you live; adapt yourself to that which is not bad; do not be disgusted with that which is only mediocre; make a pleasure of that which is not ridiculous." she entreats her to love the little pauline and not to scold her, nor send her away to the convent as she did her sister marie-blanche. with what infinite tenderness she always speaks of this child, smiling at her small outbursts of temper, soothing her little griefs, and giving wise counsels about her education. evidently she doubted the patience of the mother. "you do not yet too well comprehend maternal love," she writes; "so much the better, my child; it is violent." unfortunately this adoring mother could not get on very well with her daughter when they were together. she drowned her with affection, she fatigued her with care for her health, she was hurt by her ungracious manner, she was frozen by her indifference in short, they killed each other. it is not a rare thing to make a cult of a distant idol, and to find one's self unequal to the perpetual shock of the small collisions which diversities of taste and temperament render inevitable in daily intercourse. in this instance, one can readily imagine that a love so interwoven with every fiber of the mother's life, must have been a little over-sensitive, a little exacting, a trifle too demonstrative for the colder nature of the daughter; but that it was the less genuine and profound, no one who has at all studied the character of mme. de sevigne can for a moment imagine. how she suffers when it becomes necessary for mme. de grignan to go back to provence! how the tears flow! how readily she forgives all, even to denying that there is anything to forgive. "a word, a sweetness, a return, a caress, a tenderness, disarms me, cures me in a moment," she writes. and again: "would to god, my daughter, that i might see you once more at the hotel de carnavalet, not for eight days, nor to make there a penitence, but to embrace you and to make you see clearly that i cannot be happy without you, and that the chagrins which my friendship for you might give me are more agreeable than all the false peace of a wearisome absence." in spite of these little clouds, the old love is never dimmed; we are constantly bewildered with the inexhaustible riches of a heart which gives so lavishly and really asks so little for itself. the hotel de carnavalet was one of the social centers of the latter part of the century, but it was the source of no special literature and of no new diversions. mme. de sevigne was herself luminous, and her fame owes none of its luster to the reflection from those about her. she was original and spontaneous. she read because she liked to read, and not because she wished to be learned. she wrote as she talked, from the impulse of the moment, without method or aim excepting to follow where her rapid thought led her. her taste for society was of the same order. her variable and sparkling genius would have broken loose from the formal conversations and rather studied brilliancy that had charmed her youth at the hotel de rambouillet. the onerous duties of a perpetual hostess would not have suited her temperament, which demanded its hours of solitude and repose. but she was devoted to her friends, and there was a delightful freedom in all her intercourse with them. she has not chronicled her salon, but she has chronicled her world, and we gather from her letters the quality of her guests. she liked to pass an evening in the literary coterie at the luxembourg; to drop in familiarly upon mme. de la fayette, where she found la rochefoucauld, cardinal de retz, sometimes segrais, huet, la fontaine, moliere, and other wits of the time; to sup with mme. de coulanges and mme. scarron. she is a constant visitor at the old hotel de nevers, where marie de gonzague and the princesse palatine had charmed an earlier generation, and where mme. duplessis guenegaud, a woman of brilliant intellect, heroic courage, large heart, and pure character, whom d'andilly calls one of the great souls, presided over a new circle of young poets and men of letters, reviving the fading memories of the hotel de rambouillet. mme. de sevigne, who had fine dramatic talent, acted here in little comedies. she heard boileau read his satires and racine his tragedies. she met the witty chevalier de chatillon, who asked eight days to make an impromptu, and pomponne, who wrote to his father that the great world he found in this salon did not prevent him from appearing in a gray habit. in a letter from the country house of mme. duplessis, at fresnes, to the same pomponne, then ambassador to sweden, mme. de sevigne says: "i have m. d'andilly at my left, that is, on the side of my heart; i have mme. de la fayette at my right; mme. duplessis before me, daubing little pictures; mme. de motteville a little further off, who dreams profoundly; our uncle de cessac, whom i fear because i do not know him very well." it is this life of charming informality; this society of lettered tastes, of wit, of talent, of distinction, that she transfers to her own salon. its continuity is often broken by her long absences in the country or in provence, but her irresistible magnetism quickly draws the world around her, on her return. in addition to her intimate friends and to men of letters like racine, boileau, benserade, one meets representatives of the most distinguished of the old families of france. conde, richelieu, colberg, louvois, and sully are a few among the great names, of which the list might be indefinitely extended. we have many interesting glimpses of the grande mademoiselle, the "adorable" duchesse de chaulnes, the duc and duchesse de rohan, who were "germans in the art of savoir-vivre," the abbess de fontevrault, so celebrated for her esprit and her virtue, and a host of others too numerous to mention. the sculptured portals and time-stained walls of the hotel de carnavalet are still alive with the memories of these brilliant reunions and the famous people who shone there two hundred years ago. among those who exercised the most important influence upon the life of mme. de sevigne was corbinelli, the wise counselor, who, with a soul untouched by the storms of adversity through which he had passed, devoted his life to letters and the interests of his friends. no one had a finer appreciation of her gifts and her character. her compared her letters to those of cicero, but he always sought to temper her ardor, and to turn her thoughts toward an elevated christian philosophy. "in him," said mme. de sevigne, "i defend one who does not cease to celebrate the perfections and the existence of god; who never judges his neighbor, who excuses him always; who is insensible to the pleasures and delights of life, and entirely submissive to the will of providence; in fine, i sustain the faithful admirer of sainte therese, and of my grandmother, sainte chantal." this gentle, learned, and disinterested man, whose friendship deepened with years, was an unfailing resource. in her troubles and perplexities she seeks his advice; in her intellectual tastes she is sustained by his sympathy. she speaks often of the happy days in provence, when, together with her daughter, they translate tacitus, read tasso, and get entangled in endless discussions upon descartes. even mme. de grignan, who rarely likes her mother's friends, in the end gives due consideration to this loyal confidant, though she does not hesitate to ridicule the mysticism into which he finally drifted. after mme. de la fayette, the woman whose relations with mme. de sevigne were the most intimate was mme. de coulanges, who merits here more than a passing word. her wit was proverbial, her popularity universal. the leaf, the fly, the sylph, the goddess, her friend calls her in turn, with many a light thrust at her volatile but loyal character. this brilliant, spirituelle, caustic woman was the wife of a cousin of the marquis de sevigne, who was as witty as herself and more inconsequent. both were amiable, both sparkled with bons mots and epigrams, but they failed to entertain each other. the husband goes to italy or germany or passes his time in various chateaux, where he is sure of a warm welcome and good cheer. the wife goes to versailles, visits her cousin louvois, the duchesse de richelieu, and mme. de maintenon, who loves her much; or presides at home over a salon that is always well filled. "ah, madame," said m. de barillon, "how much your house pleases me! i shall come here very evening when i am tired of my family." "monsieur," she replied, "i expect you tomorrow." when she was ill and likely to die, her husband had a sudden access of affection, and nursed her with great tenderness. mme. de coulanges dying and her husband in grief, seemed somehow out of the order of things. "a dead vivacity, a weeping gaiety, these are prodigies," wrote mme. de sevigne. when the wife recovered, however, they took their separate ways as before. "your letters are delicious," she wrote once to mme. de sevigne, "and you are as delicious as your letters." her own were as much sought in her time, but she had no profound affection to consecrate them and no children to collect them, so that only a few have been preserved. there is a curious vein of philosophy in one she wrote to her husband, when the pleasures of life began to fade. "as for myself, i care little for the world; i find it no longer suited to my age; i have no engagements, thank god, to retain me there. i have seen all there is to see. i have only an old face to present to it, nothing new to show nor to discover there. ah! what avails it to recommence every day the visits, to trouble one's self always about things that do not concern us? .... my dear sir, we must think of something more solid." she disappears from the scene shortly after the death of mme. de sevigne. long years of silence and seclusion, and another generation heard one day that she had lived and that she was dead. the friends of mme. de sevigne slip away one after another; la rochefoucauld, de retz, mme. de la fayette are gone. "alas!" she writes, "how this death goes running about and striking on all sides." the thought troubles her. "i am embarked in life without my consent," she says; "i must go out of it--that overwhelms me. and how shall i go? whence: by what door? when will it be? in what disposition: how shall i be with god? what have i to present to him? what can i hope?--am i worthy of paradise? am i worthy of hell? what an alternative! what a complication! i would like better to have died in the arms of my nurse." the end came to her in the one spot where she would most have wished it. she died while on a visit to her daughter in provence. strength and resignation came with the moment, and she faced with calmness and courage the final mystery. to the last she retained her wit, her vivacity, and that eternal youth of the spirit which is one of the rarest of god's gifts to man. "there are no more friends left to me," said mme. de coulanges; and later she wrote to mme. de grignan, "the grief of seeing her no longer is always fresh to me. i miss too many things at the hotel de carnavalet." the curtain falls upon this little world which the magical pen of mme. de sevigne has made us know so well. the familiar faces retreat into the darkness, to be seen no more. but the picture lives, and the woman who has outlined it so clearly, and colored it so vividly and so tenderly, smiles upon us still, out of the shadows of the past, crowned with the white radiance of immortal genius and immortal love. chapter vii. madame de la fayette _her friendship with mme. de sevigne--her education--her devotion to the princess henrietta--her salon--la rochefoucauld--talent as a diplomatist--comparison with mme. de maintenon her literary work--sadness of her last days--woman in literature_ "believe me, my dearest, you are the person in the world whom i have most truly loved," wrote mme. de la fayette to mme. de sevigne a short time before her death. this friendship of more than forty years, which mme. de sevigne said had never suffered the least cloud, was a living tribute to the mind and heart of both women. it may also be cited for the benefit of the cynically disposed who declare that feminine friendships are simply "pretty bows of ribbon" and nothing more. these women were fundamentally unlike, but they supplemented each other. the character of mme. de la fayette was of firmer and more serious texture. she had greater precision of thought, more delicacy of sentiment, and affections not less deep. but her temperament was less sunny, her genius less impulsive, her wit less sparkling, and her manner less demonstrative. "she has never been without that divine reason which was her dominant trait," wrote her friend. no praise pleased her so much as to be told that her judgment was superior to her intellect, and that she loved truth in all things. "she would not have accorded the least favor to any one, if she had not been convinced it was merited," said segrais; "this is why she was sometimes called hard, though she was really tender." as an evidence of her candor, he thinks it worth while to record that "she did not even conceal her age, but told freely in what year and place she was born." but she combined to an eminent degree sweetness with strength, sensibility with reason, and it was the blending of such diverse qualities that gave so rare a flavor to her character. in this, too, lies the secret of the vast capacity for friendship which was one of her most salient points. it is through the records which these friendships have left, through the literary work that formed the solace of so many hours of sadness and suffering, and through the letters of mme. de sevigne, that we are able to trace the classic outlines of this fine and complex nature, so noble, so poetic, so sweet, and yet so strong. mme. de la fayette was eight years younger than mme. de sevigne, and died three years earlier; hence they traversed together the brilliant world of the second half of the century of which they are among the most illustrious representatives. the young marie-madeleine pioche de la vergne had inherited a taste for letters and was carefully instructed by her father, who was a field-marshal and the governor of havre, where he died when she was only fifteen. she had not passed the first flush of youth when her mother contracted a second marriage with the chevalier renaud de sevigne, whose name figures among the frondeurs as the ardent friend of cardinal de retz, and later among the devout port royalists. it is a fact of more interest to us that he was an uncle of the marquis de sevigne, and the best result of the marriage to the young girl, who was not at all pleased and whose fortunes it clouded a little, was to bring her into close relations with the woman to whom we owe the most intimate details of her life. the rare natural gifts of mlle. de la vergne were not left without due cultivation. rapin and menage taught her latin. "that tiresome menage," as she lightly called him, did not fail, according to his custom, to lose his susceptible heart to the remarkable pupil who, after three months of study, translated virgil and horace better than her masters. he put this amiable weakness on record in many latin and italian verses, in which he addresses her as laverna, a name more musical than flattering, if one recalls its latin significance. she received an education of another sort, in the salon of her mother, a woman of much intelligence, as well as a good deal of vanity, who posed a little as a patroness of letters, gathering about her a circle of beaux esprits, and in other ways signaling the taste which was a heritage from her provencal ancestry. on can readily imagine the rapidity with which the young girl developed in such an atmosphere. the abbe costar, "most gallant of pedants and most pedantic of gallants," who had an equal taste for literature and good dinners, calls her "the incomparable," sends her his books, corresponds with her, and expresses his delight at finding her "so beautiful, so spirituelle, so full of reason." the poet scarron speaks of her as "toute lumineuse, toute precieuse." the circle she met in the salon of her godmother, the duchesse d'aiguillon, had no less influence in determining her future fortunes. with her rare reputation for beauty and esprit, as well as learning, she took her place early in this brilliant and distinguished society in which she was to play so graceful and honored a part. she was sought and admired not only by the men of letters who were so cordially welcomed by the favorite niece of richelieu, but by the gay world that habitually assembled at the petit luxembourg. it was here that she perfected the tone of natural elegance which always distinguished her and made her conspicuous even at court, where she passed so many years of her life. she was not far from twenty-one when she became the wife of the comte de la fayette, of whom little is known save that he died early, leaving her with two sons. he is the most shadowy of figures, and whether he made her life happy or sad does not definitely appear, though there is a vague impression that he left something to be desired in the way of devotion. a certain interest attaches to him as the brother of the beautiful louise de la fayette, maid of honor to anne of austria, who fled from the compromising infatuation of louis xiii, to hide her youth and fascinations in the cloister, under the black robe and the cherished name of mere angelique de chaillot. the young, brilliant, and gifted comtesse goes to the convent to visit her gently austere sister-in-law, and meets there the princess henrietta of england, than a child of eleven years. the attraction is mutual and ripens into a deep and lasting friendship. when this graceful and light-hearted girl becomes the duchesse d'orleans, and sister-in-law of the king, she attaches her friend to her court and makes her the confidante of her romantic experiences. "do you not think," she said to her one day, "that if all which has happened to me, and the things relating to it, were told it would make a fine story? you write well; write; i will furnish you good materials." the interesting memorial, to which madame herself contributes many pages, is interrupted by the mysterious death of the gay and charming woman who had found so sympathetic and so faithful a chronicler. she breathed her last sigh in the arms of this friend. "it is one of those sorrows for which one never consoles one's self, and which leave a shadow over the rest of one's life," wrote mme. de la fayette. she had no heart to finish the history, and added only the few simple lines that record the touching incidents which left upon her so melancholy and lasting an impression. she did not care to remain longer at court, where she was constantly reminded of her grief, and retired permanently from its gaieties; but in these years of intimacy with one of its central figures, she had gained an insight into its spirit and its intrigues, which was of inestimable value in the memoirs and romances of her later years. the natural place of mme. de la fayette was in a society of more serious tone and more lettered tastes. in her youth she had been taken by her mother to the hotel de rambouillet, and she always retained much of its spirit, without any of its affectations. we find her sometimes at the samedis, and she belonged to the exclusive coterie of the grande mademoiselle, at the luxembourg, where her facile pen was in demand for the portraits so much in vogue. she was also a frequent visitor in the literary salon of mme. de sable, at port royal. it was here that her friendship with la rochefoucauld glided imperceptibly into the intimacy which became so important a feature in her life. this intimacy was naturally a matter of some speculation, but the world made up its mind of its perfectly irreproachable character. "it appears to be only friendship," writes mme. de scudery to bussy-rabutin; "in short the fear of god on both sides, and perhaps policy, have cut the wings of love. she is his favorite and his first friend." "i do not believe he has ever been what one calls in love," writes mme. de sevigne. but this friendship was a veritable romance, without any of the storms or vexations or jealousies of a passionate love. "you may imagine the sweetness and charm of an intercourse full of all the friendship and confidence possible between two people whose merit is not ordinary," she says again; "add to this the circumstance of their bad health, which rendered them almost necessary to each other, and gave them the leisure not to be found in other relations, to enjoy each other's good qualities. it seems to me that at court people have no time for affection; the whirlpool which is so stormy for others was peaceful for them, and left ample time for the pleasures of a friendship so delicious. i do not believe that any passion can surpass the strength of such a tie." in the earlier stages of this intimacy, mme. de la fayette was a little sensitive as to how the world might regard it, as may be seen in a note to mme. de sable, in which she asks her to explain it to the young comte de saint-paul, a son of mme. de longueville. "i beg of you to speak of the matter in such a way as to put out of his head the idea that it is anything serious," she writes. "i am not sufficiently sure what you think of it yourself to feel certain that you will say the right thing, and it may be necessary to begin by convincing my embassador. however, i must trust to your tact, which is superior to ordinary rules. only convince him. i dislike mortally that people of his age should imagine that i have affairs of gallantry. it seems to them that every one older than themselves is a hundred, and they are astonished that such should be regarded of any account. besides, he would believe these things of m. de la rochefoucauld more readily than of any one else. in fine, i do not want him to think anything about it except that the gentleman is one of my friends." the picture we have of la rochefoucauld from the pen of mme. de sevigne has small resemblance to the ideal that one forms of the cynical author of the maxims. he had come out of the storms of the fronde a sad and disappointed man. the fires of his nature seem to have burned out with the passions of his youth, if they had ever burned with great intensity. "i have seen love nowhere except in romances," he says, and even his devotion to mme. de longueville savors more of the ambitious courtier than of the lover. his nature was one that recoiled from all violent commotions of the soul. the cold philosophy of the maxims marked perhaps the reaction of his intellect against the disenchanting experiences of his life. in the tranquil atmosphere of mme. de sable he found a certain mental equilibrium; but his character was finally tempered and softened by the gentle influence of mme. de la fayette, whose exquisite poise and delicacy were singularly in harmony with a nature that liked nothing in exaggeration. "i have seen him weep with a tenderness that made me adore him," writes mme. de sevigne, after the death of his mother. "the heart or m. de la rochefoucauld for his family is a thing incomparable." when the news came that his favorite grandson had been killed in battle, she says again: "i have seen his heart laid bare in this cruel misfortune; he ranks first among all i have ever known for courage, fortitude, tenderness, and reason; i count for nothing his esprit and his charm." in all the confidences of the two women, la rochefoucauld makes a third. he seems always to be looking over the shoulder of mme. de la fayette while she writes to the one who "satisfies his idea of friendship in all its circumstances and dependences"; adding usually a message, a line or a pretty compliment to mme. de grignan that is more amiable than sincere, because he knows it will gladden the heart of her adoring mother. the side of mme. de la fayette which has the most fascination for us is this intimate life of which mme. de sevigne gives such charming glimpses. for a moment it was her ambition to establish a popular salon, a role for which she had every requisite of position, talent, and influence. "she presumed very much upon her esprit," says gourville, who did not like her, "and proposed to fill the place of the marquise de sable, to whom all the young people were in the habit of paying great deference, because, after she had fashioned them a little, it was a passport for entering the world; but this plan did not succeed, as mme. de la fayette was not willing to give her time to a thing so futile." one can readily understand that it would not have suited her tastes or her temperament. besides, her health was too delicate, and her moods were too variable. "you know how she is weary sometimes of the same thing," wrote mme. de sevigne. but she had her coterie, which was brilliant in quality if not in numbers. the fine house with its pretty garden, which may be seen today opposite the petit luxembourg, was a favorite meeting place for a distinguished circle. the central figure was la rochefoucauld. every day he came in and seated himself in the fauteuil reserved for him. one is reminded of the little salon in the abbaye-aux-bois, where more than a century later chateaubriand found the pleasure and the consolation of his last days in the society of mme. recamier. they talk, they write, they criticize each other, they receive their friends. the cardinal de retz comes in, and they recall the fatal souvenirs of the fronde. perhaps he thinks of the time when he found the young mlle. de lavergne pretty and amiable, and she did not smile upon him. the prince de conde is there sometimes, and honors her with his confidence, which mme. de sevigne thinks very flattering, as he does not often pay such consideration to women. segrais has transferred his allegiance from the grande mademoiselle to mme. de la fayette, and is her literary counselor as well as a constant visitor. la fontaine, "so well known by his fables and tales, and sometimes so heavy in conversation," may be found there. mme. de sevigne comes almost every day with her sunny face and her witty story. "the mist" she calls mme. de la fayette, who is so often ill and sad. she might have called herself the sunbeam, though she, too, has her hours when she can only dine tete-a-tete with her friend, because she is "so gloomy that she cannot support four people together." mme. de coulanges adds her graceful, vivacious, and sparkling presence. mme. scarron, before her days of grandeur, is frequently of the company, and has lost none of the charm which made the salon of her poet-husband so attractive during his later years. "she has an amiable and marvelously just mind," says mme. de sevigne... "it is pleasant to hear her talk. these conversations often lead us very far, from morality to morality, sometimes christian, sometimes political." this circle was not limited however to a few friends, and included from time to time the learning, the elegance and the aristocracy of paris. but mme. de la fayette herself is the magnet that quietly draws together this fascinating world. in her youth she had much life and vivacity, perhaps a spice of discreet coquetry, but at this period she was serious, and her fresh beauty had given place to the assured and captivating grace of maturity. she had a face that might have been severe in its strength but for the sensibility expressed in the slight droop of the head to one side, the tender curve of the full lips, and the variable light of the dark, thoughtful eyes. in her last years, when her stately figure had grown attenuated, and her face was pallid with long suffering, the underlying force of her character was more distinctly defined in the clear and noble outlines of her features. her nature was full of subtle shades. over her reserved strength, her calm judgment, her wise penetration played the delicate light of a lively imagination, the shifting tints of a tender sensibility. her sympathy found ready expression in tears, and she could not even bear the emotion of saying good-by to mme. de sevigne when she was going away to provence. but her accents were always tempered, and her manners had the gracious and tranquil ease of a woman superior to circumstances. her extreme frankness lent her at times a certain sharpness, and she deals many light blows at the small vanities and affectations that come under her notice. "mon dieu," said the frivolous mme. de marans to her one day, "i must have my hair cut." "mon dieu," replied mme. de la fayette simply, "do not have it done; that is becoming only to young persons." gourville said she was imperious and over-bearing, scolding those she loved best, as well as those she did not love. but this valet-de-chambre of la rochefoucauld, who amassed a fortune and became a man of some note, was jealous of her influence over his former master, and his opinions should be taken with reservation. her delicate satire may have been sometimes a formidable weapon, but it was directed only against follies, and rarely, if ever, used unkindly. she was a woman for intimacies, and it is to those who knew her best that we must look for a just estimate of her qualities. "you would love her as soon as you had time to be with her, and to become familiar with her esprit and her wisdom," wrote mme. de sevigne to her daughter, who was disposed to be critical; "the better one knows her, the more one is attached to her." one must also take into consideration her bad health. people thought her selfish or indifferent when she was only sad and suffering. for more than twenty years she was ill, consumed by a slow fever which permitted her to go out only at intervals. la rochefoucauld had the gout, and they consoled each other. mme. de sevigne thought it better not to have the genius of a pascal, than to have so many ailments. "mme. de la fayette is always languishing, m. de la rochefoucauld always lame," she writes; "we have conversations so sad that it seems as if there were nothing more to do but to bury us; the garden of mme. de la fayette is the prettiest spot in the world, everything blooming, everything perfumed; we pass there many evenings, for the poor woman does not dare go out in a carriage." "her health is never good," she writes again, "nevertheless she sends you word that she should not like death better; au contraire." there are times when she can no longer "think, or speak, or answer, or listen; she is tired of saying good morning and good evening." then she goes away to meudon for a few days, leaving la rochefoucauld "incredibly sad." she speaks for herself in a letter from the country house which gourville has placed at her disposal. "i am at saint maur; i have left all my affairs and all my husbands; i have my children and the fine weather; that suffices. i take the waters of forges; i look after my health, i see no one. i do not mind at all the privation; every one seems to me so attached to pleasures which depend entirely upon others, that i find my disposition a gift of the fairies. "i do not know but mme de coulanges has already sent you word of our after-dinner conversations at gourville's about people who have taste above or below their intelligence. mme. scarron and the abbe tetu were there; we lost ourselves in subtleties until we no longer understood anything. if the air of provence, which subtilizes things still more, magnifies for you our visions, you will be in the clouds. you have taste below your intelligence; so has m. de la rochefoucauld; and myself also, but not so much as you two. voila an example which will guide you." she disliked writing letters, and usually limited herself to a few plain facts, often in her late years to a simple bulletin of her health. this negligence was the subject of many passages-at-arms between herself and mme. de sevigne. "if i had a lover who wished my letters every morning, i would break with him," she writes. "do not measure our friendship by our letters. i shall love you as much in writing you only a page in a month, as you me in writing ten in eight days." again she replies to some reproach: "make up your mind, ma belle, to see me sustain, all my life, with the whole force of my eloquence, that i love you still more than you love me. i will make corbinelli agree with me in a quarter of an hour; your distrust is your sole defect, and the only thing in you that can displease me." but in spite of a certain apparent indolence, and her constant ill health, there were many threads that connected with the outside world the pleasant room in which mme. de la fayette spent so many days of suffering. "she finds herself rich in friends from all sides and all conditions," writes mme. de sevigne; "she has a hundred arms; she reaches everywhere. her children appreciate all this, and thank her every day for possessing a spirit so engaging." she goes to versailles, on one of her best days, to thank the king for a pension, and receives so many kind words that it "suggests more favors to come." he orders a carriage and accompanies her with other ladies through the park, directing his conversation to her, and seeming greatly pleased with her judicious praise. she spends a few days at chantilly, where she is invited to all the fetes, and regrets that mme. de sevigne could not be with her in that charming spot, which she is "fitted better than anyone else to enjoy." no one understands so well the extent of her influence and her credit as this devoted friend, who often quotes her to mme. de grignan as a model. "never did any one accomplish so much without leaving her place," she says. but there was one phase in the life of mme. de la fayette which was not fully confided even to mme. de sevigne. it concerns a chapter of obscure political history which it is needless to dwell upon here, but which throws much light upon her capacity for managing intricate affairs. her connection with it was long involved in mystery, and was only unveiled in a correspondence given to the world at a comparatively recent date. it was in the salon of the grande mademoiselle that she was thrown into frequent relations with the two daughters of charles amedee de savoie, duc de nemours, one of whom became queen of portugal, the other duchesse de savoie and, later, regent during the minority of her son. these relations resulted in one of the ardent friendships which played so important a part in her career. her intercourse with the beautiful but vain, intriguing, and imperious duchesse de savoie assumed the proportion of a delicate diplomatic mission. "her salon," says lescure, "was, for the affairs of savoy, a center of information much more important in the eyes of shrewd politicians than that of the ambassador." she not only looked after the personal matters of mme. royale, but was practically entrusted with the entire management of her interests in paris. from affairs of state and affairs of the heart to the daintiest articles of the toilette her versatile talent is called into requisition. now it is a message to louvois or the king, now a turn to be adroitly given to public opinion, now the selection of a perfume or a pair of gloves. "she watches everything, thinks of everything, combines, visits, talks, writes, sends counsels, procures advice, baffles intrigues, is always in the breach, and renders more service by her single efforts than all the envoys avowed or secret whom the duchesse keeps in france." nor is the value of these services unrecognized. "have i told you," wrote mme. de sevigne to her daughter, "that mme. de savoie has sent a hundred ells of the finest velvet in the world to mme. de la fayette, and a hundred ells of satin to line it, and two days ago her portrait, surrounded with diamonds, which is worth three hundred louis?" the practical side of mme. de la fayette's character was remarkable in a woman of so fine a sensibility and so rare a genius. her friends often sought her counsel; and it was through her familiarity with legal technicalities that la rochefoucauld was enabled to save his fortune, which he was at one time in danger of losing. in clear insight, profound judgment, and knowledge of affairs, she was scarcely, if at all, surpassed by mme. de maintenon, the feminine diplomatist par excellence of her time, though her field of action was less broad and conspicuous. but her love of consideration was not so dominant and her ambition not so active. it was one of her theories that people should live without ambition as well as without passion. "it is sufficient to exist," she said. her energy when occasion called for it does not quite accord with this passive philosophy, and suggests at least a vast reserved force; but if she directed her efforts toward definite ends it was usually to serve other interests than her own. she had been trained in a different school from mme. de maintenon, her temperament was modified by her frail health, and the prizes of life had come to her apparently without special exertion. she was a woman, too, of more sentiment and imagination. her fastidious delicacy and luxurious tastes were the subject of critical comment on the part of this austere censor, who condemned the gilded decorations of her bed as a useless extravagance, giving the characteristic reason that "the pleasure they afforded was not worth the ridicule they excited." the old friendship that had existed when mme. scarron was living in such elegant and mysterious seclusion, devoting herself to the king's children, and finding her main diversion in the little suppers enlivened by the wit of mme. de sevigne and mme. de coulanges, and the more serious, but not less agreeable, conversation of mme. de la fayette, had evidently grown cool. they had their trifling disagreements. "mme. de la fayette puts too high a price upon her friendship," wrote mme. de maintenon, who had once attached such value to a few approving words from her. in her turn mme. de la fayette indulged in a little light satire. referring to the comedy of esther, which racine had written by command for the pupils at saint cyr, she said, "it represents the fall of mme. de montespan and the rise of mme. de maintenon; all the difference is that esther was rather younger, and less of a precieuse in the matter of piety." there was certainly less of the ascetic in mme. de la fayette. she had more color and also more sincerity. in symmetry of character, in a certain feminine quality of taste and tenderness, she was superior, and she seems to me to have been of more intrinsic value as a woman. whether under the same conditions she would have attained the same power may be a question. if not, i think it would have been because she was unwilling to pay the price, not because she lacked the grasp, the tact, or the diplomacy. it is mainly as a woman of letters that mme. de la fayette is known today, and it was through her literary work that she made the strongest impression upon her time. boileau said that she had a finer intellect and wrote better than any other woman in france. but she wrote only for the amusement of idle or lonely hours, and always avoided any display of learning, in order not to attract jealousy as well as from instinctive delicacy of taste. "he who puts himself above others," she said, "whatever talent he may possess, puts himself below his talent." but her natural atmosphere was an intellectual one, and the friend of la rochefoucauld, who would have "liked montaigne for a neighbor," had her own message for the world. her mind was clear and vigorous, her taste critical and severe, and her style had a flexible quality that readily took the tone of her subject. in concise expression she doubtless profited much from the author of the maxims, who rewrote many of his sentences at least thirty times. "a phrase cut out of a book is worth a louis d'or," she said, "and every word twenty sous." unfortunately her "memoires de la cour de france" is fragmentary, as her son carelessly lent the manuscripts, and many of them were lost. but the part that remains gives ample evidence of the breadth of her intelligence, the penetrating, lucid quality of her mind, and her talent for seizing the salient traits of the life about her. in her romances, which were first published under the name of segrais, one finds the touch of an artist, and the subtle intuitions of a woman. in the rapid evolution of modern taste and the hopeless piling up of books, these works have fallen somewhat into the shade, but they are written with a vivid naturalness of style, a truth of portraiture, and a delicacy of sentiment, that commend them still to all lovers of imaginative literature. fontenelle read the "princesse de cleves" four times when it appeared. la harpe said it was "the first romance that offered reasonable adventures written with interest and elegance." it marked an era in the history of the novel. "before mme. de la fayette," said voltaire, "people wrote in a stilted style of improbable things." we have the rare privilege of reading her own criticism in a letter to the secretary of the duchesse de savoie, in which she disowns the authorship, and adds a few lines of discreet eulogy. "as for myself," she writes, "i am flattered at being suspected of it. i believe i should acknowledge the book, if i were assured the author would never appear to claim it. i find it very agreeable and well written without being excessively polished, full of things of admirable delicacy, which should be read more than once; above all, it seems to be a perfect presentation of the world of the court and the manner of living there. it is not romantic or ambitious; indeed it is not a romance; properly speaking, it is a book of memoirs, and that i am told was its title, but it was changed. voila, monsieur, my judgment upon mme. de cleves; i ask yours, for people are divided upon this book to the point of devouring each other. some condemn what others admire; whatever you may say, do not fear to be alone in your opinion." sainte-beuve, whose portrait of mme. de la fayette is so delightful as to make all others seem superfluous, has devoted some exquisite lines to this book. "it is touching to think," he writes, "of the peculiar situation which gave birth to these beings so charming, so pure, these characters so noble and so spotless, these sentiments so fresh, so faultless, so tender;" how mme. de la fayette put into it all that her loving, poetic soul retained of its first, ever-cherished dreams, and how m. de la rochefoucauld was pleased doubtless to find once more in "m. de nemours" that brilliant flower of chivalry which he had too much misused--a sort of flattering mirror in which he lived again his youth. thus these two old friends renewed in imagination the pristine beauty of that age when they had not known each other, hence could not love each other. the blush so characteristic of mme. de cleves, and which at first is almost her only language, indicates well the design of the author, which is to paint love in its freshest, purest, vaguest, most adorable, most disturbing, most irresistible--in a word, in its own color. it is constantly a question of that joy which youth joined to beauty gives, of the trouble and embarrassment that love causes in the innocence of early years, in short, of all that is farthest from herself and her friend in their late tie." but whatever tints her tender and delicate imaginings may have taken from her own soul, mme. de la fayette has caught the eternal beauty of a pure and loyal spirit rising above the mists of sense into the serene air of a lofty christian renunciation. the sad but triumphant close of her romance foreshadowed the swift breaking up of her own pleasant life. in , not long after the appearance of the "princesse de cleves," la rochefoucauld died, and the song of her heart was changed to a miserere. "mme. de la fayette has fallen from the clouds," says mme. de sevigne. "where can she find such a friend, such society, a like sweetness, charm, confidence, consideration for her and her son?" a little later she writes from the rocks, "mme. de la fayette sends me word that she is more deeply affected than she herself believed, being occupied with her health and her children; but these cares have only rendered more sensible the veritable sadness of her heart. she is alone in the world... the poor woman cannot close the ranks so as to fill this place." the records of the thirteen years that remain to mme. de la fayette are somber and melancholy. "nothing can replace the blessings i have lost," she says. restlessly she seeks diversion in new plans. she enlarges her house as her horizon diminishes; she finds occupation in the affairs of mme. royale and interests herself in the marriage of the daughter of her never-forgotten friend, the princess henrietta, with the heir to the throne of savoy. she writes a romance without the old vigor, occupies herself with historic reminiscences, and takes a passing refuge in an ardent affection for the young mme. de schomberg, which excites the jealousy of some older friends. but the strongest link that binds her to the world is the son whose career opens so brilliantly as a young officer and for whom she secures an ample fortune and a fine marriage. in this son and the establishment of a family centered all her hopes and ambitions. she was spared the pain of seeing them vanish like the "baseless fabric of a vision." the object of so many cares survived her less than two years; her remaining son and the only person left to represent her was the abbe who had so little care for her manuscripts and her literary fame. a century later, through a collateral branch of the family, the glory of the name was revived by the distinguished general so dear to the american heart. it was in the less tangible realm of the intellect that mme. de la fayette was destined to an unlooked-for immortality. but in spite of these interests, the sense of loneliness and desolation is always present. her few letters give us occasional flashes of the old spirit, but the burden of them is inexpressibly sad. her sympathies and associations led her toward a mild form of jansenism, and as the evening shadows darkened, her thoughts turned to fresh speculations upon the destiny of the soul. she went with mme. de coulanges to visit mme. de la sabliere, who was expiating the errors and follies of her life in austere penitence at the incurables. the devotion of this once gay and brilliant woman, who had been so deeply tinged with the philosophy of descartes, touched her profoundly, and suggested a source of consolation which she had never found. she sought the counsels of her confessor, who did not spare her, and though she was never sustained by the ardor and exaltation of the religieuse, her last days were not without peace and a tranquil hope. to the end she remained a gracious, thoughtful, self-poised, calmly-judging woman whose illusions never blinded her to the simple facts of existence, though sometimes throwing over them a transparent veil woven from the tender colors of her own heart. above the weariness and resignation of her last words written to mme. de sevigne sounds the refrain of a life that counts among its crowning gifts and graces a genius for friendship. "alas, ma belle, all i have to tell you of my health is very bad; in a word, i have repose neither night nor day, neither in body nor in mind. i am no more a person either by one or the other. i perish visibly. i must end when it pleases god, and i am submissive. believe me, my dearest, you are the person in the world whom i have most truly loved." mme. de la fayette represents better than any other woman the social and literary life of the last half of the seventeenth century. mme. de sevigne had an individual genius that might have made itself equally felt in any other period. mme. de maintenon, whom roederer regards as the true successor of mme. de rambouillet, was narrowed by personal ambition, and by the limitations of her early life. born in a prison, reared in poverty, wife in name, but practically secretary and nurse of a crippled, witty, and licentious poet over whose salon she presided brilliantly; discreet and penniless widow, governess of the illegitimate children of the king, adviser and finally wife of that king, friend of ninon, model of virtue, femme d'esprit, politician, diplomatist, and devote--no fairy tale can furnish more improbable adventures and more striking contrasts. but she was the product of exceptional circumstances joined to an exceptional nature. it is true she put a final touch upon the purity of manners which was so marked a feature of the hotel de rambouillet, and for a long period gave a serious tone to the social life of france. but she ruled through repression, and one is inclined to accept the opinion of sainte-beuve that she does not represent the distinctive social current of the time. in mme. de la fayette we find its delicacy, its courtesy, its elegance, its intelligence, its critical spirit, and its charm. in considering the great centers in which the fashionable, artistic, literary, and scientific paris of the seventeenth century found its meeting ground, one is struck with the practical training given to its versatile, flexible feminine minds. women entered intelligently and sympathetically into the interests of men, who, in turn, did not reserve their best thoughts for the club or an after-dinner talk among themselves. there was stimulus as well as diversity in the two modes of thinking and being. men became more courteous and refined, women more comprehensive and clear. but conversation is the spontaneous overflow of full minds, and the light play of the intellect is only possible on a high level, when the current thought has become a part of the daily life, so that a word suggests infinite perspectives to the swift intelligence. it is not what we know, but the flavor of what we know, that adds"sweetness and light" to social intercourse. with their rapid intuition and instinctive love of pleasing, these french women were quick to see the value of a ready comprehension of the subjects in which clever men are most interested. it was this keen understanding, added to the habit of utilizing what they thought and read, their ready facility in grasping the salient points presented to them, a natural gift of graceful expression, with a delicacy of taste and an exquisite politeness which prevented them from being aggressive, that gave them their unquestioned supremacy in the salons which made paris for so long a period the social capital of europe. it was impossible that intellects so plastic should not expand in such an atmosphere, and the result is not difficult to divine. from mme. de rambouillet to mme. de la fayette and mme. de sevigne, from these to mme. de stael and george sand, there is a logical sequence. the saxon temperament, with a vein of la bruyere, gives us george eliot. this new introduction of the feminine element into literature, which is directly traceable to the salons of the seventeenth century, suggests a point of special interest to the moralist. it may be assumed that, whether through nature or a long process of evolution, the minds of women as a class have a different coloring from the minds of men as a class. perhaps the best evidence of this lies in the literature of the last two centuries, in which women have been an important factor, not only through what they have done themselves, but through their reflex influence. the books written by them have rapidly multiplied. doubtless, the excess of feeling is often unbalanced by mental or artistic training; but even in the crude productions, which are by no means confined to one sex, it may be remarked that women deal more with pure affections and men with the coarser passions. a feminine zola of any grade of ability has not yet appeared. it is not, however, in literature of pure sentiment that the influence of women has been most felt. it is true that, as a rule, they look at the world from a more emotional standpoint than men, but both have written of love, and for one sappho there have been many anacreons. mlle. de scudery and mme. de la fayette did not monopolize the sentiment of their time, but they refined and exalted it. the tender and exquisite coloring of mme. de stael and george sand had a worthy counterpart in that of chateaubriand or lamartine. but it is in the moral purity, the touch of human sympathy, the divine quality of compassion, the swift insight into the soul pressed down by the heavy and weary weight of all this unintelligible world, that we trace the minds of women attuned to finer spiritual issues. this broad humanity has vitalized modern literature. it is the penetrating spirit of our century, which has been aptly called the woman's century. we do not find it in the great literatures of the past. the greek poets give us types of tragic passions, of heroic virtues, of motherly and wifely devotion, but woman is not recognized as a profound spiritual force. this masculine literature, so perfect in form and plastic beauty, so vigorous, so statuesque, so calm, and withal so cold, shines across the centuries side by side with the feminine christian ideal--twin lights which have met in the world of today. it may be that from the blending of the two, the crowning of a man's vigor with a woman's finer insight, will spring the perfected flower of human thought. robert browning in his poem "by the fireside" has said a fitting word: oh, i must feel your brain prompt mine, your heart anticipate my heart. you must be just before, in fine, see and make me see, for your part, new depths of the divine! chapter viii. salons of the eighteenth century _characteristics of the eighteenth century--its epicurean philosophy--anecdote of mme. du deffand--the salon an engine of political power--great influence of women--salons defined literary dinners--etiquette of the salons--an exotic on american soil._ the traits which strike us most forcibly in the lives and characters of the women of the early salons, which colored their minds, ran through their literary pastimes, and gave a distinctive flavor to their conversation, are delicacy and sensibility. it was these qualities, added to a decided taste for pleasures of the intellect, and an innate social genius, that led them to revolt from the gross sensualism of the court, and form, upon a new basis, a society that has given another complexion to the last two centuries. the natural result was, at first, a reign of sentiment that was often over-strained, but which represented on the whole a reaction of morality and refinement. the wits and beauties of the salon bleu may have committed a thousand follies, but their chivalrous codes of honor and of manners, their fastidious tastes, even their prudish affectations, were open though sometimes rather bizarre tributes to the virtues that lie at the very foundation of a well-ordered society. they had exalted ideas of the dignity of womanhood, of purity, of loyalty, of devotion. the heroines of mlle. de scudery, with their endless discourses upon the metaphysics of love, were no doubt tiresome sometimes to the blase courtiers, as well as to the critics; but they had their originals in living women who reversed the common traditions of a gabrielle and a marion delorme, who combined with the intellectual brilliancy and fine courtesy of the greek aspasia the moral graces that give so poetic a fascination to the christian and medieval types. mme. de la fayette painted with rare delicacy the old struggle between passion and duty, but character triumphs over passion, and duty is the final victor. in spite of the low standards of the age, the ideal woman of society, as of literature, was noble, tender, modest, pure, and loyal. but the eighteenth century brings new types to the surface. the precieuses, with their sentimental theories and naive reserves, have had their day. it is no longer the world of mme. de rambouillet that confronts us with its chivalrous models, its refined platonism, and its flavor of literature, but rather that of the epicurean ninon, brilliant, versatile, free, lax, skeptical, full of intrigue and wit, but without moral sense of spiritual aspiration. literary portraits and ethical maxims have given place to a spicy mixture of scandal and philosophy, humanitarian speculations and equivocal bons mots. it is piquant and amusing, this light play of intellect, seasoned with clever and sparkling wit, but the note of delicacy and sensibility is quite gone. society has divested itself of many crudities and affectations perhaps, but it has grown as artificial and self-conscious as its rouged and befeathered leaders. the woman who presided over these centers of fashion and intelligence represent to us the genius of social sovereignty. we fall under the glamour of the luminous but factitious atmosphere that surrounded them. we are dazzled by the subtlety and clearness of their intellect, the brilliancy of their wit. their faults are veiled by the smoke of the incense we burn before them, or lost in the dim perspective. it is fortunate, perhaps, for many of our illusions, that the golden age, which is always receding, is seen at such long range that only the softly colored outlines are visible. men and women are transfigured in the rosy light that rests on historic heights as on far-off mountain tops. but if we bring them into closer view, and turn on the pitiless light of truth, the aureole vanishes, a thousand hidden defects are exposed, and our idol stands out hard and bare, too often divested of its divinity and its charm. to do justice to these women, we must take the point of view of an age that was corrupt to the core. it is needless to discuss here the merits of the stormy, disenchanting eighteenth century, which was the mother of our own, and upon which the world is likely to remain hopelessly divided. but whatever we may think of its final outcome, it can hardly be denied that this period, which in france was so powerful in ideas, so active in thought, so teeming with intelligence, so rich in philosophy, was poor in faith, bankrupt in morals, without religion, without poetry, and without imagination. the divine ideals of virtue and renunciation were drowned in a sea of selfishness and materialism. the austere devotion of pascal was out of fashion. the spiritual teachings of bossuet and fenelon represented the out-worn creeds of an age that was dead. it was voltaire who gave the tone, and even voltaire was not radical enough for many of these iconoclasts. "he is a bigot and a deist," exclaimed a feminine disciple of d'holbach's atheism. the gay, witty, pleasure-loving abbe, who derided piety, defied morality, was the pet of the salon, and figured in the worst scandals, was a fair representative of the fashionable clergy who had no attribute of priesthood but the name, and clearly justified the sneers of the philosophers. tradition had given place to private judgment and in its first reaction private judgment knew no law but its own caprices. the watchword of intellectual freedom was made to cover universal license, and clever sophists constructed theories to justify the mad carnival of vice and frivolity. "as soon as one does a bad action, one never fails to make a bad maxim," said the clever marquise de crequi. "as soon as a school boy has his love affairs, he wishes no more to say his prayers; and when a woman wrongs her husband, she tries to believe no more in god." the fact that this brilliant but heartless and epicurean world was tempered with intellect and taste changed its color but not its moral quality. talent turned to intrigue, and character was the toy of the scheming and flexible brain. the maxims of la rochefoucauld were the rule of life. wit counted for everything, the heart for nothing. the only sins that could not be pardoned were stupidity and awkwardness. "bah! he has only revealed every one's secret," said mme. du defand to an acquaintance who censured helvetius for making selfishness the basis of all human actions. to some one who met this typical woman of her time, in the gay salon of mme. de marchais, and condoled with her upon the death of her lifelong friend and lover, pont de veyle, she quietly replied, "alas! he died this evening at six o'clock; otherwise you would not see me here." "my friend fell ill, i attended him; he died, and i dissected him" was the remark of a wit on reading her satirical pen portrait of the marquise du chatelet. this cold skepticism, keen analysis, and undisguised heartlessness strike the keynote of the century which was socially so brilliant, intellectually so fruitful, and morally so weak. the liberty and complaisance of the domestic relations were complete. it is true there were examples of conjugal devotion, for the gentle human affections never quite disappear in any atmosphere; but the fact that they were considered worthy of note sufficiently indicates the drift of the age. in the world of fashion and of form there was not even a pretense of preserving the sanctity of marriage, if the chronicles of the time are to be credited. it was simply a commercial affair which united names and fortunes, continued the glory of the families, replenished exhausted purses, and gave freedom to women. if love entered into it at all, it was by accident. this superfluous sentiment was ridiculed, or relegated to the bourgeoisie, to whom it was left to preserve the tradition of household virtues. every one seems to have accepted the philosophy of the irrepressible ninon, who "returned thanks to god every evening for her esprit, and prayed him every morning to be preserved from follies of the heart." if a young wife was modest or shy, she was the object of unflattering persiflage. if she betrayed her innocent love for her husband, she was not of the charmed circle of wit and good tone which frowned upon so vulgar a weakness, and laughed at inconvenient scruples. "indeed," says a typical husband of the period, "i cannot conceive how, in the barbarous ages, one had the courage to wed. the ties of marriage were a chain. today you see kindness, liberty, peace reign in the bosom of families. if husband and wife love each other, very well; they live together; they are happy. if they cease to love, they say so honestly, and return to each other the promise of fidelity. they cease to be lovers; they are friends. that is what i call social manners, gentle manners." this reign of the senses is aptly illustrated by the epitaph which the gay, voluptuous, and spirtuelle marquise de boufflers wrote for herself: ci-git dans une paix profonde cette dame de volupte qui, pour plus grande surete, fit son paradis de ce monde. "courte et bonne," said the favorite daughter of the regent, in the same spirit. it is against such a background that the women who figure so prominently in the salons are outlined. such was the air they breathed, the spirit they imbibed. that it was fatal to the finer graces of character goes without saying. doubtless, in quiet and secluded nooks, there were many human wild flowers that had not lost their primitive freshness and delicacy, but they did not flourish in the withering atmosphere of the great world. the type in vogue savored of the hothouse. with its striking beauty of form and tropical richness of color, it had no sweetness, no fragrance. many of these women we can only consider on the worldly and intellectual side. sydney smith has aptly characterized them as "women who violated the common duties of life, and gave very pleasant little suppers." but standing on the level of a time in which their faults were mildly censured, if at all, their characteristic gifts shine out with marvelous splendor. it is from this standpoint alone that we can present them, drawing the friendly mantle of silence over grave weaknesses and fatal errors. in this century, in which women have so much wider scope, when they may paint, carve, act, sing, write, enter professional life, or do whatever talent and inclination dictate, without loss of dignity or prestige, unless they do it ill,--and perhaps even this exception is a trifle superfluous,--it is difficult to understand fully, or estimate correctly, a society in which the best feminine intellect was centered upon the art of entertaining and of wielding an indirect power through the minds of men. these frenchwomen had all the vanity that lies at the bottom of the gallic character, but when the triumphs of youth were over, the only legitimate path to individual distinction was that of social influence. this was attained through personal charm, supplemented by more or less cleverness, or through the gift of creating a society that cast about them an illusion of talent of which they were often only the reflection. to these two classes belong the queens of the salons. but the most famous of them only carried to the point of genius a talent that was universal. in its best estate a brilliant social life is essentially an external one. its charm lies largely in the superficial graces, in the facile and winning manners, the ready tact, the quick intelligence, the rare and perishable gifts of conversation--in the nameless trifles which are elusive as shadows and potent as light. it is the way of putting things that tells, rather than the value of the things themselves. this world of draperies and amenities, of dinners and conversaziones, of epigrams, coquetries, and sparkling trivialities in the frenchwoman's milieu. it has little in common with the inner world that surges forever behind and beneath it; little sympathy with inconvenient ideals and exalted sentiments. the serious and earnest soul to which divine messages have been whispered in hours of solitude finds its treasures unheeded, its language unspoken here. the cares, the burdens, the griefs that weigh so heavily on the great heart of humanity are banished from this social eden. the frenchman has as little love for the somber side of life as the athenian, who veiled every expression of suffering. "joy marks the force of the intellect," said the pleasure-loving ninon. it is this peculiar gift of projecting themselves into a joyous atmosphere, of treating even serious subjects in a piquant and lively fashion, of dwelling upon the pleasant surface of things, that has made the french the artists, above all others, of social life. the parisienne selects her company, as a skillful leader forms his orchestra, with a fine instinct of harmony; no single instrument dominates, but every member is an artist in his way, adding his touch of melody or color in the fitting place. she aims, perhaps unconsciously, at a poetic ideal which shall express the best in life and thought, divested of the rude and commonplace, untouched by sorrow or passion, and free from personality. but the representative salons, which have left a permanent mark upon their time, and a memory that does not seem likely to die, were no longer simply centers of refined and intellectual amusement. the moral and literary reaction of the seventeenth century was one of the great social and political forces of the eighteenth. the salon had become a vast engine of power, an organ of public opinion, like the modern press. clever and ambitious women had found their instrument and their opportunity. they had long since learned that the homage paid to weakness is illusory; that the power of beauty is short-lived. with none of the devotion which had made the convent the time-honored refuge of tender and exalted souls, finding little solace in the domestic affections which played so small a role in their lives, they turned the whole force of their clear and flexible minds to this new species of sovereignty. their keenness of vision, their consummate skill in the adaptation of means to ends, their knowledge of the world, their practical intelligence, their instinct of pleasing, all fitted them for the part they assumed. they distinctly illustrated the truth that "our ideal is not out of ourselves, but in ourselves wisely modified." the intellect of these women was rarely the dupe of the emotions. their clearness was not befogged by sentiment, nor, it may be added, were their characters enriched by it. "the women of the eighteenth century loved with their minds and not with their hearts," said the abbe galiani. the very absence of the qualities so essential to the highest womanly character, according to the old poetic types, added to their success. to be simple and true is to forget often to consider effects. spontaneity is not apt to be discriminating, and the emotions are not safe guides to worldly distinction. it is not the artist who feels the most keenly, who sways men the most powerfully; it is the one who has most perfectly mastered the art of swaying men. self-sacrifice and a lofty sense of duty find their rewards in the intangible realm of the spirit, but they do not find them in a brilliant society whose foundations are laid in vanity and sensualism. "the virtues, though superior to the sentiments, are not so agreeable," said mme. du deffand; and she echoed the spirit of an age of which she was one of the most striking representatives. to be agreeable was the cardinal aim in the lives of these women. to this end they knew how to use their talents, and they studied, to the minutest shade, their own limitations. they had the gift of the general who marshals his forces with a swift eye for combination and availability. to this quality was added more or less mental brilliancy, or, what is equally essential, the faculty of calling out the brilliancy of others; but their education was rarely profound or even accurate. to an abbe who wished to dedicate a grammar to mme. geoffrin she replied: "to me? dedicate a grammar to me? why, i do not even know how to spell." even mme. du deffand, whom sainte beuve ranks next to voltaire as the purest classic of the epoch in prose, says of herself, "i do not know a word of grammar; my manner of expressing myself is always the result of chance, independent of all rule and all art." but it is not to be supposed that women who were the daily and lifelong companions and confidantes of men like fontenelle, d'alembert, montesquieu, helvetius, and marmontel were deficient in a knowledge of books, though this was always subservient to a knowledge of life. it was a means, not an end. when the salon was at the height of its power, it was not yet time for mme. de stael; and, with rare exceptions, those who wrote were not marked, or their literary talent was so overshadowed by their social gifts as to be unnoted. their writings were no measure of their abilities. those who wrote for amusement were careful to disclaim the title of bel esprit, and their works usually reached the public through accidental channels. mme. de lambert herself had too keen an eye for consideration to pose as an author, but it is with an accent of regret at the popular prejudice that she says of mme. dacier, "she knows how to associate learning with the amenities; for at present modesty is out of fashion; there is no more shame for vices, and women blush only for knowledge." but if they did not write, they presided over the mint in which books were coined. they were familiar with theories and ideas at their fountain source. indeed the whole literature of the period pays its tribute to their intelligence and critical taste. "he who will write with precision, energy, and vigor only," said marmontel, "may live with men alone; but he who wishes for suppleness in his style, for amenity, and for that something which charms and enchants, will, i believe, do well to live with women. when i read that pericles sacrificed every morning to the graces, i understand by it that every day pericles breakfasted with aspasia." this same author was in the habit of reading his tales in the salon, and noting their effect. he found a happy inspiration in "the most beautiful eyes in the world, swimming in tears;" but he adds, "i well perceived the cold and feeble passages, which they passed over in silence, as well as those where i had mistaken the word, the tone of nature, or the just shade of truth." he refers to the beautiful, witty, but erring and unfortunate mme. de la popeliniere, to whom he read his tragedy, as the best of all his critics. "her corrections," he said, "struck me as so many rays of light." "a point of morals will be no better discussed in a society of philosophers than in that of a pretty woman of paris," said rousseau. this constant habit of reducing thoughts to a clear and salient form was the best school for aptness and ready expression. to talk wittily and well, or to lead others to talk wittily and well, was the crowning gift of these women. this evanescent art was the life and soul of the salons, the magnet which attracted the most brilliant of the french men of letters, who were glad to discuss safely and at their ease many subjects which the public censorship made it impossible to write about. they found companions and advisers in women, consulted their tastes, sought their criticism, courted their patronage, and established a sort of intellectual comradeship that exists to the same extent in no country outside of france. its model may be found in the limited circle that gathered about aspasia in the old athenian days. it is perhaps this habit of intellectual companionship that, more than any other single thing, accounts for the practical cleverness of the frenchwomen and the conspicuous part they have played in the political as well as social life of france. nowhere else are women linked to the same degree with the success of men. there are few distinguished frenchmen with whose fame some more or less gifted woman is not closely allied. montaigne and mlle. de gournay, la rochefoucauld and mme. de la fayette, d'alembert and mlle. de lespinasse, chateaubriand and mme. recamier, joubert and mme. de beaumont--these are only a few of the well-known and unsullied friendships that suggest themselves out of a list that might be extended indefinitely. the social instincts of the french, and the fact that men and women met on a common plane of intellectual life, made these friendships natural; that they excited little comment and less criticism made them possible. the result was that from the quiet and thoughtful marquise de lambert, who was admitted to have made half of the academicians, to the clever but less scrupulous mme. de pompadour, who had to be reckoned with in every political change in europe, women were everywhere the power behind the throne. no movement was carried through without them. "they form a kind of republic," said montesquieu, "whose members, always active, aid and serve one another. it is a new state within a state; and whoever observes the action of those in power, if he does not know the women who govern them, is like a man who sees the action of a machine but does not know its secret springs." mme. de tenein advised marmontel, before all things, to cultivate the society of women, if he wished to succeed. it is said that both diderot and thomas, two of the most brilliant thinkers of their time, failed of the fame they merited, through their neglect to court the favor of women. bolingbroke, then an exile in paris, with a few others, formed a club of men for the discussion of literary and political questions. while it lasted it was never mentioned by women. it was quietly ignored. cardinal fleury considered it dangerous to the state, and suppressed it. at the same time, in the salon of mme. de tenein, the leaders of french thought were safely maturing the theories which montesquieu set forth in his "esprit des lois," the first open attack on absolute monarchy, the forerunner of rousseau, and the germ of the revolution. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- but the salons were far from being centers of "plain living and high thinking." "supper is one of the four ends of man," said mme. du deffand; and it must be admitted that the great doctrine of human equality was rather luxuriously cradled. the supreme science of the frenchwomen was a knowledge of men. understanding their tastes, their ambitions, their interests, their vanities, and their weaknesses, they played upon this complicated human instrument with the skill of an artist who knows how to touch the lightest note, to give the finest shade of expression, to bring out the fullest harmony. in their efforts to raise social life to the most perfect and symmetrical proportions, the pleasures of sense and the delicate illusions of color were not forgotten. they were as noted for their good cheer, for their attention to the elegances that strike the eye, the accessories that charm the taste, as for their intelligence, their tact, and their conversation. but one must look for the power and the fascination of the french salons in their essential spirit and the characteristics of the gallic race, rather than in any definite and tangible form. the word simply suggests habitual and informal gatherings of men and women of intelligence and good breeding in the drawing-room, for conversation and amusement. the hostess who opened her house for these assemblies selected her guests with discrimination, and those who had once gained an entree were always welcome. in studying the character of the noted salons, one is struck with a certain unity that could result only from natural growth about a nucleus of people bound together by many ties of congeniality and friendship. society, in its best sense, does not signify a multitude, nor can a salon be created on commercial principles. this spirit of commercialism, so fatal to modern social life, was here conspicuously absent. it was not at all a question of debit and credit, of formal invitations to be given and returned. personal values were regarded. the distinctions of wealth were ignored and talent, combined with the requisite tact, was, to a certain point, the equivalent of rank. if rivalries existed, they were based upon the quality of the guests rather than upon material display. but the modes of entertainment were as varied as the tastes and abilities of the women who presided. many of the well-known salons were open daily. sometimes there were suppers, which came very much into vogue after the petits soupers of the regent. the duchesse de choiseul, during the ministry of her husband, gave a supper every evening excepting on friday and sunday. at a quarter before ten the steward glanced through the crowded rooms, and prepared the table for all who were present. the monday suppers at the temple were thronged. on other days a more intimate circle gathered round the tables, and the ladies served tea after the english fashion. a few women of rank and fortune imitated these princely hospitalities, but it was the smaller coteries which presented the most charming and distinctive side of french society. it was not the luxurious salon of the duchesse du maine, with its whirl of festivities and passion for esprit, nor that of the temple, with its brilliant and courtly, but more or less intellectual, atmosphere; nor that of the clever and critical marechale de luxembourg, so elegant, so witty, so noted in its day--which left the most permanent traces and the widest fame. it was those presided over by women of lesser rank and more catholic sympathies, of whom voltaire aptly said that "the decline of their beauty revealed the dawn of their intellect;" women who had the talent, tact, and address to gather about them a circle of distinguished men who have crowned them with a luminous ray from their own immortality. the names of mme. de lambert, mme. de tencin, mme. geoffrin, mme. du deffand, mme. necker, mme. de stael, and others of lesser note, call up visions of a society which the world is not likely to see repeated. not the least among the attractions of this society was its charming informality. a favorite custom in the literary and philosophical salons was to give dinners, at an early hour, two or three times a week. in the evening a larger company assembled without ceremony. a popular man of letters, so inclined, might dine monday and wednesday with mme. geoffrin, tuesday with mme. helvetius, friday with mme. necker, sunday and thursday with mme. d'holbach, and have ample time to drop into other salons afterward, passing an hour or so, perhaps, before going to the theater, in the brilliant company that surrounded mlle. de lespinasse, and, very likely, supping elsewhere later. at many of these gatherings he would be certain to find readings, recitations, comedies, music, games, or some other form of extemporized amusement. the popular mania for esprit, for literary lions, for intellectual diversions ran through the social world, as the craze for clubs and culture, poets and parlor readings, musicales and amateur theatricals, runs through the society of today. it had numberless shades and gradations, with the usual train of pretentious follies which in every age furnish ample material for the pen of the satirist, but it was a spontaneous expression of the marvelously quickened taste for things of the intellect. the woman who improvised a witty verse, invented a proverb, narrated a story, sang a popular air, or acted a part in a comedy entered with the same easy grace into the discussion of the last political problem, or listened with the subtlest flattery to the new poem, essay, or tale of the aspiring young author, whose fame and fortune perhaps hung upon her smile. in the musical and artistic salon of mme. de la popeliniere the succession of fetes, concerts, and receptions seems to have been continuous. on sunday there was a mass in the morning, afterward a grand dinner, at five o'clock a light repast, at nine a supper, and later a musicale. one is inclined to wonder if there was ever any retirement, any domesticity in this life so full of movement and variety. but it was really the freedom, wit, and brilliancy of the conversation that constituted the chief attraction of the salons. men were in the habit of making the daily round of certain drawing rooms, just as they drop into clubs in our time, sure of more or less pleasant discussion on whatever subject was uppermost at the moment, whether it was literature, philosophy, art, politics, music, the last play, or the latest word of their friends. the talk was simple, natural, without heat, without aggressive egotism, animated with wit and repartee, glancing upon the surface of many things, and treating all topics, grave or gay, with the lightness of touch, the quick responsiveness that make the charm of social intercourse. the unwritten laws that governed this brilliant world were drawn from the old ideas of chivalry, upon which the etiquette of the early salons was founded. the fine morality and gentle virtues which were the bases of these laws had lost their force in the eighteenth century, but the manners which grew out of them had passed into a tradition. if morals were in reality not pure, nor principles severe, there was at least the vanity of posing as models of good breeding. honor was a religion; politeness and courtesy were the current, though by no means always genuine, coin of unselfishness and amiability; the amenities stood in the place of an ethical code. egotism, ill temper, disloyalty, ingratitude, and scandal were sins against taste, and spoiled the general harmony. evil passions might exist, but it was agreeable to hide them, and enmities slept under a gracious smile. noblesse oblige was the motto of these censors of manners; and as it is perhaps a gallic trait to attach greater importance to reputation than to character, this sentiment was far more potent than conscience. vice in many veiled forms might be tolerated, but that which called itself good society barred its doors against those who violated the canons of good taste, which recognize at least the outward semblance of many amiable virtues. sincerity certainly was not one of these virtues; but no one was deceived, as it was perfectly well understood that courteous forms meant little more than the dress which may or may not conceal a physical defect, but is fit and becoming. it was not best to inquire too closely into character and motives, so long as appearances were fair and decorous. how far the individual may be affected by putting on the garb of qualities and feelings that do not exist may be a question for the moralist; but this conventional untruth has its advantages, not only in reducing to a minimum the friction of social machinery, and subjecting the impulses to the control of the will, but in the subtle influence of an ideal that is good and true, however far one may in reality fall short of it. imagine a society composed of a leisure class with more or less intellectual tastes; men eminent in science and letters; men less eminent, whose success depended largely upon their social gifts, and clever women supremely versed in the art of pleasing, who were the intelligent complements of these men; add a universal talent for conversation, a genius for the amenities of social life, habits of daily intercourse, and manners formed upon an ideal of generosity, amiability, loyalty, and urbanity; consider, also, the fact that the journals and the magazines, which are so conspicuous a feature of modern life, were practically unknown; that the salons were centers in which the affairs of the world were discussed, its passing events noted--and the power of these salons may be to some extent comprehended. the reason, too, why it is idle to dream of reproducing them today on american soil will be readily seen. the forms may be repeated, but the vitalizing spirit is not there. we have no leisure class that finds its occupation in this pleasant daily converse. our feverish civilization has not time for it. we sit in our libraries and scan the news of the world, instead of gathering it in the drawing rooms of our friends. perhaps we read and think more, but we talk less, and conversation is a relaxation rather than an art. the ability to think aloud, easily and gracefully, is not eminently an anglo-saxon gift, though there are many individual exceptions to this limitation. our social life is largely a form, a whirl, a commercial relation, a display, a duty, the result of external accretion, not of internal growth. it is not in any sense a unity, nor an expression of our best intellectual life; this seeks other channels. men are immersed in business and politics, and prefer the easy, less exacting atmosphere of the club. the woman who aspires to hold a salon is confronted at the outset by this formidable rival. she is a queen without a kingdom, presiding over a fluctuating circle without homogeneity, and composed largely of women--a fact in itself fatal to the true esprit de societe. it is true we have our literary coteries, but they are apt to savor too much of the library; we take them too seriously, and bring into them too strong a flavor of personality. we find in them, as a rule, little trace of the spontaneity, the variety, the wit, the originality, the urbanity, the polish, that distinguished the french literary salons of the last century. even in their own native atmosphere, the salons exist no longer as recognized institutions. this perfected flower of a past civilization has faded and fallen, as have all others. the salon in its widest sense, and in some modified form, may always constitute a feature of french life, but the type has changed, and its old glory has forever departed. in a foreign air, even in its best days, it could only have been an exotic, flourishing feebly, and lacking both color and fragrance. as a copy of past models it is still less likely to be a living force. society, like government, takes its spirit and its vitality from its own soil. chapter ix. an antechamber of the academie francaise _the marquise de lambert--her "bureau d'esprit"--fontenelle--advice to her son--wise thoughts on the education of women--her love of consideration--her generosoty--influence of women upon the academy._ while the gay suppers of the regent were giving a new but by no means desirable tone to the great world of paris, and chasing away the last vestiges of the stately decorum that marked the closing days of louis xiv, and mme. de maintenon, there was one quiet drawing room which still preserved the old traditions. the marquise de lambert forms a connecting link between the salons of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, leaning to the side of the latter, intellectually, but retaining much of the finer morality that distinguished the best life of the former. her attitude towards the disorders of the regency was similar to that which mme. de rambouillet had held towards the profligate court of henry iv, though her salon never attained the vogue of its model. it lacked a certain charm of youth and freshness perhaps, but it was one of the few in which gambling was not permitted, and in which conversation had not lost its serious and critical flavor. if mme. de lambert were living today she would doubtless figure openly as an author. her early tastes pointed clearly in that direction. she was inclined to withdraw from the amusements of her age, and to pass her time in reading, or in noting down the thoughts that pleased her. the natural bent of her mind was towards moral reflections. in this quality she resembled mme. de sable, but she was a woman of greater breadth and originality, though less fine and exclusive. she wrote much in later life on educational themes, for the benefit of her children and for her own diversion; but she yielded to the prejudices of her age against the woman author, and her works were given to the world only through the medium of friends to whom she had read or lent them. "women," she said, "should have towards the sciences a modesty almost as sensitive as towards vices." but in spite of her studied observance of the conventional limits which tradition still assigned to her sex, her writings suggest much more care than is usually bestowed upon the amusement of an idle hour. if, like many other women of her time, she wrote only for her friends, she evidently doubted their discretion in the matter of secrecy. as the child who inherited the rather formidable name of anne theresa de marguenat de coucelles was born during the last days of the hotel de rambouillet, she doubtless cherished many illusions regarding this famous salon. its influence was more or less apparent when the time came to open one of her own. her father was a man of feeble intellect, who died early; but her mother, a woman more noted for beauty than for decorum, was afterward married to bachaumont, a well-known bel esprit, who appreciated the gifts of the young girl, and brought her within a circle of wits who did far more towards forming her impressible mind than her light and frivolous mother had done. she was still very young when she became the wife of the marquis de lambert, an officer of distinction, to whose interests she devoted her talents and her ample fortune. the exquisitely decorated hotel lambert, on the ile saint louis, still retains much of its old splendor, though the finest masterpieces of lebrun and lesueur which ornamented its walls have found their way to the louvre. "it is a home made for a sovereign who would be a philosopher," wrote voltaire to frederick the great. in these magnificent salons, mme. de lambert, surrounded by every luxury that wealth and taste could furnish, entertained a distinguished company. she carried her lavish hospitalities also to luxembourg, where she adorned the position of her husband, who was governor of that province for a short period before his death in . after this event, she was absorbed for some years in settling his affairs, which were left in great disorder, and in protecting the fortunes of her two children. this involved her in long and vexatious lawsuits which she seems to have conducted with admirable ability. "there are so few great fortunes that are innocent," she writes to her son, "that i pardon your ancestors for not leaving you one. i have done what i could to put in order our affairs, in which there is left to women only the glory of economy." it was not until the closing years of her life, from to , that her social influence was at its height. she was past sixty, at an age when the powers of most women are on the wane, when her real career began. she fitted up luxurious apartments in the palais mazarin, employing artists like watteau upon the decorations, and expending money as lavishly as if she had been in the full springtide of life, instead of the golden autumn. then she gathered about her a choice and lettered society, which seemed to be a world apart, a last revival of the genius of the seventeenth century, and quite out of the main drift of the period. "she was born with much talent," writes one of her friends; "she cultivated it by assiduous reading; but the most beautiful flower in her crown was a noble and luminous simplicity, of which, at sixty years, she took it into her head to divest herself. she lent herself to the public, associated with the academicians, and established at her house a bureau d'esprit." twice a week she gave dinners, which were as noted for the cuisine as for the company, and included, among others, the best of the forty immortals. here new works were read or discussed, authors talked of their plans, and candidates were proposed for vacant chairs in the academy. "the learned and the lettered formed the dominant element," says a critic of the time. "they dined at noon, and the rest of the day was passed in conversations, in readings, in literary and scientific discussions. no card tables; it was in ready wit that each one paid his contribution." ennui never came to shed its torpors over these reunions, of which the academy furnished the most distinguished guests, in company with grands seigneurs eager to show themselves as worthy by intelligence as by rank to play a role in these gatherings of the intellectual elite. fontenelle was the presiding genius of this salon, and added to its critical and literary spirit a tinge of philosophy. this gallant savant, who was adored in society as "a man of rare and exquisite conversation," has left many traces of himself here. no one was so sparkling in epigram; no one talked so beautifully of love, of which he knew nothing; and no one talked to delightfully of science, of which he knew a great deal. but he thought that knowledge needed a seasoning of sentiment to make it palatable to women. in his "pluralite des mondes," a singular melange of science and sentiment, which he had written some years before and dedicated to a daughter of the gay and learned mme. de la sabliere, he talks about the stars, to la belle marquise, like a lover; but his delicate flatteries are the seasoning of serious truths. it was the first attempt to offer science sugar-coated, and suggests the character of this coterie, which prided itself upon a discreet mingling of elevated thought with decorous gaiety. the world moves. imagine a female undergraduate of harvard or columbia taking her astronomy diluted with sentiment! president henault, the life-long friend of mme. du deffand, whose light criticism of a pure-minded woman might be regarded as rather flattering than otherwise, says: "it was apparent that mme. de lambert touched upon the time of the hotel de rambouillet; she was a little affected, and had not the force to overstep the limits of the prude and the precieuse. her salon was the rendevous of celebrated men.... in the evening the scenery changed as well as the actors. a more elegant world assembled at the suppers. the marquise took pleasure in receiving people who were agreeable to each other. her tone, however, did not vary, and she preached la belle galanterie to some who went a little beyond it. i was of the two parties; i dogmatized in the morning and sang in the evening." the two eminent greek scholars, la motte and mme. dacier, held spirited discussions on the merits of homer, which came near ending in permanent ill-feeling, but the amiable hostess gave a dinner for them, "they drank to the health of the poet, and all was forgotten." the war between the partizans of the old and the new was as lively then as it is today. "la motte and fontenelle prefer the moderns," said the caustic mme. du deffand; "but the ancients are dead, and the moderns are themselves." the names of sainte-aulaire, de sacy, mairan, president henault, and others equally scholarly and witty, suffice to indicate the quality of the conversation, which treated lightly and gracefully of the most serious things. the duchesse du maine and her clever companion, mlle. de launay were often among the guests; also the beautiful and brilliant mme. de caylus, a niece of mme. de maintenon, whom some poetical critic has styled "the last flower of the seventeenth century." sainte-aulaire, tired of the perpetual excitement at sceaux, characterized this salon by a witty quatrain: je suis las de l'esprit, il me met en courroux, il me renverse la cervelle; lambert, je viens chercher un asile chez vous, entre la motte et fontenelle. the wits of the day launched many a shaft of satire against it, as they had against the hotel de rambouillet a century earlier; but it was an intellectual center of great influence, and was regarded as the sanctuary of old manners as well as the asylum of new liberties. its decorous character gave it the epithet of "very respectable;" but this eminently respectable company, which represented the purest taste of the time, often included adrienne lecouvreur, who was much more remarkable for talent than for respectability. we have a direct glimpse of it through the pen of d'artenson: "i have just met with a very grievous loss in the death of the marquise de lambert" (he writes in ). "for fifteen years i have been one of her special friends, and she has done me the favor of inviting me to her house, where it is an honor to be received. i dined there regularly on wednesday, which was one of her days.... she was rich, and made a good and amiable use of her wealth, for the benefit of her friends, and above all for the unfortunate. a pupil of bachaumont, having frequented only the society of people of the world, and of the highest intelligence, she knew no other passion than a constant and platonic tenderness." the quality of character and intellect which gave mme. de lambert so marked an influence, we find in her own thoughts on a great variety of subjects. she gives us the impression of a woman altogether sensible and judicious, but not without a certain artificial tone. her well-considered philosophy of life had an evident groundwork of ambition and worldly wisdom, which appears always in her advice to her children. she counsels her son to aim high and believe himself capable of great things. "too much modesty," she says, "is a languor of the soul, which prevents it from taking flight and carrying itself rapidly towards glory"--a suggestion that would be rather superfluous in this generation. again, she advises him to seek the society of his superiors, in order to accustom himself to respect and politeness. "with equals one grows negligent; the mind falls asleep." but she does not regard superiority as an external thing, and says very wisely, "it is merit which should separate you from people, not dignity or pride." by "people" she indicates all those who think meanly and commonly. "the court is full of them," she adds. her standards of honor are high, and her sentiments of humanity quite in the vein of the coming age. she urges her daughter to treat her servants with kindness. "one of the ancients says they should be regarded as unfortunate friends. think that humanity and christianity equalize all." her criticisms on the education of women are of especial interest. behind her conventional tastes and her love of consideration she has a clear perception of facts and an appreciation of unfashionable truths. she recognizes the superiority of her sex in matters of taste and in the enjoyment of "serious pleasures which make only the mind laugh and do not trouble the heart" she reproaches men with "spoiling the dispositions nature has given to women, neglecting their education, filling their minds with nothing solid, and destining them solely to please, and to please only by their graces or their vices." but she had not always the courage of her convictions, and it was doubtless quite as much her dislike of giving voice to unpopular opinions as her aversion to the publicity of authorship, that led her to buy the entire edition of her "reflexions sur les femmes," which was published without her consent. one of her marked traits was moderation. "the taste is spoiled by amusements," she writes. "one becomes so accustomed to ardent pleasures that one cannot fall back upon simple ones. we should fear great commotions of the soul, which prepare ennui and disgust." this wise thought suggests the influence of fontenelle, who impressed himself strongly upon the salons of the first half of the century. his calm philosophy is distinctly reflected in the character of mme. de lambert, also in that of mme. geoffrin, with whom he was on very intimate terms. it is said that this poet, critic, bel esprit, and courtly favorite, whom rousseau calls "the daintiest pedant in the world," was never swayed by any emotion whatever. he never laughed, only smiled; never wept; never praised warmly, though he did say pretty things to women; never hurried; was never angry; never suffered, and was never moved by suffering. "he had the gout," says one of his critics, "but no pain; only a foot wrapped in cotton. he put it on a footstool; that was all." it is perhaps fair to present, as the other side of the medallion, the portrait drawn by the friendly hand of adrienne lecouvreur. "the charms of his intellect often veiled its essential qualities. unique of his kind, he combines all that wins regard and respect. integrity, rectitude, equity compose his character; an imagination lively and brilliant, turns fine and delicate, expressions new and always happy ornament it. a heart pure, actions clear, conduct uniform, and everywhere principles.... exact in friendship, scrupulous in love; nowhere failing in the attributes of a gentleman. suited to intercourse the most delicate, though the delight of savants; modest in his conversation, simple in his actions, his superiority is evident, but he never makes one feel it." he lived a century, apparently because it was too much trouble to die. when the weight of years made it too much trouble to live, he simply stopped. "i do not suffer, my friends, but i feel a certain difficulty in existing," were his last words. with this model of serene tranquillity, who analyzed the emotions as he would a problem in mathematics, and reduced life to a debit and credit account, it is easy to understand the worldly philosophy of the women who came under his influence. but while mme. de lambert had a calm and equable temperament, and loved to surround herself with an atmosphere of repose, she was not without a fine quality of sentiment. "i exhort you much more to cultivate your heart," she writes to her son, "than to perfect your mind; the true greatness of the man is in the heart." "she was not only eager to serve her friends without waiting for their prayers or the humiliating exposure of their needs," said fontenelle, "but a good action to be done in favor of indifferent people always tempted her warmly.... the ill success of some acts of generosity did not correct the habit; she was always equally ready to do a kindness." she has written very delicately and beautifully of friendships between men and women; and she had her own intimacies that verged upon tenderness, but were free from any shadow of reproach. long after her death, d'alembert, in his academic eulogy upon de sacy, refers touchingly to the devoted friendship that linked this elegant savant with mme. de lambert. "it is believed," says president henault, "that she was married to the marquis de sainte-aulaire. he was a man of esprit, who only bethought himself, after more than sixty years, of his talent for poetry; and mme. de lambert, whose house was filled with academicians, gained him entrance into the academy, not without strong opposition on the part of boileau and some others." whether the report of this alliance was true or not, the families were closely united, as the daughter of mme. de lambert was married to a son of sainte-aulaire; it is certain that the enduring affection of this ancient friend lighted the closing years of her life. though tinged with the new philosophy, mme. de lambert regarded religion as a part of a respectable, well-ordered life. "devotion is a becoming sentiment in women, and befitting in both sexes," she writes. but she clearly looked upon it as an external form, rather than an internal flame. when about to die, at the age of eighty-six, she declined the services of a friendly confessor, and sent for an abbe who had a great reputation for esprit. perhaps she thought he would give her a more brilliant introduction into the next world; this points to one of her weaknesses, which was a love of consideration that carried her sometimes to the verge of affectation. it savors a little of the hypercritical spirit that is very well illustrated by an anecdote of the witty duchesse de luxenbourg. one morning she took up a prayer book that was lying upon the table and began to criticize severely the bad taste of the prayers. a friend ventured to remark that if they were said reverently and piously, god surely would pay no attention to their good or bad form. "indeed," exclaimed the fastidious marechale, whose religion was evidently a becoming phase of estheticism, "do not believe that." the thoughts of mme. de lambert, so elevated in tone, so fine in moral quality, so rich in worldly wisdom, and often so felicitous in expression, tempt one to multiply quotations, especially as they show us an intimate side of her life, of which otherwise we know very little. her personality is veiled. her human experiences, her loves, her antipathies, her mistakes, and her errors are a sealed book to us, excepting as they may be dimly revealed in the complexion of her mind. of her influence we need no better evidence than the fact that her salon was called the antechamber to the academie francaise. the precise effect of this influence of women over the most powerful critical body of the century, or of any century, perhaps, we can hardly measure. in the fact that the academy became for a time philosophical rather than critical, and dealt with theories rather than with pure literature, we trace the finger of the more radical thinkers who made themselves so strongly felt in the salons. sainte=beuve tells us that fontenelle, with other friends of mme. de lambert, first gave it this tendency; but his mission was apparently an unconscious one, and strikingly illustrates the accidental character of the sources of the intellectual currents which sometimes change the face of the world. "if i had a handful of truths, i should take good care not to open it," said this sybarite, who would do nothing that was likely to cause him trouble. but the truths escaped in spite of him, and these first words of the new philosophy were perhaps the more dangerous because veiled and insidious. "you have written the 'histoire des oracles,'" said a philosopher to him, after he had been appointed the royal censor, "and you refuse me your approbation." "monsieur," replied fontenelle, "if i had been censor when i wrote the 'histoire des oracles,' i should have carefully avoided giving it my approbation." but if the philosophers finally determined the drift of this learned body, it was undoubtedly the tact and diplomacy of women which constituted the most potent factor in the elections which placed them there. the mantle of authority, so gracefully worn by mme. de lambert, fell upon her successors, mme. geoffrin and mlle. de lespinasse, losing none of its prestige. as a rule, the best men in france were sooner or later enrolled among the academicians. if a few missed the honor through failure to enlist the favor of women, as has been said, and a few better courtiers of less merit attained it, the modern press has not proved a more judicious tribunal. chapter x. the duchesse du maine _her capricious character--her esprit--mlle. de launay--clever portrait of her mistress--perpetual fetes at sceaux--voltaire and the "divine emilie"--dilettante character of this salon._ the life of the eighteenth century, with its restlessness, its love of amusements, its ferment of activities, and its essential frivolity, finds a more fitting representative in the duchesse du maine, granddaughter of the grand conde, and wife of the favorite son of louis xiv, and mme. de montespan. the transition from the serene and thoughtful atmosphere which surrounded mme. de lambert, to the tumultuous whirl of existence at sceaux, was like passing from the soft light and tranquillity of a summer evening to the glare and confusion of perpetual fireworks. of all the unique figures of a masquerading age this small and ambitious princess was perhaps the most striking, the most pervading. it was by no means her aim to take her place in the world as queen of a salon. louise-benedicte de bourbon belonged to the royal race, and this was by far the most vivid fact in her life. she was but a few steps from the throne, and political intrigues played a conspicuous part in her singular career. but while she waited for the supreme power to which she aspired, and later, when the feverish dream of her life was ended, she must be amused, and her diversions must have an intellectual and imaginative flavor. wits, artists, literary men, and savants were alike welcome at sceaux, if they amused her and entertained her guests. "one lived there by esprit, and esprit is my god," said mme. du deffand, who was among the brightest ornaments of this circle. born in , the duchesse du maine lived through the first half of the next century, of which her little court was one of the most notable features. scarcely above the stature of a child of ten years, slightly deformed, with a fair face lighted by fine eyes; classically though superficially educated; gifted in conversation, witty, brilliant, adoring talent, but cherishing all the prejudices of the old noblesse--she represented in a superlative degree the passion for esprit which lent such exceptional brilliancy to the social life of the time. in character the duchess was capricious and passionate. "if she were as good as she is wicked," said the sharp-tongued palatine, "there would be nothing to say against her. she is tranquil during the day and passes it playing at cards, but at its close the extravagances and fits of passion begin; she torments her husband, her children, her servants, to such a point that they do not know which way to turn." her will brooked no opposition. when forced to leave the tuileries after the collapse of her little bubble of political power, she deliberately broke every article of value in her apartments, consigning mirrors, vases, statues, porcelains alike to a common ruin, that no one else might enjoy them after her. this fiery scion of a powerful family, who had inherited its pride, its ambition, its uncontrollable passions, and its colossal will, had little patience with the serene temperament and dilettante tastes of her amiable husband, and it is said she did not scruple to make him feel the force of her small hands. "you will waken some morning to find yourself in the academie francaise, and the duc d'orleans regent," she said to him one day when he showed her a song he had translated. her device was a bee, with this motto: "i am small, but i make deep wounds." doubtless its fitness was fully realized by those who belonged to the ordre de la mouche-a-miel which she had instituted, and whose members were obliged to swear, by mount hymettus, fidelity and obedience to their perpetual dictator. but what pains and chagrins were not compensated by the bit of lemon-colored ribbon and its small meed of distinction! the little princess worked valiantly for political power, but she worked in vain. the conspiracy against the regent, which seemed to threaten another fronde, came to nothing, and this ardent instrigante, who had the disposition to "set the four corners of the kingdom on fire" to attain her ends, found her party dispersed and herself in prison. but this was only an episode, and though it gave a death blow to her dreams of power, it did not quench her irrepressible ardor. if she could not rule in one way, she would in another. as soon as she regained her freedom, her little court was again her kingdom, and no sovereign ever reigned more imperiously. "i am fond of company," she said, "for i listen to no one, and every one listens to me." it was an incessant thirst for power, a perpetual need of the sweet incense of flattery, that was at the bottom of this "passion for a multitude." "she believed in herself," writes mlle. de launay, afterward baronne de staal, "as she believed in god or descartes, without examination and without discussion." this lady's maid, who loved mathematics and anatomy, was familiar with malebranche and descartes, and left some literary reputation as a writer of gossipy memoirs, was a prominent figure in the lively court at sceaux for more than forty years, and has given us some vivid pictures of her capricious mistress. a young girl of clear intellect and good education, but without rank, friends, or fortune, she was forced to accept the humiliating position of femme de chambre with the duchesse du maine, who had been attracted by her talents. she was brought into notice through a letter to fontenelle, which was thought witty enough to be copied and circulated. if she had taken this cool dissector of human motives as a model, she certainly did credit to his teaching. her curiously analytical mind is aptly illustrated by her novel method of measuring her lover's passion. he was in the habit of accompanying her home from the house of a friend. when he began to cross the square, instead of going round it, she concluded that his love had diminished in the exact proportion of two sides of a square to the diagonal. promoted to the position of a companion, she devoted herself to the interests of her restless mistress, read to her, talked with her, wrote plays for her, and was the animating spirit of the famous nuits blanches. while the duchess was in exile she shared her disgrace, refused to betray her, and was sent to the bastille for her loyalty. she resigned herself to her imprisonment with admirable philosophy, amused herself in the study of latin, in watching the gambols of a cat and kitten, and in carrying on a safe and sentimental flirtation with the fascinating duc de richelieu, who occupied an adjoining cell and passed the hours in singing with her popular airs from iphigenie. "sentimental" is hardly a fitting word to apply to the coquetries of this remarkably clear and calculating young woman. she returned with her patroness to sceaux, found many admirers, but married finally with an eye to her best worldly interests, and, it appears, in the main happily--at least, not unhappily. the shade of difference implies much. she had a keen, penetrating intellect which nothing escaped, and as it had the peculiar clearness in which people and events are reflected as in a mirror, her observations are of great value. "aside from the prose of voltaire, i know of none more agreeable than that of mme. de staal de launay," said grimm. her portrait of her mistress serves to paint herself as well. "mme. la duchesse du maine, at the age of sixty years, has yet learned nothing from experience; she is a child of much talent; she has its defects and its charms. curious and credulous, she wishes to be instructed in all the different branches of knowledge; but she is contented with their surface. the decisions of those who educated her have become for her principles and rules upon which her mind has never formed the least doubt; she submits once for all. her provision for ideas is made; she rejects the best demonstrated truths and resists the best reasonings, if they are contrary to the first impressions she has received. all examination is impossible to her lightness, and doubt is a state which her weakness cannot support. her catechism and the philosophy of descartes are two systems which she understands equally well.... her mirror cannot make her doubt the charms of her face; the testimony of her eyes is more questionable than the judgment of those who have decided that she is beautiful and well-formed. her vanity is of a singular kind, but seems the less offensive because it is not reflective, though in reality it is the more ridiculous, intercourse with her is a slavery; her tyranny is open; she does not deign to color it with the appearance of friendship. she says frankly that she has the misfortune of not being able to do without people for whom she does not care. she proves it effectually. one sees her learn with indifference the death of those who would call forth torrents of tears if they were a quarter of an hour too late for a card party or a promenade." but this vain and self-willed woman read virgil and terence in the original, was devoted to greek tragedies, dipped into philosophy, traversed the surface of many sciences, turned a madrigal with facility, and talked brilliantly. "the language is perfect only when you speak it or when one speaks of you," wrote mme. de lambert, in a tone of discreet flattery. "no one has ever spoken with more correctness, clearness, and rapidity, neither in a manner more noble or more natural," said mlle. de launay. through this feminine la bruyere, as sainte-beuve has styled her, we are introduced to the life at sceaux. it was the habit of the guests to assemble at eight, listen to music or plays, improvise verses for popular airs, relate racy anecdotes, or amuse themselves with proverbs. "write verses for me," said the insatiable duchess when ill; "i feel that verses only can give me relief." the quality does not seem to have been essential, provided they were sufficiently flattering. sainte-aulaire wrote madrigals for her. malezieu, the learned and versatile preceptor of the duc du maine, read sophocles and euripides. mme. du maine herself acted the roles of athalie and iphigenie with the famous baron. they played at science, contemplated the heavens through a telescope and the earth through a microscope. in their eager search for novelty they improvised fetes that rivaled in magnificence the arabian nights; they posed as gods and goddesses, or, affecting simplicity, assumed rustic and pastoral characters, even to their small economies and romantic platitudes. mythology, the chivalry of the middle ages, costumes, illuminations, scenic effects, the triumphs of the artists, the wit of the bel esprit--all that ingenuity could devise or money could buy was brought into service. it was the life that watteau painted, with its quaint and grotesque fancies, its sylvan divinities, and its sighing lovers wandering in endless masquerade, or whispering tender nothings on banks of soft verdure, amid the rustle of leaves, the sparkle of fountains, the glitter of lights, and the perfume of innumerable flowers. it was a perpetual carnival, inspired by imagination, animated by genius, and combining everything that could charm the taste, distract the mind, and intoxicate the senses. the presiding genius of this fairy scene was the irrepressible duchess, who reigned as a goddess and demanded the homage due to one. well might the weary courtiers cry out against les galeres du bel esprit. but this fantastic princess who carried on a sentimental correspondence with the blind la motte, and posed as the tender shepherdess of the adoring but octogenarian sainte-aulaire, had no really democratic notions. there was no question in her mind of the divine right of kings or of princesses. she welcomed voltaire because he flattered her vanity and amused her guests, but she was far enough from the theories which were slowly fanning the sparks of the revolution. her rather imperious patronage of literary and scientific men set a fashion which all her world tried to follow. it added doubtless to the prestige of those who were insidiously preparing the destruction of the very foundations on which this luxurious and pleasure-loving society rested. but, after all, the bond between this restless, frivolous, heartless coterie and the genuine men of letters was very slight. there was no seriousness, no earnestness, no sincerity, no solid foundation. the literary men, however, who figured most conspicuously in the intimate circle of the duchesse du maine were not of the first order. malezieu was learned, a member of two academies, faintly eulogized by fontenelle, warmly so by voltaire, and not at all by mlle. de launay; but twenty-five years devoted to humoring the caprices and flattering the tastes of a vain and exacting patroness were not likely to develop his highest possibilities. there is a point where the stimulating atmosphere of the salon begins to enervate. his clever assistant, the abbe genest, poet and academician, was a sort of voiture, witty, versatile, and available. he tried to put descartes into verse, which suggests the quality of his poetry. sainte-aulaire, who, like his friend fontenelle, lived a century, frequented this society more or less for forty years, but his poems are sufficiently light, if one may judge from a few samples, and his genius doubtless caught more reflections in the salon than in a larger world. he owed his admission to the academy partly to a tender quatrain which he improvised in praise of his lively patroness. it is true we have occasional glimpses of voltaire. once he sought an asylum here for two months, after one of his numerous indiscretions, writing tales during the day, which he read to the duchess at night. again he came with his "divine emilie," the learned marquise du chatelet, who upset the household with her eccentric ways. "our ghosts do not show themselves by day," writes mlle. de launay; "they appeared yesterday at ten o'clock in the evening. i do not think we shall see them earlier today; one is writing high facts, the other, comments upon newton. they wish neither to play nor to promenade; they are very useless in a society where their learned writings are of no account." but voltaire was a courtier, and, in spite of his frequent revolts against patronage, was not at all averse to the incense of the salons and the favors of the great. it was another round in the ladder that led him towards glory. the cleverest women in france were found at sceaux, but the dominant spirit was the princess herself. it was amusement she wanted, and even men of talent were valued far less for what they were intrinsically than for what they could contribute to her vanity or to her diversion. "she is a predestined soul," wrote voltaire. "she will love comedy to the last moment, and when she is ill i counsel you to administer some beautiful poem in the place of extreme unction. one dies as one has lived." mme. du maine represented the conservative side of french society in spite of the fact that her abounding mental vitality often broke through the stiff boundaries of old traditions. it was not because she did not still respect them, but she had the defiant attitude of a princess whose will is an unwritten law superior to all traditions. the tone of her salon was in the main dilettante, as is apt to be the case with any circle that plumes itself most upon something quite apart from intellectual distinction. it reflected the spirit of an old aristocracy, with its pride, its exclusiveness, its worship of forms, but faintly tinged with the new thought that was rapidly but unconsciously encroaching upon time-honored institutions. beyond the clever pastimes of a brilliant coterie, it had no marked literary influence. this ferment of intellectual life was one of the signs of the times, but it led to no more definite and tangible results than the turning of a madrigal or the sparkle of an epigram. chapter xi. madame de tencin and madame du chatelet _an intriguing chanoinesse--her singular fascination--her salon--its philosophical character--mlle. aisse--romances of mme. de tencin--d'alembert--la belle emilie--voltaire--the two women compared_ it was not in the restless searchings of an old society for new sensations, new diversions, nor in the fleeting expressions of individual taste or caprice, which were often little more than the play of small vanities, that the most potent forces in the political as well as in the intellectual life of france were found. it was in the coteries which attracted the best representatives of modern thought, men and women who took the world on a more serious side, and mingled more or less of earnestness even in their amusements. while the duchesse du maine was playing her little comedy, which began and ended in herself, another woman, of far different type, and without rank or riches, was scheming for her friends, and nursing the germs of the philosophic party in one of the most notable salons of the first half of the century. mme. de tencin is not an interesting figure to contemplate from a moral standpoint. "she was born with the most fascinating qualities and the most abominable defects that god ever gave to one of his creatures," said mme. du deffand, who was far from being able to pose, herself, as a model of virtue or decorum. but sin has its degrees, and the woman who errs within the limits of conventionality considers herself entitled to sit in judgment upon her sister who wanders outside of the fold. measured even by the complaisant standards of her own time, there can be but one verdict upon the character of mme. de tencin, though it is to be hoped that the scandal-loving chroniclers have painted her more darkly than she deserved. but whatever her faults may have been, her talent and her influence were unquestioned. she posed in turn as a saint, an intrigante, and a femme d'esprit, with marked success in every one of these roles. but it was not a comedy she was playing for the amusement of the hour. beneath the velvet softness of her manner there was a definite aim, an inflexible purpose. with the tact and facility of a frenchwoman, she had a strong, active intellect, boundless ambition, indomitable energy, and the subtlety of an italian. an incident of her early life, related by mme. du deffand, furnishes a key to her complex character, and reveals one secret of her influence. born of a poor and proud family in grenoble, in , claudine alexandrine guerin de tencin was destined from childhood for the cloister. her strong aversion to the life of a nun was unavailing, and she was sent to a convent at montfleury. this prison does not seem to have been a very austere one, and the discipline was far from rigid. the young novice was so devout that the archbishop prophesied a new light for the church, and she easily persuaded him of the necessity of occupying the minds of the religieuses by suitable diversions. though not yet sixteen, this pretty, attractive, vivacious girl was fertile in resources, and won her way so far into the good graces of her superiors as to be permitted to organize reunions, and to have little comedies played which called together the provincial society. she transformed the convent, but her secret disaffection was unchanged. she took the final vows under the compulsion of her inflexible father, then continued her role of devote to admirable purpose. by the zeal of her piety, the severity of her penance, and the ardor of her prayers, she gained the full sympathy of her ascetic young confessor, to whom she confided her feeling of unfitness for a religious life, and her earnest desire to be freed from the vows which sat so uneasily upon her sensitive conscience. he exhorted her to steadfastness, but finally she wrote him a letter in which she confessed her hopeless struggle against a consuming passion, and urged the necessity of immediate release. the conclusion was obvious. the abbe fleuret was horrified by the conviction that this pretty young nun was in love with himself, and used his influence to secure her transference to a secular order at neuville, where as chanoinesse, she had many privileges and few restrictions. here she became at once a favorite, as before, charming by her modest devotion, and amusing by her brilliant wit. artfully, and by degrees, she convinced those in authority of the need of a representative in paris. this office she was chosen to fill. playing her pious part to the last, protesting with tears her pain at leaving a life she loved, and her unfitness for so great an honor she set out upon her easy mission. there are many tales of a scandalous life behind all this sanctity and humility, but her new position gave her consideration, influence, and a good revenue. "young, beautiful, clever, with an adorable talent," this "nun unhooded" fascinated the regent, and was his favorite for a few days. but her ambition got the better of her prudence. she ventured upon political ground, and he saw her no more. with his minister, the infamous dubois, she was more successful, and he served her purpose admirably well. through her notorious relations with him she enriched her brother and secured him a cardinal's hat. the intrigues of this unscrupulous trio form an important episode in the history of the period. when dubois died, within a few months of the regent, she wept, as she said, "that fools might believe she regretted him." her clear, incisive intellect and conversational charm would have assured the success of any woman at a time when these things counted for so much. "at thirty-six," wrote mme. du deffand, "she was beautiful and fresh as a woman of twenty; her eyes sparkled, her lips had a smile at the same time sweet and perfidious; she wished to be good, and gave herself great trouble to seem so, without succeeding." indolent and languid with flashes of witty vivacity, insinuating and facile, unconscious of herself, interested in everyone with whom she talked, she combined the tact, the finesse, the subtle penetration of a woman with the grasp, the comprehensiveness, and the knowledge of political machinery which are traditionally accorded to a man. "if she wanted to poison you, she would use the mildest poison," said the abbe trublet. "i cannot express the illusion which her air of nonchalance and easy grace left with me," says marmontel. "mme. de tencin, the woman in the kingdom who moved the most political springs, both in the city and at court, was for me only an indolente. ah, what finesse, what suppleness, what activity were concealed beneath this naive air, this appearance of calm and leisure!" but he confesses that she aided him greatly with her counsel, and that he owed to her much of his knowledge of the world. "unhappy those who depend upon the pen," she said to him; "nothing is more chimerical. the man who makes shoes is sure of his wages; the man who makes a book or a tragedy is never sure of anything." she advises him to make friends of women rather than of men. "by means of women, one attains all that one wishes from men, of whom some are too pleasure-loving, others too much preoccupied with their personal interests not to neglect yours; whereas women think of you, if only from idleness. speak this evening to one of them of some affair that concerns you; tomorrow at her wheel, at her tapestry, you will find her dreaming of it, and searching in her head for some means of serving you." prominent among her friends were bolingbroke and fontenelle. "it is not a heart which you have there," she said to the latter, laying her hand on the spot usually occupied by that organ, "but a second brain." she had enlisted what stood in the place of it, however, and he interested himself so far as to procure her final release from her vows, through benedict xiv, who, as cardinal lambertini, had frequented her salon, and who sent her his portrait as a souvenir, after his election to the papacy. through her intimacy with the duc de richelieu, mme. de tencin made herself felt even in the secret councils of louis xv. her practical mind comprehended more clearly than many of the statesmen the forces at work and the weakness that coped with them. "unless god visibly interferes," she said, "it is physically impossible that the state should not fall in pieces." it was her influence that inspired mme. de chateauroux with the idea of sending her royal lover to revive the spirits of the army in flanders. "it is not, between ourselves, that he is in a state to command a company of grenadiers," she wrote to her brother, "but his presence will avail much. the troops will do their duty better, and the generals will not dare to fail them so openly... a king, whatever he may be, is for the soldiers and people what the ark of the covenant was for the hebrews; his presence alone promises success." her devotion to her friends was the single redeeming trait in her character, and she hesitated at nothing to advance the interests of her brother, over whose house she gracefully presided. but she failed in her ultimate ambition to elevate him to the ministry, and her intrigues were so much feared that cardinal fleury sent her away from paris for a short time. her disappointments, which it is not the purpose to trace here, left her one of the disaffected party, and on her return her drawing room became a rallying point for the radical thinkers of france. such was the woman who courted, flattered, petted, and patronized the literary and scientific men of paris, called them her menagerie, put them into a sort of uniform, gave them two suppers a week, and sent them two ells of velvet for small clothes at new year's. of her salon, marmontel gives us an interesting glimpse. he had been invited to read one of his tragedies, and it was his first introduction. "i saw assembled there montesquieu, fontenelle, mairan, marivaux, the young helvetius, astruc, and others, all men of science or letters, and, in the midst of them, a woman of brilliant intellect and profound judgment, who, with her kind and simple exterior, had rather the appearance of the housekeeper than the mistress. this was mme. de tencin.... i soon perceived that the guests came there prepared to play their parts, and that their wish to shine did not leave the conversation always free to follow its easy and natural course. every one tried to seize quickly and on the wing the moment to bring in his word, his story, his anecdote, his maxim, or to add his dash of light and sparkling wit; and, in order to do this opportunely, it was often rather far-fetched. in marivaux, the impatience to display his finesse and sagacity was quite apparent. montesquieu, with more calmness, waited for the ball to come to him, but he waited. mairan watched his opportunity. astruc did not deign to wait. fontenelle alone let it come to him without seeking it, and he used so discreetly the attention given him, that his witty sayings and his clever stories never occupied more than a moment. alert and reserved, helvetius listened and gathered material for the future." mme. de tencin loved literature and philosophy for their own sake, and received men of letters at their intrinsic value. she encouraged, too, the freedom of thought and expression at that time so rare and so dangerous. it was her influence that gave its first impulse to the success of montesquieu's esprit des lois, of which she personally bought and distributed many copies. if she talked well, she knew also how to listen, to attract by her sympathy, to aid by her generosity, to inspire by her intelligence, to charm by her versatility. another figure flits in and out of this salon, whose fine qualities of soul shine so brightly in this morally stifling atmosphere that one forgets her errors in a mastering impulse of love and pity. there is no more pathetic history in this arid and heartless age than that of mlle. aisse, the beautiful circassian, with the lustrous, dark, oriental eyes, who was brought from constantinople in infancy by the french envoy, and left as a precious heritage to mme. de ferriol, the intriguing sister of mme. de tencin, and her worthy counterpart, if not in talent, in the faults that darkened their common womanhood. this delicate young girl, surrounded by worldly and profligate friends, and drawn in spite of herself into the errors of her time, redeemed her character by her romantic heroism, her unselfish devotion, and her final revolt against what seemed to be an inexorable fate. the struggle between her self-forgetful love for the knightly chevalier d'aydie and her sensitive conscience, her refusal to cloud his future by a portionless marriage, and her firmness in severing an unholy tie, knowing that the sacrifice would cost her life, as it did, form an episode as rare as it is tragical. but her exquisite personality, her rich gifts of mind and soul, her fine intelligence, her passionate love, almost consecrated by her pious but fatal renunciation, call up one of the loveliest visions of the century--a vision that lingers in the memory like a medieval poem. mme. de tencin amused her later years b writing sentimental tales, which were found among her papers after her death. these were classed with the romances of mme. de la fayette. speaking of the latter, la harpe said, "only one other woman succeeded, a century later, in painting with equal power the struggles of love and virtue." it is one of the curious inconsistencies of her character, that her creations contained an element which her life seems wholly to have lacked. behind all her faults of conduct there was clearly an ideal of purity and goodness. her stories are marked by a vividness and an ardor of passion rarely found in the insipid and colorless romances of the preceding age. her pictures of love and intrigue and crime are touched with the religious enthusiasm of the cloister, the poetry of devotion, the heroism of self-sacrifice. perhaps the dark and mysterious facts of her own history shaped themselves in her imagination. did the tragedy of la fresnaye, the despairing lover who blew out his brains at her feet, leaving the shadow of a crime hanging over her, with haunting memories of the bastille, recall the innocence of her own early convent days? did she remember some long-buried love, and the child left to perish upon the steps of st. jean le rond, but grown up to be her secret pride in the person of the great mathematician and philosopher d'alembert? what was the subtle link between this worldly woman and the eternal passion, the tender self-sacrifice of adelaide, the loyal heroine who breathes out her solitary and devoted soul on the ashes of la trappe, unknown to her faithful and monastic lover, until the last sigh? the fate of adelaide has become a legend. it has furnished a theme for the poet and the artist, an inspiration for the divine strains of beethoven, another leaf in the annals of pure and heroic love. but the woman who conceived it toyed with the human heart as with a beautiful flower, to be tossed aside when its first fragrance was gone. she apparently knew neither the virtue, nor the honor, nor the purity, nor the truth of which she had so exquisite a perception in the realm of the imagination. or were some of the episodes which darken the story of her life simply the myths of a gossiping age, born of the incidents of an idle tale, to live forever on the pages of history? but it was not as a literary woman that mme. de tencin held her position and won her fame. her gifts were eminently those of her age and race, and it may be of interest to compare her with a woman of larger talent of a purely intellectual order, who belonged more or less to the world of the salons, without aspiring to leadership, and who, though much younger, died in the same year. mme. du chatelet was essentially a woman of letters. she loved the exact sciences, expounded leibnitz, translated newton, gave valuable aid to voltaire in introducing english thought into france, and was one of the first women among the nobility to accept the principles of philosophic deism. "i confess that she is tyrannical," said voltaire; "one must talk about metaphysics, when the temptation is to talk of love. ovid was formerly my master; it is now the turn of locke." she has been clearly but by no means pleasantly painted for us in the familiar letters of mme. de graffigny, in the rather malicious sketches of the marquise de crequi, and in the still more strongly outlined portrait or mme. du deffand, as a veritable bas bleu, learned, pedantic, eccentric, and without grace or beauty. "imagine a woman tall and hard, with florid complexion, face sharp, nose pointed--voila la belle emilie," writes the latter; "a face with which she was so contented that she spared nothing to set it off; curls, topknots, precious stones, all are in profusion... she was born with much esprit; the desire of appearing to have more made her prefer the study of the abstract sciences to agreeable branches of knowledge; she thought by this singularity to attain a greater reputation and a decided superiority over all other women. madame worked with so much care to seem what she was not, that no one knew exactly what she was; even her defects were not natural." "she talks like an angel"--"she sings divinely"--"our sex ought to erect altars to her," wrote mme. de graffigny during a visit at her chateau. a few weeks later her tone changed. they had quarreled. of such stuff is history made. but she had already given a charming picture of the life at cirey. mme. du chatelet plunged into abstractions during the day. in the evening she was no more the savante, but gave herself up to the pleasures of society with the ardor of a nature that was extreme in everything. voltaire read his poetry and his dramas, told stories that made them weep and then laugh at their tears, improvised verses, and amused them with marionettes, or the magic lantern. la belle emilie criticized the poems, sang, and played prominent parts in the comedies and tragedies of the philosopher poet, which were first given in her little private theater. among the guests were the eminent scientist, maupertuis, her life-long friend and teacher; the italian savant, algarotti, president henault, helvetius, the poet, saint-lambert, and many others of equal distinction. "of what do we not talk!" writes mme. de graffigny. "poetry, science, art, everything, in a tone of graceful badinage. i should like to be able to send you these charming conversations, these enchanting conversations, but it is not in me." mme. du chatelet owned for several years the celebrated hotel lambert, and a choice company of savants assembled there as in the days when mme. de lambert presided in those stately apartments. but this learned salon had only a limited vogue. the thinking was high, but the dinners were too plain. the real life of mme. du chatelet was an intimate one. "i confess that in love and friendship lies all my happiness," said this astronomer, metaphysician, and mathematician, who wrote against revelation and went to mass with her free-thinking lover. her learning and eccentricities made her the target for many shafts of ridicule, but she counted for much with voltaire, and her chief title to fame lies in his long and devoted friendship. he found the "sublime and respectable emilie" the incarnation of all the virtues, though a trifle ill-tempered. the contrast between his kindly portrait and those of her feminine friends is striking and rather suggestive. "she joined to the taste for glory a simplicity which does not always accompany it, but which is often the fruit of serious studies. no woman was ever so learned, and no one deserves less to be called a femme savante. born with a singular eloquence, this eloquence manifested itself only when she found subjects worthy of it... the fitting word, precision, justness, and force were the characteristics of her style. she would rather write like pascal and nicole than like mme. de sevigne; but this severe strength and this vigorous temper of her mind did not render her inaccessible to the beauties of sentiment. the charms of poetry and eloquence penetrated her, and no one was ever more sensitive to harmony... she gave herself to the great world as to study. everything that occupies society was in her province except scandal. she was never known to repeat an idle story. she had neither time nor disposition to give attention to such things, and when told that some one had done her an injustice, she replied that she did not wish to hear about it." "she led him a life a little hard," said mme. de graffigny, after her quarrel; but he seems to have found it agreeable, and broke his heart--for a short time--when she died. "i have lost half of my being," he wrote--"a soul for which mine was made." to marmontel he says: "come and share my sorrow. i have lost my illustrious friend. i am in despair. i am inconsolable." one cannot believe that so clear-sighted a man, even though a poet, could live for twenty years under the spell of a pure illusion. what heart revelations, what pictures of contemporary life, were lost in the eight large volumes of his letters which were destroyed at her death! while mme. de tencin studied men and affairs, mme. du chatelet studied books. one was mistress of the arts of diplomacy, gentle but intriguing, ambitious, always courting society and shunning solitude. the other was violent and imperious, hated finesse, and preferred burying herself among the rare treasures of her library at cirey. the influence of mme. de tencin was felt, not only in the social and intellectual, but in the political life of the century. the traditions of her salon lingered in those which followed, modified by the changes that time and personal taste always bring. mme. du chatelet was more learned, but she lacked the tact and charm which give wide personal ascendancy. her influence was largely individual, and her books have been mostly forgotten. these women were alike defiant of morality, but taken all in all, the character of mme. chatelet has more redeeming points, though little respect can be accorded to either. with the wily intellect of a talleyrand, mme. de tencin represents the social genius, the intelligence, the esprit, and the worst vices of the century on which she has left such conspicuous traces. "she knew my tastes and always offered me those dishes i preferred," said fontenelle when she died in . "it is an irreparable loss." perhaps his hundred years should excuse his not going to her funeral for fear of catching cold. chapter xii. madame geoffrin and the philosophers _cradles of the new philosophy--noted salons of this period-- character of mme. geoffrin--her practical education--anecdotes of her husband--composition of her salon--its insidious influence--her journey to warsaw--her death_ during the latter half of the eighteenth century the center of social life was no longer the court, but the salons. they had multiplied indefinitely, and, representing every shade of taste and thought, had reached the climax of their power as schools of public opinion, as well as their highest perfection in the arts and amenities of a brilliant and complex society. there was a slight reaction from the reckless vices and follies of the regency. if morals were not much better, manners were a trifle more decorous. though the great world did not take the tone of stately elegance and rigid propriety which it had assumed under the rule of mme. de maintenon, it was superficially polished, and a note of thoughtfulness was added. affairs in france had taken too serious an aspect to be ignored, and the theories of the philosophers were among the staple topics of conversation; indeed, it was the great vogue of the philosophers that gave many of the most noted social centers their prestige and their fame. it is not the salons of the high nobility that suggest themselves as the typical ones of this age. it is those which were animated by the habitual presence of the radical leaders of french thought. economic questions and the rights of man were discussed as earnestly in these brilliant coteries as matters of faith and sentiment, of etiquette and morals, had been a hundred years before. such subjects were forced upon them by the inexorable logic of events; and fashion, which must needs adapt itself in some measure to the world over which it rules, took them up. if the drawing rooms of the seventeenth century were the cradles of refined manners and a new literature, those of the eighteenth were literally the cradles of a new philosophy. the practical growth and spread of french philosophy was too closely interwoven with the history of the salons not to call for a word here. its innovations were faintly prefigured in the coterie of mme. de lambert, where it colored almost imperceptibly the literary and critical discussions. but its foundations were more firmly laid in the drawing room of mme. de tencin, where the brilliant wit and radical theories of montesquieu, as well as the pronounced materialism of helvetius, found a congenial atmosphere. though the mingled romance and satire of the "persian letters," with their covert attack upon the state and society, raised a storm of antagonism, they called out a burst of admiration as well. the original and aggressive thought of men like voltaire, rousseau, d'alembert, and diderot, with its diversity of shading, but with the cardinal doctrine of freedom and equality pervading it all, had found a rapidly growing audience. it no longer needed careful nursing, in the second half of the century. it had invaded the salons of the haute noblesse, and was discussed even in the anterooms of the court. mme. de pompadour herself stole away from her tiresome lover-king to the freethinking coterie that met in her physician's apartments in the entresol at versailles, and included the greatest iconoclasts of the age. if she had any misgivings as to the outcome of these discussions, they were fearlessly cast aside with "apres nous le deluge." "in the depth of her heart she was with us," said voltaire when she died. there were clairvoyant spirits who traced the new theories to their logical results. mme. du deffand speaks with prophetic vision of the reasoners and beaux esprits "who direct the age and lead it to its ruin." there were conservative women, too, who used their powerful influence against them. it was in the salon of the delicate but ardent young princesse de robecq that palissot was inspired to write the satirical comedy of "the philosophers," in which rousseau was represented as entering on all fours, browsing a lettuce, and the encyclopedists were so mercilessly ridiculed. this spirited and heroic daughter-in-law of the duchesse de luxembourg, the powerful patroness of rousseau, was hopelessly ill at the time, and, in a caustic reply to the clever satire, the abbe morellet did not spare the beautiful invalid who desired for her final consolation only to see its first performance and be able to say, "now, lord, thou lettest thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen vengeance." the cruel attack was thought to have hastened her death, and the witty abbe was sent to the bastille; but he came out in two months, went away for a time, and returned a greater hero than ever. there is a picture, full of pathetic significance, which represents the dying princess on her pillow, crowned with a halo of sanctity, as she devotes her last hours to the defense of the faith she loves. one is reminded of the sweet and earnest souls of port royal; but her vigorous protest, which furnished only a momentary target for the wit of the philosophers, was lost in the oncoming wave of skepticism. the vogue of these men received its final stamp in the admiring patronage of the greatest sovereigns in europe. voltaire had his well-known day of power at the court of frederick the great. grimm and diderot, too, were honored guests of that most liberal of despots, and discussed their novel theories in familiar fashion with catherine ii, at st. petersburg. the reply of this astute and clear-sighted empress to the eloquent plea of diderot may be commended for its wisdom to the dreamers and theorists of today. "i have heard, with the greatest pleasure, all that your brilliant intellect has inspired you to say; but with all your grand principles, which i comprehend very well, one makes fine books and bad business. you forget in all your plans of reform the difference of our two positions. you work only on paper, which permits everything; it is quite smooth and pliant, and opposes no obstacles to your imagination nor to your pen; while i, poor empress, i work upon the human cuticle, which is quite sensitive and irritable." it is needless to say that the men so honored by sovereigns were petted in the salons, in spite of their disfavor with the government. they dined, talked, posed as lions or as martyrs, and calmly bided their time. the persecution of the encyclopedists availed little more than satire had done, in stemming the slowly rising tide of public opinion. utopian theories took form in the ultra circles, were insidiously disseminated in the moderate ones, and were lightly discussed in the fashionable ones. men who talked, and women who added enthusiasm, were alike unconscious of the dynamic force of the material with which they were playing. of the salons which at this period had a european reputation, the most noted were those of mme. du deffand, mlle. de lespinasse, and mme. geoffrin. the first was the resort of the more intellectual of the noblesse, as well as the more famous of the men of letters. the two worlds mingled here; the tone was spiced with wit and animated with thought, but it was essentially aristocratic. the second was the rallying point of the encyclopedists and much frequented by political reformers, but the rare gifts of its hostess attracted many from the great world. the last was moderate in tone, though philosophical and thoroughly cosmopolitan. sainte-beuve pronounced it "the most complete, the best organized, and best conducted of its time; the best established since the foundation of the salons; that is, since the hotel de rambouillet." "do you know why la geoffrin comes here? it is to see what she can gather from my inventory," remarked mme. de tencin on her death bed. she understood thoroughly her world, and knew that her friend wished to capture the celebrities who were in the habit of meeting in her salon. but she does not seem to have borne her any ill will for her rather premature schemes, as she gave her a characteristic piece of advice: "never refuse any advance of friendship," she said; "for, if nine out of ten bring you nothing, one alone may repay you. everything is of service in a menage if one knows how to use his tools." mme. geoffrin was an apt pupil in the arts of diplomacy, and the key to her remarkable social success may be found in her ready assimilation of the worldly wisdom of her sage counselor. but to this she added a far kinder heart and a more estimable character. of all the women who presided over famous salons, mme. geoffrin had perhaps the least claim to intellectual preeminence. the secret of her power must have lain in some intangible quality that has failed to be perpetuated in any of her sayings or doings. a few commonplace and ill-spelled letters, a few wise or witty words, are all the direct record she has left of herself. without rank, beauty, youth, education, or remarkable mental gifts of a sort that leave permanent traces, she was the best representative of the women of her time who held their place in the world solely through their skill in organizing and conducting a salon. she was in no sense a luminary; and conscious that she could not shine by her own light, she was bent upon shining by that of others. but, in a social era so brilliant, even this implied talent of a high order. a letter to the empress of russia, in reply to a question concerning her early education, throws a ray of light upon her youth and her peculiar training. "i lost my father and mother," she writes, "in the cradle. i was brought up by an aged grandmother, who had much intelligence and a well-balanced head. she had very little education; but her mind was so clear, so ready, so active, that it never failed her; it served always in the place of knowledge. she spoke so agreeably of the things she did not know that no one wished her to understand them better; and when her ignorance was too visible, she got out of it by pleasantries which baffled the pedants who tried to humiliate her. she was so contented with her lot that she looked upon knowledge as a very useless thing for a woman. she said: 'i have done without it so well that i have never felt the need of it. if my granddaughter is stupid, learning will make her conceited and insupportable; if she has talent and sensibility, she will do as i have done--supply by address and with sentiment what she does not know; when she becomes more reasonable, she will learn that for which she has the most aptitude, and she will learn it very quickly.' she taught me in my childhood simply to read, but she made me read much; she taught me to think by making me reason; she taught me to know men by making me say what i thought of them, and telling me also the opinion she had formed. she required me to render her an account of all my movements and all my feelings, correcting them with so much sweetness and grace that i never concealed from her anything that i thought or felt; my internal life was as visible as my external. my education was continual." the daughter of a valet de chambre of the duchess of burgundy, who gave her a handsome dowry, marie therese rodet became, at fourteen, the wife of a lieutenant-colonel of the national guard and a rich manufacturer of glass. her husband did not count for much among the distinguished guests who in later years frequented her salon, and his part in her life seems to have consisted mainly in furnishing the money so essential to her success, and in looking carefully after the interests of the menage. it is related that some one gave him a history to read, and when he called for the successive volumes the same one was always returned to him. not observing this, he found the work interesting, but "thought the author repeated a little." he read across the page a book printed in two columns, remarking that "it seemed to be very good, but a trifle abstract." one day a visitor inquired for the white-haired old gentleman who was in the habit of sitting at the head of the table. "that was my husband," replied mme. geoffrin; "he is dead." but if her marriage was not an ideal one, it does not appear that it was unhappy. perhaps her bourgeois birth and associations saved her youth from the domestic complications which were so far the rule in the great world as to have, in a measure, its sanction. at all events her life was apparently free from the shadows that rested upon many of her contemporaries. "her character was a singular one," writes marmontel, who lived for ten years in her house, "and difficult to understand or paint, because it was all in half-tints and shades; very decided nevertheless, but without the striking traits by which one's nature distinguishes and defines itself. she was kind, but had little sensibility; charitable, without any of the charms of benevolence; eager to aid the unhappy, but without seeing them, for fear of being moved; a sure, faithful, even officious friend, but timid and anxious in serving others, lest she should compromise her credit or her repose. she was simple in her taste, her dress, and her furniture, but choice in her simplicity, having the refinements and delicacies of luxury, but nothing of its ostentation nor its vanity; modest in her air, carriage, and manners, but with a touch of pride, and even a little vainglory. nothing flattered her more than her intercourse with the great. at their houses she rarely saw them,--indeed she was not at her ease there,--but she knew how to attract them to her own by a coquetry subtly flattering; and in the easy, natural, half-respectful and half-familiar air with which she received them, i thought i saw remarkable address." in a woman of less tact and penetration, this curious vein of hidden vanity would have led to pretension. but mme. geoffrin was preeminently gifted with that fine social sense which is apt to be only the fruit of generations of culture. with her it was innate genius. she was mistress of the amiable art of suppressing herself, and her vanity assumed the form of a gracious modesty. "i remain humble, but with dignity," she writes to a friend; "that is, in depreciating myself i do not suffer others to depreciate me." she had the instinct of the artist who knows how to offset the lack of brilliant gifts by the perfection of details, the modesty that disarms criticism, and a rare facility in the art of pleasing. there was an air of refinement and simple elegance in her personality that commanded respect. tall and dignified, with her silvery hair concealed by her coif, she combined a noble presence with great kindliness of manner. she usually wore somber colors and fine laces, for which she had great fondness. her youth was long past when she came before the world, and that sense of fitness which always distinguished her led her to accept her age seriously and to put on its hues. the "dead-leaf mantle" of mme. de maintenon was worn less severely perhaps, but it was worn without affectation. diderot gives us a pleasant glimpse of her at grandval, where they were dining with baron d'holbach. "mme. geoffrin was admirable," he wrote to mlle. volland. "i remark always the noble and quiet taste with which this woman dresses. she wore today a simple stuff of austere color, with large sleeves, the smoothest and finest linen, and the most elegant simplicity throughout." in her equanimity and her love of repose she was a worthy disciple of fontenelle. she carefully avoided all violent passions and all controversies. to her lawyer, who was conducting a suit that worried her, she said, "wind up my case. do they want my money? i have some, and what can i do with money better than to buy tranquillity with it?" this aversion to annoyance often reached the proportions of a very amiable selfishness. "she has the habit of detesting those who are unhappy," said the witty abbe galiani, "for she does not wish to be so, even by the sight of the unhappiness of others. she has an impressionable heart; she is old; she is well; she wishes to preserve her health and her tranquillity. as soon as she learns that i am happy she will love me to folly." but her generosity was exceptional. "donner et pardonner" was her device. many anecdotes are related of her charitable temper. she had ordered two marble vases of bouchardon. one was broken before reaching her. learning that the man who broke it would lose his place if it were known, and that he had a family of four children, she immediately sent word to the atelier that the sculptor was not to be told of the loss, adding a gift of twelve francs to console the culprit for his fright. she often surprised her impecunious friends with the present of some bit of furniture she thought they needed, or an annuity delicately bestowed. "i have assigned to you fifteen thousand francs," she said one day to the abbe morellet; "do not speak of it and do not thank me." "economy is the source of independence and liberty" was one of her mottoes, and she denied herself the luxuries of life that she might have more to spend in charities. but she never permitted any one to compromise her, and often withheld her approbation where she was free with her purse. to do all the good possible and to respect all the convenances were her cardinal principles. marmontel was sent to the bastille under circumstances that were rather creditable than otherwise; but it was a false note, and she was never quite the same to him afterwards. she wept at her own injustice, schemed for his election to the academy, and scolded him for his lack of diplomacy; but the little cloud was there. when the sorbonne censured his belisarius her friendship could no longer bear the strain, and, though still received at her dinners, he ceased to live in her house. her dominant passion seems to have been love of consideration, if a calm and serene, but steadily persistent, purpose can be called a passion. no trained diplomatist ever understood better the world with which he had to deal, or managed more adroitly to avoid small antagonisms. it was her maxim not to create jealousy by praising people, nor irritation by defending them. if she wished to say a kind word, she dwelt upon good qualities that were not contested. she prided herself upon ruling her life by reason. sainte-beuve calls her the fontenelle of women, but it was fontenelle tempered with a heart. this "foster-mother of philosophers" evidently wished to make sure of her own safety, however matters might turn out in the next world. she had a devotional vein, went to mass privately, had a seat at the church of the capucins, and an apartment for retreat in a convent. during her last illness the marquise de la ferte-imbault, who did not love her mother's freethinking friends, excluded them, and sent for a confessor. mme. geoffrin submitted amiably, and said, smiling, "my daughter is like godfrey of bouillon; she wishes to defend my tomb against the infidels." into the composition of her salon she brought the talent of an artist. we have a glimpse of her in through a letter from montesquieu. she was then about fifty, and had gathered about her a more or less distinguished company, which was enlarged after the death of mme. de tencin, in the following year. she gave dinners twice a week--one on monday for artists, among whom were vanloo, vernet, and boucher; and one on wednesday for men of letters. as she believed that women were apt to distract the conversation, only one was usually invited to dine with them. mlle. de lespinasse, the intellectual peer and friend of these men, sat opposite her, and aided in conducting the conversation into agreeable channels. the talent of mme. geoffrin seems to have consisted in telling a story well, in a profound knowledge of people, ready tact, and the happy art of putting every one at ease. she did not like heated discussions nor a too pronounced expression of opinion. "she was willing that the philosophers should remodel the world," says one of her critics, "on condition that the kingdom of diderot should come without disorder or confusion." but though she liked and admired this very free and eloquent diderot, he was too bold and outspoken to have a place at her table. helvetius, too, fell into disfavor after the censure which his atheistic de l'esprit brought upon him; and baron d'holbach was too apt to overstep the limits at which the hostess interfered with her inevitable "voila qui est bien." indeed, she assumed the privilege of her years to scold her guests if they interfered with the general harmony or forgot any of the amenities. but her scoldings were very graciously received as a slight penalty for her favor, and more or less a measure of her friendship. she graded her courtesies with fine discrimination, and her friends found the reflection of their success or failure in her manner of receiving them. her keen, practical mind pierced every illusion with merciless precision. she defined a popular abbe who posed for a bel esprit, as a "fool rubbed all over with wit." rulhiere had read in her salon a work on russia, which she feared might compromise him, and she offered him a large sum of money to throw it into the fire. the author was indignant at such a reflection upon his courage and honor, and grew warmly eloquent upon the subject. she listened until he had finished, then said quietly, "how much more do you want, m. rulhiere?" the serene poise of a character without enthusiasms and without illusions is very well illustrated by a letter to mme. necker. after playfully charging her with being always infatuated, never cool and reserved, she continues: "do you know, my pretty one, that your exaggerated praises confound me, instead of pleasing and flattering me? i am always afraid that your giddiness will evaporate. you will then judge me to be so different from your preconceived opinion that you will punish me for your own mistake, and allow me no merit at all. i have my virtues and my good qualities, but i have also many faults. of these i am perfectly well aware, and every day i try to correct them. "my dear friend, i beg of you to lessen your excessive admiration. i assure you that you humiliate me; and that is certainly not your intention. the angels think very little about me, and i do not trouble myself about them. their praise or their blame is indifferent to me, for i shall not come in their way; but what i do desire is that you should love me, and that you should take me as you find me." again she assumes her position of mentor and writes: "how is it possible not to answer the kind and charming letter i have received from you? but still i reply only to tell you that it made me a little angry. i see that it is impossible to change anything in your uneasy, restless, and at the same time weak character." horace walpole, who met her during his first visit to paris, and before his intimacy with mme. du deffand had colored his opinions, has left a valuable pen-portrait of mme. geoffrin. in a letter to gray, in , he writes: "mme. geoffrin, of whom you have heard much, is an extraordinary woman, with more common sense than i almost ever met with, great quickness in discovering characters, penetrating and going to the bottom of them, and a pencil that never fails in a likeness, seldom a favorable one. she exacts and preserves, spite of her birth and their nonsensical prejudices about nobility, great court and attention. this she acquires by a thousand little arts and offices of friendship, and by a freedom and severity which seem to be her sole end for drawing a concourse to her. she has little taste and less knowledge, but protects artisans and authors, and courts a few people to have the credit of serving her dependents. in short, she is an epitome of empire, subsisting by rewards and punishments." later, when he was less disinterested, perhaps, he writes to another friend: "mme. du deffand hates the philosophers, so you must give them up to her. she and mme. geoffrin are no friends; so if you go thither, don't tell her of it--indeed you would be sick of that house whither all the pretended beaux esprits and false savants go, and where they are very impertinent and dogmatic." the real power of this woman may be difficult to define, but a glance at her society reveals, at least partly, its secret. nowhere has the glamour of a great name more influence than at paris. a few celebrities form a nucleus of sufficient attraction to draw all the world, if they are selected with taste and discrimination. after the death of fontenelle, d'alembert, always witty, vivacious, and original, in spite of the serious and exact nature of his scientific studies, was perhaps the leading spirit of this salon. among its constant habitues were helvetius, who put his selfishness into his books, reserving for his friends the most amiable and generous of tempers; marivaux, the novelist and dramatist, whose vanity rivaled his genius, but who represented only the literary spirit, and did not hesitate to ridicule his companions the philosophers; the caustic but brilliant and accomplished abbe morellet, who had "his heart in his head and his head in his heart;" the severe and cheerful mairan, mathematician, astronomer, physician, musical amateur, and member of two academies, whose versatile gifts and courtly manners gave him as cordial a welcome in the exclusive salon at the temple as among his philosophical friends; the gay young marmontel, who has left so clear and simple a picture of this famous circle and its gentle hostess; grimm, who combined the savant and the courtier; saint-lambert, the delicate and scholarly poet; thomas, grave and thoughtful, shining by his character and intellect, but forgetting the graces which were at that time so essential to brilliant success; the eloquent abbe raynal; and the chevalier de chastellux, so genial, so sympathetic, and so animated. to these we may add galiani, the smallest, the wittiest, and the most delightful of abbes, whose piercing insight and machiavellian subtlety lent a piquant charm to the stories with which for hours he used to enliven this choice company; caraccioli, gay, simple, ingenuous, full of neapolitan humor, rich in knowledge and observation, luminous with intelligence and sparkling with wit; and the comte de crentz, the learned and versatile swedish minister, to whom nature had "granted the gift of expressing and painting in touches of fire all that had struck his imagination or vividly seized his soul." hume, gibbon, walpole, indeed every foreigner of distinction who visited paris, lent to this salon the eclat of their fame, the charm of their wit, or the prestige of their rank. it was such men as these who gave it so rare a fascination and so lasting a fame. a strong vein of philosophy was inevitable, though in this circle of diplomats and litterateurs there were many counter-currents of opinion. it was her consummate skill in blending these diverse but powerful elements, and holding them within harmonious limits, that made the reputation of the autocratic hostess. the friend of savants and philosophers, she had neither read nor studied books, but she had studied life to good purpose. though superficial herself, she had the delicate art of putting every one in the most advantageous light by a few simple questions or words. it was one of her maxims that "the way not to get tired of people is to talk to them of themselves; at the same time, it is the best way to prevent them from getting tired of you." perhaps mme. necker was thinking of her when she compared certain women in conversation to "light layers of cotton wool in a box packed with porcelain; we do not pay much attention to them, but if they were taken away everything would be broken." mme. geoffrin was always at home in the evening, and there were simple little suppers to which a few women were invited. the fare was usually little more than "a chicken, some spinach, and omelet." among the most frequent guests were the charming, witty, and spirituelle comtesse d'egmont, daughter of the duc de richelieu, who added to the vivacious and elegant manners of her father an indefinable grace of her own, and a vein of sentiment that was doubtless deepened by her sad little romance; the marquise de duras, more dignified and discreet; and the beautiful comtesse de brionne, "a venus who resembled minerva." these women, with others who came there, were intellectual complements of the men; some of them gay and not without serious faults, but adding beauty, rank, elegance, and the delicate tone of esprit which made this circle so famous that it was thought worth while to have its sayings and doings chronicled at berlin and st. petersburg. perhaps its influence was the more insidious and far reaching because of its polished moderation. the "let us be agreeable" of mme. geoffrin was a potent talisman. among the guests at one time was stanislas poniatowski, afterwards king of poland. hearing that he was about to be imprisoned by his creditors, mme. geoffrin came forward and paid his debts. "when i make a statue of friendship, i shall give it your features," he said to her; "this divinity is the mother of charity." on his elevation to the throne he wrote to her, "maman, your son is king. come and see him." this led to her famous journey when nearly seventy years of age. it was a series of triumphs at which no one was more surprised than herself, and they were all due, she modestly says, "to a few mediocre dinners and some petits soupers." one can readily pardon her for feeling flattered, when the emperor alights from his carriage on the public promenade at vienna and pays her some pretty compliments, "just as if he had been at one of our little wednesday suppers." there is a charm in the simple naivete with which she tells her friends how cordially maria theresa receives her at schonbrunn, and she does not forget to add that the empress said she had the most beautiful complexion in the world. she repeats quite naturally, and with a slight touch of vanity perhaps, the fine speeches made to her by the "adorable prince galitzin" and prince kaunitz, "the first minister in europe," both of whom entertained her. but she would have been more than a woman to have met all this honor with indifference. no wonder she believes herself to be dreaming. "i am known here much better than in the rue st. honore," she writes, "and in a fashion the most flattering. my journey has made an incredible sensation for the last fifteen days." to be sure, she spells badly for a woman who poses as the friend of litterateurs and savants, and says very little about anything that does not concern her own fame and glory. but she does not cease to remember her friends, whom she "loves, if possible, better than ever." nor does she forget to send a thousand caresses to her kitten. a messenger from warsaw meets her with everything imaginable that can add to the comfort and luxury of her journey, and on reaching there she finds a room fitted up for her like her own boudoir in the rue st. honore. she accepts all this consideration with great modesty and admirable good sense. "this tour finished," she writes to d'alembert, "i feel that i shall have seen enough of men and things to be convinced that they are everywhere about the same. i have my storehouse of reflections and comparisons well furnished for the rest of my life. all that i have seen since leaving my penates makes me thank god for having been born french and a private person." the peculiar charm which attracted such rare and marked attentions to a woman not received at her own court, and at a time when social distinctions were very sharply defined, eludes analysis, but it seems to have lain largely in her exquisite sense of fitness, her excellent judgment, her administrative talent, the fine tact and penetration which enabled her to avoid antagonism, an instinctive knowledge of the art of pleasing, and a kind but not too sensitive heart. these qualities are not those which appeal to the imagination or inspire enthusiasm. we find in her no spark of that celestial flame which gives intellectual distinction. in her amiability there seems to be a certain languor of the heart. her kindness has a trace of calculation, and her friendship of self-consciousness. of spontaneity she has none. "she loved nothing passionately, not even virtue," says one of her critics. there was a certain method in her simplicity. she carried to perfection the art of savoir vivre, and though she claimed freedom of thought and action, it was always strictly within conventional limits. she suffered the fate of all celebrities in being occasionally attacked. the role assigned to her in the comedy of "the philosophers" was not a flattering one, and some criticisms of montesquieu wounded her so deeply that she succeeded in having them suppressed. she did not escape the shafts of envy, nor the sneers of the grandes dames who did not relish her popularity. but these were only spots on the surface of a singularly brilliant career. calm, reposeful, charitable, without affectation or pretension, but not untouched by ennui, the malady of her time, she held her position to the end of a long life which closed in . "alas," said d'alembert, who had been in the habit of spending his mornings with mlle. de lespinasse until her death, and his evenings with mme. geoffrin, "i have neither evenings nor mornings left." "she has made for fifty years the charm of her society," said the abbe morellet. "she has been constantly, habitually virtuous and benevolent." her salon brought authors and artists into direct relation with distinguished patrons, especially foreigners, and thus contributed largely to the spread of french art and letters. it was counted among "the institutions of the eighteenth century." chapter xiii. ultra-philosophical salons--madame d'epinay _mme. de graffigny--baron d'holbach--mme. d'epinay's portrait of herself--mlle. quinault--rousseau--la chevrette--grimm--diderot--the abbe galiani--estimate of mme. d'epinay_ a few of the more radical and earnest of the philosophers rarely, if ever, appeared at the table of mme. geoffrin. they would have brought too much heat to this company, which discussed everything in a light and agreeable fashion. perhaps, too, these free and brilliant spirits objected to the leading-strings which there held every one within prescribed limits. they could talk more at their ease at the weekly dinners of baron d'holbach, in the salons of mme. helvetius, mme. de marchais, or mme. de graffigny, in the encyclopedist coterie of mlle. de lespinasse, or in the liberal drawing room of mme. d'epinay, who held a more questionable place in the social world, but received much good company, mme. geoffrin herself included. mme. de graffigny is known mainly as a woman of letters whose life had in it many elements of tragedy. her youth was passed in the brilliant society of the little court at luneville. she was distantly related to mme. du chatelet, and finally took refuge from the cruelties of a violent and brutal husband in the "terrestrial paradise" at cirey. la belle emilie was moved to sympathy, and voltaire wept at the tale of her sorrows. a little later she became a victim to the poet's sensitive vanity. he accused her of sending to a friend a copy of his "pucello," an unfinished poem which was kept under triple lock, though parts of it had been read to her. her letters were opened, her innocent praises were turned against her, there was a scene, and cirey was a paradise no more. she came to paris, ill, sad, and penniless. she wrote "les lettres d'une peruvienne" and found herself famous. she wrote "cenie," which was played at the comedie francaise, and her success was established. then she wrote another drama. "she read it to me," says one of her friends; "i found it bad; she found me ill-natured. it was played; the public died of ennui and the author of chagrin." "i am convinced that misfortune will follow me into paradise," she said. at all events, it seems to have followed her to the entrance. her salon was more or less celebrated. the freedom of the conversations may be inferred from the fact that helvetius gathered there the materials for his "de l'esprit," a book condemned by the pope, the parliament, and the sorbonne. it was here also that he found his charming wife, a niece of mme. de graffigny, and the light of her house as afterwards of his own. a more permanent interest is attached to the famous dinners of baron d'holbach, where twice a week men like diderot, helvetius, grimm, marmontel, duclos, the abbe galiani and for a time buffon and rousseau, met in an informal way to enjoy the good cheer and good wines of this "maitre d'hotel of philosophy," and discuss the affairs of the universe. the learned and free-thinking baron was agreeable, kind, rich, and lavish in his hospitality, but without pretension. "he was a man simply simple," said mme. geoffrin. we have many pleasant glimpses of his country place at grandval, with its rich and rare collections, its library, its pictures, its designs, and of the beautiful wife who turned the heads of some of the philosophers, whom, as a rule, she did not like overmuch, though she received them so graciously. "we dine well and a long time," wrote diderot. "we talk of art, of poetry, of philosophy, and of love, of the greatness and vanity of our own enterprises... of gods and kings, of space and time, of death and of life." "they say things to make a thunderbolt strike the house a hundred times, if it struck for that," said the abbe morellet. among the few women admitted to these dinners was mme. d'epinay, for whom d'holbach, as well as his amiable wife, always entertained the warmest friendship. this woman, whose position was not assured enough to make people overlook her peculiar and unfortunate domestic complications, has told the story of her own life in her long and confidential correspondence with grimm, galiani, and voltaire. the senseless follies of a cruel and worthless husband, who plunged her from great wealth into extreme poverty, and of whom diderot said that "he had squandered two millions without saying a good word or doing a good action," threw her into intimate relations with grimm; this brought her into the center of a famous circle. her letters give us a clear but far from flattering reflection of the manners of the time. she unveils the bare and hard facts of her own experience, the secret workings of her own soul. the picture is not a pleasant one, but it is full of significance to the moralist, and furnishes abundant matter for psychological study. the young girl, who had entered upon the scene about , under the name of louise florence petronille-tardieu d'esclavelles, was married at twenty to her cousin. it seems to have been really a marriage of love; but the weak and faithless m. d'epinay was clearly incapable of truth or honor, and the torturing process by which the confiding young wife was disillusioned, the insidious counsel of a false and profligate friend, with the final betrayal of a tender and desolate heart, form a chapter as revolting as it is pathetic. the fresh, lively, pure-minded, sensitive girl, whose intellect had been fed on rollin's history and books of devotion, who feared the dissipations of the gay world and shrank with horror from the rouge which her frivolous husband compelled her to put on, learned her lesson rapidly in the school of suffering. at thirty she writes of herself, after the fashion of the pen portraits of the previous century: "i am not pretty; yet i am not plain. i am small, thin, very well formed. i have the air of youth, without freshness, but noble, sweet, lively, spirituelle, and interesting. my imagination is tranquil. my mind is slow, just, reflective, and inconsequent. i have vivacity, courage, firmness, elevation, and excessive timidity. i am true without being frank. timidity often gives me the appearance of dissimulation and duplicity; but i have always had the courage to confess my weakness, in order to destroy the suspicion of a vice which i have not. i have the finesse to attain my end and to remove obstacles; but i have none to penetrate the purposes of others. i was born tender and sensible, constant and no coquette. i love retirement, a life simple and private; nevertheless i have almost always led one contrary to my taste. bad health, and sorrows sharp and repeated, have given a serious cast to my character, which is naturally very gay." her first entrance into the world in which wit reigned supreme was in the free but elegant salon of mlle. quinault, an actress of the comedie francaise, who had left the stage, and taking the role of a femme d'esprit, had gathered around her a distinguished and fashionable coterie. this woman, who had received a decoration for a fine motet she had composed for the queen's chapel, who was loved and consulted by voltaire, and who was the best friend of d'alembert after the death of mlle. de lespinasse, represented the genius of esprit and finesse. she was the companion of princes, the adoration of princesses, the oracle of artists and litterateurs, the model of elegance, and the embodiment of social success. it did not matter much that the tone of her salon was lax; it was fashionable. "it distilled dignity, la convenance, and formality," says the marquise de crequi, who relates an anecdote that aptly illustrates the glamour which surrounded talent at that time. she was taken by her grandmother to see mlle. quinault, and by some chance mistook her for mlle. de vertus, who was so much flattered by her innocent error that she left her forty thousand francs, when she died a few months later. mme. d'epinay was delighted to find herself in so brilliant a world, and was greatly fascinated by its wit, though she was not sure that those who met there did not "feel too much the obligation of having it." but she caught the spirit, and transferred it, in some degree, to her own salon, which was more literary than fashionable. here francueil presents "a sorry devil of an author who is as poor as job, but has wit and vanity enough for four." this is rousseau, the most conspicuous figure in the famous coterie. "he is a man to whom one should raise altars," wrote mme. d'epinay. "and the simplicity with which he relates his misfortunes! i have still a pitying soul. it is frightful to imagine such a man in misery." she fitted up for him the hermitage, and did a thousand kind things which entitled her to a better return than he gave. there is a pleasant moment when we find him the center of an admiring circle at la chevrette, falling madly in love with her clever and beautiful sister-in-law the comtesse d'houdetot, writing "la nouvelle heloise" under the inspiration of this passion, and dreaming in the lovely promenades at montmorency, quite at peace with the world. but the weeping philosopher, who said such fine things and did such base ones, turned against his benefactress and friend for some imaginary offense, and revenged himself by false and malicious attacks upon her character. the final result was a violent quarrel with the whole circle of philosophers, who espoused the cause of mme. d'epinay. this little history is interesting, as it throws so much light upon the intimate relations of some of the greatest men of the century. behind the perpetual round of comedies, readings, dinners, music, and conversation, there is a real comedy of passion, intrigue, jealousy, and hidden misery that destroys many illusions. mme. d'epinay has been made familiar to us by grimm, galiani, diderot, rousseau, and voltaire. perhaps, on the whole, voltaire has given us the most agreeable impression. she was ill of grief and trouble, and had gone to geneva to consult the famous tronchin when she was thrown into more or less intimacy with the sage of ferney. he invited her to dinner immediately upon her arrival. "i was much fatigued, besides having confessed and received communion the evening before. i did not find it fitting to dine with voltaire two days afterward," writes this curiously sensitive friend of the free-thinkers. he addresses her as ma belle philosophe, speaks of her as "an eagle in a cage of gauze," and praises in verse her philosophy, her esprit, her heart, and her "two great black eyes." he weeps at her departure, tells her she is "adored at delices, adored at paris, adored present and absent." but "the tears of a poet do not always signify grief," says mme. d'epinay. there is a second period in her life, when she introduces us again to the old friends who always sustained her, and to many new ones. the world that meets in her salon later is much the same as that which dines with baron d'holbach. to measure its attractions one must recall the brilliancy and eloquence of diderot; the wit, the taste, the learning, the courtly accomplishments of grimm; the gaiety and originality of d'holbach, who had "read everything and forgotten nothing interesting;" the sparkling conversation of the most finished and scholarly diplomats in europe, many of whom we have already met at the dinners of mme. geoffrin. they discuss economic questions, politics, religion, art, literature, with equal freedom and ardor. they are as much divided on the merits of gluck's "armida" and piccini's "roland" as upon taxes, grains, and the policy of the government. the gay little abbe galiani brings perennial sunshine with the inexhaustible wit and vivacity that lights his clear and subtle intellect. "he is a treasure on rainy days," says diderot. "if they made him at the toy shops everybody would want one for the country." "he was the nicest little harlequin that italy has produced," says marmontel, "but upon the shoulders of this harlequin was the head of a machiavelli. epicurean in his philosophy and with a melancholy soul, seeing everything on the ridiculous side, there was nothing either in politics or morals apropos of which he had not a good story to tell, and these stories were always apt and had the salt of an unexpected and ingenious allusion." he did not accept the theories of his friends, which he believed would "cause the bankruptcy of knowledge, of pleasure, and of the human intellect." "messieurs les philosophes, you go too fast," he said. "i begin by saying that if i were pope i would put you in the inquisition, and if i were king of france, into the bastille." he saw the drift of events; but if he reasoned like a philosopher he laughed like a neapolitan. what matters tomorrow if we are happy today! the familiar notes and letters of these clever people picture for us a little world with its small interests, its piques, its loves, its friendships, its quarrels, and its hatreds. diderot, who refused for a long time to meet mme. d'epinay, but finally became an intimate and lasting friend, touches often, in his letters to sophie, upon the pleasant informality of la chevrette, with its curious social episodes and its emotional undercurrents. he does not forget even the pigeons, the geese, the ducks, and the chickens, which he calls his own. pouf, the dog, has his place here too, and flits often across the scene, a tiny bit of reflected immortality. these letters represent the bold iconoclast on his best side, kind, simple in his tastes, and loyal to his friends. he was never at home in the great world. he was seen sometimes in the salons of mme. geoffrin, mme. necker, and others, but he made his stay as brief as possible. mme. d'epinay succeeded better in attaching him to her coterie. there was more freedom, and he probably had a more sympathetic audience. "four lines of this man make me dram more and occupy me more," she said, "than a complete work of our pretended beaux esprits." grimm, too, was a central figure here, and grimm was his friend. but over his genius, as over that of rousseau, there was the trail of the serpent. the breadth of his thought, the brilliancy of his criticisms, the eloquence of his style were clouded with sensualism. "when you see on his forehead the reflection of a ray from plato," says sainte-beuve, "do not trust it; look well, there is always the foot of a satyr." it was to the clear and penetrating intellect of grimm, with its vein of german romanticism, that mme. d'epinay was indebted for the finest appreciation and the most genuine sympathy. "bon dieu," he writes to diderot, "how this woman is to be pitied! i should not be troubled about her if she were as strong as she is courageous. she is sweet and trusting; she is peaceful, and loves repose above all; but her situation exacts unceasingly a conduct forced and out of her character; nothing so wears and destroys a machine naturally frail." she aided him in his correspondance litteraire; wrote a treatise on education, which had the honor of being crowned by the academy; and, among other things of more or less value, a novel, which was not published until long after her death. with many gifts and attractions, kind, amiable, forgiving, and essentially emotional, mme. d'epinay seems to have been a woman of weak and undecided character, without sufficient strength of moral fiber to sustain herself with dignity under the unfortunate circumstances which surrounded her. "it depends only upon yourself," said grimm, "to be the happiest and most adorable creature in the world, provided that you do not put the opinions of others before your own, and that you know how to suffice for yourself." her education had not given her the worldly tact and address of mme. geoffrin, and her salon never had a wide celebrity; but it was a meeting place of brilliant and radical thinkers, of the men who have perhaps done the most to change the face of the modern world. in a quiet and intimate way, it was one among the numberless forces which were gathering and gaining momentum to culminate in the great tragedy of the century. mme. d'epinay did not live to see the catastrophe. worn out by a life of suffering and ill health, she died in . whatever her faults and weaknesses may have been, the woman who could retain the devoted affection of so brilliant and versatile a man as grimm for twenty-seven years, who was the lifelong friend and correspondent of galiani and voltaire, and the valued confidante of diderot, must have had some rare attractions of mind, heart, or character. chapter xiv. salons of the noblesse--madame du deffand _la marechale de luxembourg--the temple--comtesse de boufflers-- mme. du deffand--her convent salon--rupture with mlle. de lespinasse--her friendship with horace walpole--her brilliancy and her ennui_ while the group of iconoclasts who formed the nucleus of the philosophical salons was airing its theories and enjoying its increasing vogue, there was another circle which played with the new ideas more or less as a sort of intellectual pastime, but was aristocratic au fond, and carefully preserved all the traditions of the old noblesse. one met here the philosophers and men of letters, but they did not dominate; they simply flavored these coteries of rank and fashion. in this age of esprit no salon was complete without its sprinkling of literary men. we meet the shy and awkward rousseau even in the exclusive drawing room of the clever and witty but critical marechale de luxembourg, who presides over a world in which the graces rule--a world of elegant manners, of etiquette, and of forms. this model of the amenities, whose gay and faulty youth ripened into a pious and charitable age, was at the head of that tribunal which pronounced judgment upon all matters relating to society. she was learned in genealogy, analyzed and traced to their source the laws of etiquette, possessed a remarkable memory, and without profound education, had learned much from conversation with the savants and illustrious men who frequented her house. her wit was proverbial, and she was never at a loss for a ready repartee or a spicy anecdote. she gave two grand suppers a week. mme. de genlis, who was often there, took notes, according to her custom, and has left an interesting record of conversations that were remarkable not only for brilliancy, but for the thoughtful wisdom of the comments upon men and things. la harpe read a great part of his works in this salon. rousseau entertained the princely guests at montmorency with "la nouvelle heloise" and "emile," and though never quite at ease, his democratic theories did not prevent him from feeling greatly honored by their friendly courtesies; indeed, he loses his usual bitterness when speaking of this noble patroness. he says that her conversation was marked by an exquisite delicacy that always pleased, and her flatteries were intoxicating because they were simple and seemed to escape without intention. mme. de luxembourg was an autocrat, and did not hesitate to punish errors in taste by social ostracism. "erase the name of monsieur -- -- from my list," she said, as a gentleman left after relating a scandalous story reflecting upon some one's honor. it was one of her theories that "society should punish what the law cannot attack." she maintained that good manners are based upon noble and delicate sentiments, that mutual consideration, deference, politeness, gentleness, and respect to age are essential to civilization. the disloyal, the ungrateful bad sons, bad brothers, bad husbands, and bad wives, whose offenses were serious enough to be made public, she banished from that circle which called itself la bonne compagnie. it must be admitted, however, that it was les convenances rather than morality which she guarded. a rival of this brilliant salon, and among the most celebrated of its day, was the one at the temple. the animating spirit here was the amiable and vivacious comtesse de boufflers, celebrated in youth for her charms, and later for her talent. she was dame d'honneur to the princesse de conti, wife of the duc d'orleans, who was noted for her caustic wit, as well as for her beauty. it was in the salon of his clever and rather capricious sister that the learned prince de conti met her and formed the intimacy that ended only with his life. she was called the idole of the temple, and her taste for letters gave her also the title of minerve savante. she wrote a tragedy which was said to be good, though she would never let it go out of her hands, and has been immortalized by rousseau, with whom she corresponded for sixteen years. hume also exchanged frequent letters with her, and she tried in vain to reconcile these two friends after their quarrel. president henault said he had never met a woman of so much esprit, adding that "outside all her charms she had character." for society she had a veritable passion. she said that when she loved england the best she could not think of staying there without "taking twenty-four or twenty-five intimate friends, and sixty or eighty others who were absolutely necessary to her." her conversation was full of fire and brilliancy, and her gaiety of heart, her gracious manners, and her frank appreciation of the talent of others added greatly to her piquant fascination. she delighted in original turns of expression, which were sometimes far-fetched and artificial. one of her friends said that "she made herself the victim of consideration, and lost it by running after it." her rule of life may be offered as a model. "in conduct, simplicity and reason; in manners, propriety and decorum; in actions, justice and generosity; in the use of wealth, economy and liberality; in conversation, clearness, truth, precision; in adversity, courage and pride; in prosperity, modesty and moderation." unfortunately she did not put all this wisdom into practice, if we judge her by present standards. we have a glimpse of the famous circle over which she presided in an interesting picture formerly at versailles, now at the louvre. the figures are supposed to be portraits. among others are mme. de luxembourg, the comtesse de boufflers, and the lovely but ill-fated young stepdaughter, amelie, comtesse de lauzun, to whom she is so devoted; the beautiful comtesse d'egmont, mme. de beauvan, president henault, the witty pont de veyle, mairan, the versatile scientist, and the prince de conti. in the midst of this group the little mozart, whose genius was then delighting europe, sits at the harpsichord. the chronicles of the time give us pleasant descriptions of the literary diversions of this society, which met by turns at the temple and ile-adam. but the prince as well as the clever comtesse had a strong leaning towards philosophy, and the amusements were interspersed with much conversation of a serious character that has a peculiar interest today when read by the light of after events. among the numerous salons of the noblesse there was one which calls for more than a passing word, both on account of its world-wide fame and the exceptional brilliancy of its hostess. though far less democratic and cosmopolitan than that of mme. geoffrin, with which it was contemporary, its character was equally distinct and original. linked by birth with the oldest of the nobility, allied by intellect with the most distinguished in the world of letters, mme. du deffand appropriated the best in thought, while retaining the spirit of an elegant and refined social life. she was exclusive by nature and instinct, as well as by tradition, and could not dispense with the arts and amenities which are the fruit of generations of ease; but the energy and force of her intellect could as little tolerate shallowness and pretension, however disguised beneath the graceful tyranny of forms. her salon offers a sort of compromise between the freedom of the philosophical coteries and the frivolities of the purely fashionable ones. it included the most noted of the men of letters--those who belonged to the old aristocracy and a few to whom nature had given a prescriptive title of nobility--as well as the flower of the great world. her sarcastic wit, her clear intelligence, and her rare conversational gifts added a tone of individuality that placed her salon at the head of the social centers of the time in brilliancy and in esprit. in this group of wits, litterateurs, philosophers, statesmen, churchmen, diplomats, and men of rank, mme. du deffand herself is always the most striking figure. the art of self-suppression she clearly did not possess. but the art of so blending a choice society that her own vivid personality was a pervading note of harmony she had to an eminent degree. she could easily have made a mark upon her time through her intellectual gifts without the factitious aid of the men with whom her name is associated. but society was her passion society animated by intellect, sparkling with wit, and expressing in all its forms the art instincts of her race. she never aspired to authorship, but she has left a voluminous correspondence in which one reads the varying phases of a singularly capricious character. in her old age she found refuge from a devouring ennui in writing her own memoirs. merciless to herself as to others, she veils nothing, revealing her frailties with a freedom that reminds one of rousseau. it is not the portrait of an estimable woman that we can paint from these records; but in her intellectual force, her social gifts, and her moral weakness she is one of the best exponents of an age that trampled upon the finest flowers of the soul in the blind pursuit of pleasure and the cynical worship of a hard and unpitying realism. living from to , she saw the train laid for the revolution, and died in time to escape its horrors. she traversed the whole experience of the women of her world with the independence and abandon of a nature that was moderate in nothing. it is true she felt the emptiness of this arid existence, and had an intellectual perception of its errors, but she saw nothing better. "all conditions appear to me equally unhappy, from the angel to the oyster," is the burden of her hopeless refrain. she reveals herself to us as two distinct characters. the one best known is hard, bitter, coldly analytic, and mocks at everything bordering upon sentiment or feeling. the other, which underlies this, and of which we have rare glimpses, is frank, tender, loving even to weakness, and forever at war with the barrenness of a period whose worst faults she seems to have embodied, and whose keenest penalties she certainly suffered. voltaire, the lifelong friend whom she loved, but critically measured, was three years old when she was born; mme. de sevigne had been dead nearly a year. of a noble family in burgundy, marie de vichy-chamroud was brought to paris at six years of age and placed in the convent of st. madeleine de traisnel, where she was educated after the superficial fashion which she so much regrets in later years. she speaks of herself as a romantic, imaginative child, but she began very early to shock the pious sisters by her dawning skepticism. one of the nuns had a wax figure of the infant jesus, which she discovered to have been a doll formerly dressed to represent the spanish fashions to anne of austria. this was the first blow to her illusions, and had a very perceptible influence upon her life. she pronounced it a deception. eight days of solitude with a diet of bread and water failed to restore her reverence. "it does not depend upon me to believe or disbelieve," she said. the eloquent and insinuating massillon was called in to talk with her. "she is charming," was his remark, as he left her after two hours of conversation; adding thoughtfully, "give her a five-cent catechism." skeptical by nature and saturated with the free-thinking spirit of the time, she reasoned that all religion was au fond, only paganism disguised. in later years, when her isolated soul longed for some tangible support, she spoke regretfully of the philosophic age which destroyed beliefs by explaining and analyzing everything. but a beautiful, clever, high-spirited girl of sixteen is apt to feel her youth all suffering. it is certain that she had no inclination towards the life of a religieuse, and the country quickly became insupportable after her return to its provincial society. ennui took possession of her. she was glad even to go to confessional, for the sake of telling her thoughts to some one. she complained bitterly that the life of women compelled dependence upon the conduct of others, submission to all ills and all consequences. long afterwards she said that she would have married the devil if he had been clothed as a gentleman and assured her a moderate life. but a husband was at last found for her, and merely to escape the monotony of her secluded existence, she was glad, at twenty-one, to become the wife of the marquis du deffand--a good but uninteresting man, much older than herself. brilliant, fascinating, restless, eager to see and to learn, she felt herself in her element in the gay world of paris. she confessed that, for the moment, she almost loved her husband for bringing her there. but the moment was a short one. they did not even settle down to what a witty frenchman calls the "politeness of two indifferences." it is a curious commentary upon the times, that the beautiful but notorious mme. de parabere, who introduced her at once into her own unscrupulous world and the petits soupers of the regent, condoled with the young bride upon her marriage, regretting that she had not taken the easy vows of a chanoinesse, as mme. de tencin had done. "in that case," she said, "you would have been free; well placed everywhere; with the stability of a married woman; a revenue which permits one to live and accept aid from others; the independence of a widow, without the ties which a family imposes; unquestioned rank, which you would owe to no one; indulgence, and impunity. for these advantages there is only the trouble of wearing a cross, which is becoming; black or gray habits, which can be made as magnificent as one likes; a little imperceptible veil, and a knitting sheath." under such teaching she was not long in taking her own free and independent course, which was reckless even in that age of laxity. at her first supper at the palais royal she met voltaire and fascinated the regent, though her reign lasted but a few days. the counsels of her aunt, the dignified duchesse de luynes, availed nothing. her husband was speedily sent off on some mission to the provinces and she plunged into the current. once afterwards, in a fit of ennui, she recalled him, frankly stating her position. but she quickly wearied of him again, grew dull, silent, lost her vivacity, and fell into a profound melancholy. her friend mme. de parabere took it upon herself to explain to him the facts, and he kindly relieved her forever of his presence, leaving a touching and pathetic letter which gave her a moment of remorse in spite of her lightened heart. this sin against good taste the parisian world could not forgive, and even her friends turned against her for a time. but the duchesse due maine came to her aid with an all-powerful influence, and restored her finally to her old position. for some years she passed the greater part of her time at sceaux, and was a favorite at this lively little court. it is needless to trace here the details of a career which gives us little to admire and much to condemn. it was about when her salon became noted as a center for the fashionable and literary world of paris. montesquieu and d'alembert were then among her intimate friends. of the latter she says: "the simplicity of his manners, the purity of his morals, the air of youth, the frankness of character, joined to all his talents, astonished at first those who saw him." it is said to have been through her zeal that he was admitted to the academy so young. among others who formed her familiar circle were her devoted friend pont de veyle; the chevalier d'aydie; formont, the "spirituel idler and amiable egotist," who was one of the three whom she confesses really to have loved; and president henault, who brought always a fund of lively anecdote and agreeable conversation. this world of fashion and letters, slightly seasoned with philosophy, is also the world of mme. de luxembourg, of the brilliant mme. de mirepoix, of the prince and princesse de beauvau, and of the lovely duchesse de choiseul, a femme d'esprit and "mistress of all the elegances," whose gentle virtues fall like a ray of sunlight across the dark pages of this period. it is the world of elegant forms, the world in which a sin against taste is worse than a sin against morals, the world which hedges itself in by a thousand unwritten laws that save it from boredom. after the death of the duchesse du maine, mme. du deffand retired to the little convent of st. joseph, where, after the manner of many women of rank with small fortunes, she had her menage and received her friends. "i have a very pretty apartment," she writes to voltaire; "very convenient; i only go out for supper. i do not sleep elsewhere, and i make no visits. my society is not numerous, but i am sure it will please you; and if you were here you would make it yours. i have seen for some time many savants and men of letters; i have not found their society delightful." the good nuns objected a little to voltaire at first, but seem to have been finally reconciled to the visits of the arch-heretic. at this time mme. du deffand had supposably reformed her conduct, if not her belief. she continued to entertain the flower of the nobility and the stars of the literary and scientific world. but while the most famous of the men of letters were welcome in her salon, the tone was far from pedantic or even earnest. it was a society of conventional people, the elite of fashion and intelligence, who amused themselves in an intellectual but not too serious way. montesquieu, who liked those houses in which he could pass with his every-day wit, said, "i love this woman with all my heart; she pleases and amuses me; it is impossible to feel a moment's ennui in her company." mme. de genlis, who did not love her expressed her surprise at finding her so natural and so kindly. her conversation was simple and without pretension. when she was pleased, her manners were even affectionate. she never entered into a discussion, confessing that she was not sufficiently attached to any opinion to defend it. she disliked the enthusiasm of the philosophers unless it was hidden behind the arts of the courtier, as in voltaire, whose delicate satire charmed her. diderot came once, "eyed her epicurean friends," and came no more. the air was not free enough. when at home she had three or four at supper every day, often a dozen, and, once a week, a grand supper. all the intellectual fashions of the time are found here. la harpe reads a translation from sophocles and his own tragedy. clairon, the actress in vogue, recites the roles of phedre and agrippine, lekain reads voltaire, and goldoni a comedy of his own, which the hostess finds tiresome. new books, new plays, the last song, the latest word of the philosophers--all are talked about, eulogized, or dismissed with a sarcasm. the wit of mme. du deffand is feared, but it fascinates. she delights in clever repartees and sparkling epigrams. a shaft of wit silences the most complacent of monologues. "what tiresome book are you reading?" she said one day to a friend who talked too earnestly and too long--saving herself from the charge of rudeness by an easy refuge in her blindness. her criticisms are always severe. "there are only two pleasures for me in the world--society and reading," she writes. "what society does one find? imbeciles, who utter only commonplaces, who know nothing, feel nothing, think nothing; a few people of talent, full of themselves, jealous, envious, wicked, whom one must hate or scorn." to some one who was eulogizing a mediocre man, adding that all the world was of the same opinion, she replied, "i make small account of the world, monsieur, since i perceive that one can divide it into three parts, les trompeurs, les trompes, et les trompettes." still it is life alone that interests her. though she is not satisfied with people, she has always the hope that she will be. in literature she likes only letters and memoirs, because they are purely human; but the age has nothing that pleases her. "it is cynical or pedantic," she writes to voltaire; "there is no grace, no facility, no imagination. everything is a la glace, hardness without force, license without gaiety; no talent, much presumption." as age came on, and she felt the approach of blindness, she found a companion in mlle. de lespinasse, a young girl of remarkable gifts, who had an obscure and unacknowledged connection with her family. for ten years the young woman was a slave to the caprices of her exacting mistress, reading to her through long nights of wakeful restlessness, and assisting to entertain her guests. the one thing upon which mme. du deffand most prided herself was frankness. she hated finesse, and had stipulated that she would not tolerate artifice in any form. it was her habit to lie awake all night and sleep all day, and as she did not receive her guests until six o'clock, mlle. de lespinasse, whose amiable character and conversational charm had endeared her at once to the circle of her patroness, arranged to see her personal friends--among whom were d'alembert, turgot, chastellux, and marmontel--in her own apartments for an hour before the marquise appeared. when this came to the knowledge of the latter, she fell into a violent rage at what she chose to regard as a treachery to herself, and dismissed her companion at once. the result was the opening of a rival salon which carried off many of her favorite guests, notably d'alembert, to whom she was much attached. "if she had died fifteen years earlier, i should not have lost d'alembert," was her sympathetic remark when she heard of the death of mlle. de lespinasse. but the most striking point in the career of this worldly woman was her friendship for horace walpole. when they first met she was nearly seventy, blind, ill-tempered, bitter, and hopelessly ennuyee. he was not yet fifty, a brilliant, versatile man of the world, and saw her only at long intervals. their curious correspondence extends over a period of fifteen years, ending only with her death. in a letter to grayson, after meeting her, he writes: "mme. du deffand is now very old and stone blind, but retains all her vivacity, wit, memory, judgment, passion, and agreeableness. she goes to operas, plays, suppers, versailles; gives supper twice a week; has everything new read to her; makes new songs and epigrams--aye, admirably--and remembers every one that has been made these fourscore years. she corresponds with voltaire, dictates charming letters to him, contradicts him, is no bigot to him or anybody, and laughs both at the clergy and the philosophers. in a dispute, into which she easily falls, she is very warm, and yet scarce ever in the wrong; her judgment on every subject is as just as possible; on every point of conduct as wrong as possible; for she is all love and hatred, passionate for her friends to enthusiasm, still anxious to be loved--i don't mean by lovers--and a vehement enemy openly." the acquaintance thus begun quickly drilled into an intimacy. friendship she calls this absorbing sentiment, but it has all the caprices and inconsistencies of love. fed by the imagination, and prevented by separation from wearing itself out, it became the most permanent interest of her life. there is something curiously pathetic in the submissive attitude of this blind, aged, but spirited woman--who scoffs at sentiment and confesses that she could never love anything--towards the man who criticizes her, scolds her, crushes back her too ardent feeling, yet calls her his dear old friend, writes her a weekly letter, and modestly declares that she "loves him better than all france together." the spirit of this correspondence greatly modifies the impression which her own words, as well as the facts of her career, would naturally give us. we find in the letters of this period little of the freshness and spontaneity that lent such a charm to the letters of mme. de sevigne and her contemporaries. women still write of the incidents of their lives, the people they meet, their jealousies, their rivalries, their loves, and their follies; but they think, where they formerly mirrored the world about them. they analyze, they compare, the criticize, they formulate their own emotions, they add opinions to facts. the gaiety, the sparkle, the wit, the play of feeling, is not there. occasionally there is the tone of passion, as in the letters of mlle. aisse and mlle. de lespinasse, but this is rare. even passion has grown sophisticated and deals with phrases. there is more or less artificiality in the exchange of written thoughts. mme. du deffand thinks while she writes, and what she sees takes always the color of her own intelligence. she complains of her inability to catch the elusive quality, the clearness, the flexibility of mme. de sevigne, whom she longs to rival because walpole so admires her. but if she lacks the vivacity, the simplicity, the poetic grace of her model, she has qualities not less striking, though less lovable. her keen insight is unfailing. with masterly penetration she grasps the essence of things. no one has portrayed so concisely and so vividly the men and women of her time. no one has discriminated between the shades of character with such nicety. no one has so clearly fathomed the underlying motives of action. no one has forecast the outcome of theories and events with such prophetic vision. the note of bitterness and cynicism is always there. the nature of the woman reveals itself in every line: keen, dry, critical, with clear ideals which she can never hope to attain. but we feel that she has stripped off the rags of pretension and brought us face to face with realities. "all that i can do is to love you with all my heart, as i have done for about fifty years," wrote voltaire. "how could i fail to love you? your soul seeks always the true; it is a quality as rare as truth itself." so far does she carry her hatred of insincerity that one is often tempted to believe she affects a freedom from affectation. "i am so fatigued with the vanity of others that i avoid the occasion of having any myself," she writes. is there not here a trace of the quality she so despises? but beneath all this runs the swift undercurrent of an absorbing passion. a passion of friendship it may be, but it forces itself through the arid shells of conventionalism; it is at once the agony and the consolation of a despairing soul. heartless, mme. du deffand is called, and her life seems to prove the truth of the verdict; but these letters throb and palpitate with feeling which she laughs at, but cannot still. it is the cry of the soul for what it has not; what the world cannot give; what it has somehow missed out of a cold, hard, restless, and superficial existence. with a need of loving, she is satisfied with no one. there is something wanting; even in the affection of her friends. "ma grand'maman," she says to the gentle duchesse de choiseul, "you know that you love me, but you do not feel it." devouring herself in solitude, she despises the society she cannot do without. "men and women appear to me puppets who go, come, talk, laugh, without thinking, without reflecting, without feeling," she writes. she confesses that she has a thousand troubles in assembling a choice company of people who bore her to death. "one sees only masks, one hears only lies," is her constant refrain. she does not want to live, but is afraid to die; she says she is not made for this world, but does not know that there is any other. she tries devotion, but has no taste for it. of the light that shines from within upon so many darkened and weary souls she has no knowledge. her vision is bounded by the tangible, which offers only a rigid barrier, against which her life flutters itself away. she dies as she has lived, with a deepened conviction of the nothingness of existence. "spare me three things," she said to her confessor in her last moments; "let me have no questions, no reasons, and no sermons." seeing wiart, her faithful servitor, in tears, she remarks pathetically, as if surprised, "you love me then?" "divert yourself as much as you can," was her final message to walpole. "you will regret me, because one is very glad to know that one is loved." she commends to his care and affection tonton, her little dog. strong but not gentle, brilliant but not tender, too penetrating for any illusions, with a nature forever at war with itself, its surroundings, and its limitations, no one better points the moral of an age without faith, without ideals, without the inner light that reveals to hope what is denied to sense. the influence of such a woman with her gifts, her energy, her power, and her social prestige, can hardly be estimated. it was not in the direction of the new drift of thought. "i am not a fanatic as to liberty," she said; "i believe it is an error to pretend that it exists in a democracy. one has a thousand tyrants in place of one." she had no breadth of sympathy, and her interests were largely personal; but in matters of style and form her taste was unerring. pitiless in her criticisms, she held firmly to her ideals of clear, elegant, and concise expression, both in literature and in conversation. she tolerated no latitudes, no pretension, and left behind her the traditions of a society that blended, more perfectly, perhaps, than any other of her time, the best intellectual life with courtly manners and a strict observance of les convenances. chapter xv. mademoiselle de lespinasse _a romantic career--companion of mme. du deffand--rival salons-- association with the encyclopedists--d'alembert--a heart tragedy--impassioned letters--a type unique in her age_ inseparably connected with the name of mme. du deffand is that of her companion and rival, mlle. de lespinasse, the gifted, charming, tender and loving woman who presided over one of the most noted of the philosophical salons; who was the chosen friend and confidante of the encyclopedists; and who died in her prime of a broken heart, leaving the world a legacy of letters that rival those of heloise or the poems of sappho, as "immortal pictures of passion." the memory of her social triumphs, remarkable as they were, pales before the singular romances of her life. in the midst of a cold, critical, and heartless society, that adored talent and ridiculed sentiment, she became the victim of a passion so profound, so ardent, so hopeless, that her powerful intellect bent before it like a reed before a storm. she died of that unsuspected passion, and years afterwards these letters found the light and told the tale. the contrast between the two women so closely linked together is complete. mme. du deffand belonged to the age of voltaire by every fiber of her hard and cynical nature. what she called love was a fire of the intellect which consumed without warming. it was a violent and fierce prejudice in favor of those who reflected something of herself. the tenderness of self-sacrifice was not there. mlle. de lespinasse was of the later era of rousseau; the era of exaggerated feeling, of emotional delirium, of romantic dreams; the era whose heroine was the loving and sentimental "julie," for whose portrait she might have sat, with a shade or so less of intellect and brilliancy. but it was more than a romantic dream that shadowed and shortened the life of mlle. de lespinasse. she had a veritable heart of flame, that consumed not only itself but its frail tenement as well. julie-jeanne-eleonore de lespinasse, who was born at lyons in , had a birthright of sorrow. her mother, the comtesse d'albon, could not acknowledge this fugitive and nameless daughter, but after the death of her husband she received her on an inferior footing, had her carefully educated, and secretly gave her love and care. left alone and without resources at fifteen, julie was taken, as governess and companion, into the family of a sister who was the wife of mme. du deffand's brother. here the marquise met her on one of her visits and heard the story of her sorrows. tearful, sad, and worn out by humiliations, the young girl had decided to enter a convent. "there is no misfortune that i have not experienced," she wrote to guibert many years afterwards. "some day, my friend, i will relate to you things not to be found in the romances of prevost nor of richardson... i ought naturally to devote myself to hating; i have well fulfilled my destiny; i have loved much and hated very little. mon dieu, my friend, i am a hundred years old." mme. du deffand was struck with her talent and a certain indefinable fascination of manner which afterwards became so potent. "you have gaiety," she wrote to her, "you are capable of sentiment; with these qualities you will be charming so long as you are natural and without pretension." after a negotiation of some months, mlle. de lespinasse went to paris to live with her new friend. the history of this affair has been already related. parisian society was divided into two factions on the merits of the quarrel--those who censured the ingratitude of the younger woman, and those who accused the marquise of cruelty and injustice. but many of the oldest friends of the latter aided her rival. the marechale de luxembourg furnished her apartments in the rue de belle-chasse. the duc de choiseul procured her a pension, and mme. geoffrin gave her an annuity. she carried with her a strong following of eminent men from the salon of mme. du deffand, among whom was d'alembert, who remained faithful and devoted to the end. it is said that president henault even offered to marry her, but how, under these circumstances, he managed to continue in the good graces of his lifelong friend, the unforgiving marquise, does not appear. a letter which he wrote to mlle. de lespinasse throws a direct light upon her character, after making due allowance for the exaggeration of french gallantry. "you are cosmopolitan; you adapt yourself to all situations. the world pleases you; you love solitude. society amuses you, but it does not seduce you. your heart does not give itself easily. strong passions are necessary to you, and it is better so, for they will not return often. nature, in placing you in an ordinary position, has given you something to relieve it. your soul is noble and elevated, and you will never remain in a crowd. it is the same with your person. it is distinguished and attracts attention, without being beautiful. there is something piquante about you... you have two things which do not often go together: you are sweet and strong; your gaiety adorns you and relaxes your nerves, which are too tense... you are extremely refined; you have divined the world." the age of portraits was not quite passed, and the privilege of seeing one's self in the eyes of one's friends was still accorded, a fact to which we owe many striking if sometimes rather highly colored pictures. a few words from d'alembert are of twofold interest. he writes some years later: "the regard one has for you does not depend alone upon your external charms; it depends, above all, upon your intellect and your character. that which distinguishes you in society is the art of saying to every one the fitting word and that art is very simple with you; it consists in never speaking of yourself to others, and much of themselves. it is an infallible means of pleasing; thus you please every one, though it happens that all the world pleases you; you know even how to avoid repelling those who are least agreeable." this epitome of the art of pleasing may be commended for its wisdom, aside from the very delightful picture it gives of an amiable and attractive woman. again he writes: "the excellence of your tone would not be a distinction for one reared in a court, and speaking only the language she has learned. in you it is a merit very real and very rare. you have brought it from the seclusion of a province, where you met no one who could teach you. you were, in this regard, as perfect the day after your arrival at paris as you are today. you found yourself, from the first, as free, as little out of place in the most brilliant and most critical society as if you had passed your life there; you have felt its usages before knowing them, which implies a justness and fineness of tact very unusual, an exquisite knowledge of les convenances." it was her innate tact and social instinct, combined with rare gifts of intellect and great conversational charm, that gave this woman without name, beauty, or fortune so exceptional a position, and her salon so distinguished a place among the brilliant centers of paris. as she was not rich and could not give costly dinners, she saw her friends daily from five to nine, in the interval between other engagements. this society was her chief interest, and she rarely went out. "if she made an exception to this rule, all paris was apprised of it in advance," says grimm. the most illustrious men of the state, the church, the court, and the army, as well as celebrated foreigners and men of letters, were sure to be found there. "nowhere was conversation more lively, more brilliant, or better regulated," writes marmontel.. . "it was not with fashionable nonsense and vanity that every day during four hours, without languor or pause, she knew how to make herself interesting to a circle of sensible people." caraccioli went from her salon one evening to sup with mme. du deffand. "he was intoxicated with all the fine works he had heard read there," writes the latter. "there was a eulogy of one named fontaine by m. de condorcet. there were translations of theocritus; tales, fables by i know not whom. and then some eulogies of helvetius, an extreme admiration of the esprit and the talents of the age; in fine, enough to make one stop the ears. all these judgments false and in the worst taste." a hint of the rivalry between the former friends is given in a letter from horace walpole. "there is at paris," he writes, "a mlle. de lespinasse, a pretended bel esprit, who was formerly a humble companion of mme. du deffand, and betrayed her and used her very ill. i beg of you not to let any one carry you thither. i dwell upon this because she has some enemies so spiteful as to try to carry off all the english to mlle. de lespinasse." but this "pretended bel esprit" had socially the touch of genius. her ardent, impulsive nature lent to her conversation a rare eloquence that inspired her listeners, though she never drifted into monologue, and understood the value of discreet silence. "she rendered the marble sensible, and made matter talk," said guibert. versatile and suggestive herself, she knew how to draw out the best thoughts of others. her swift insight caught the weak points of her friends, and her gracious adaptation had all the fascination of a subtle flattery. sad as her experience had been, she had nevertheless been drawn into the world most congenial to her tastes. "ah, how i dislike not to love that which is excellent," she wrote later. "how difficult i have become! but is it my fault? consider the education i have received with mme. du deffand. president henault, abbe bon, the archbishop of toulouse, the archbishop of aix, turgot, d'alembert, abbe de boismont--these are the men who have taught me to speak, to think, and who have deigned to count me for something." it was men like these who thronged her own salon, together with such women as the duchesse d'anville, friend of the economists, the duchesse de chatillon whom she loved so passionately, and others well-known in the world of fashion and letters. but its tone was more philosophical than that of mme. du deffand. though far from democratic by taste or temperament, she was so from conviction. the griefs and humiliations of her life had left her peculiarly open to the new social and political theories which were agitating france. she liked free discussion, and her own large intelligence, added to her talent for calling out and giving point to the ideas of others, went far towards making the cosmopolitan circle over which she presided one of the most potent forces of the time. her influence may be traced in the work of the encyclopedists, in which she was associated, and which she did more than any other woman to aid and encourage. as a power in the making of reputations and in the election of members to the academy she shared with mme. geoffrin the honor of being a legitimate successor of mme. de lambert. chastellux owed his admission largely to her, and on her deathbed she secured that of la harpe. but the side of her character which strikes us most forcibly at this distance of time is the emotional. the personal charm which is always so large a factor in social success is of too subtle a quality to be caught in words. the most vivid portrait leaves a divine something to be supplied by the imagination, and the fascination of eloquence is gone with the flash of the eye, the modulation of the voice, or some fleeting grace of manner. but passion writes itself out in indelible characters, especially when it is a rare and spontaneous overflow from the heart of a man or woman of genius, whose emotions readily crystallize into form. her friendship for d'alembert, loyal and devoted as it was, seems to have been without illusions. it is true she had cast aside every other consideration to nurse him through a dangerous illness, and as soon as he was able to be removed, he had taken an apartment in the house where she lived, which he retained until her death. but he was not rich, and marriage was not to be thought of. on this point we have his own testimony. "the one to whom they marry me in the gazettes is indeed a person respectable in character, and fitted by the sweetness and charm of her society to render a husband happy," he writes to voltaire; "but she is worthy of an establishment better than mine, and there is between us neither marriage nor love, but mutual esteem, and all the sweetness of friendship. i live actually in the same house with her, where there are besides ten other tenants; this is what has given rise to the rumor." his devotion through so many years, and his profound grief at her loss, as well as his subsequent words, leave some doubt as to the tranquillity of his heart, but the sentiments of mlle. de lespinasse seem never to have passed the calm measure of an exalted and sympathetic friendship. it was remarked that he lost much of his prestige, and that his society which had been so brilliant, became infinitely more miscellaneous and infinitely less agreeable after the death of the friend whose tact and finesse had so well served his ambition. not long after leaving mme. du deffand she met the marquis de mora, a son of the spanish ambassador, who became a constant habitue of her salon. of distinguished family and large fortune, brilliant, courtly, popular, and only twenty-four, he captivated at once the fiery heart of this attractive woman of thirty-five. it seems to have been a mutual passion, as during one brief absence of ten days he wrote her twenty-two letters. but his family became alarmed and made his delicate health a pretext for recalling him to spain. her grief at the separation enlisted the sympathy of d'alembert. at her request he procured from his physician a statement that the climate of madrid would prove fatal to m. de mora, whose health had steadily failed since his return home, and that if his friends wished to save him they must lose no time in sending him back to paris. the young man was permitted to leave at once, but he died en route at bordeaux. in the meantime mlle. de lespinasse, sad and inconsolable, had met m. guibert, a man of great versatility and many accomplishments, whose genius seems to have borne no adequate fruit. we hear of him later through the passing enthusiasm of mme. de stael, who in her youth, made a pen-portrait of him, sufficiently flattering to account in some degree for the singular passion of which he became the object. mlle. de lespinasse was forty. he was twenty-nine, had competed for the academie francaise, written a work on military science, also a national tragedy which was still unpublished. she was dazzled by his brilliancy, and when she fathomed his shallow nature, as she finally did, it was too late to disentangle her heart. he was a man of gallantry, and was flattered by the preference of a woman much in vogue, who had powerful friends, influence at the academy, and the ability to advance his interest in many ways. he clearly condescended to be loved, but his own professions have little of the true ring. distracted by this new passion on one side, and by remorse for her disloyalty to the old one, on the other, the health of mlle. de lespinasse, naturally delicate and already undermined, began to succumb to the hidden struggle. the death of m. de mora solved one problem; the other remained. mr. guibert wished to advance his fortune by a brilliant marriage without losing the friend who might still be of service to him. she sat in judgment upon her own fate, counseled him, aided him in his choice, even praised the woman who became his wife, hoping still, perhaps, for some repose in that exaltation of friendship which is often the last consolation of passionate souls. but she was on a path that led to no haven of peace. there was only a blank wall before her, and the lightning impulses of her own heart were forced back to shatter her frail life. the world was ignorant of this fresh experience; and, believing her crushed by the death of m. de mora, sympathized with her sorrow and praised her fidelity. she tried to sustain a double role--smiles and gaiety for her friends, tears and agony for the long hours of solitude. the tension was too much for her. she died shortly afterwards at the age of forty-three. "if to think, to love, and to suffer is that which constitutes life, she lived in these few years many ages," said one who knew her well. it was not until many years later, when those most interested were gone, that the letters to guibert, which form her chief title to fame, were collected, and, curiously enough, by his widow. then for the first time the true drama of her life was unveiled. it is impossible in a few extracts to convey an adequate idea of the passion and devotion that runs through these letters. they touch the entire gamut of emotion, from the tender melancholy of a lonely soul, the inexpressible sweetness of self-forgetful love, to the tragic notes or agony and despair. there are many brilliant passages in them, many flashes of profound thought, many vivid traits of the people about her; but they are, before all, the record of a soul that is rapidly burning out its casket. "i prefer my misery to all that the world calls happiness or pleasure," she writes. "i shall die of it, perhaps, but that is better than never to have lived." "i have no more the strength to love," she says again; "my soul fatigues me, torments me; i am no more sustained by anything. i have every day a fever; and my physician, who is not the most skillful of men, repeats to me without ceasing that i am consumed by chagrin, that my pulse, my respiration, announce an active grief, and he always goes out saying, 'we have no cure for the soul.'" "adieu, my friend," were her last words to him. "if i ever return to life i shall still love to employ it in loving you; but there is no more time." one could almost wish that these letters had never come to light. a single grand passion has always a strong hold upon the imagination and the sympathies, but two passions contending for the mastery verge upon something quite the reverse of heroic. the note of heart-breaking despair is tragic enough, but there is a touch of comedy behind it. though her words have the fire, the devotion, the abandon of heloise, they leave a certain sense of disproportion. one is inclined to wonder if they do not overtop the feeling. d'alembert was her truest mourner, and fell into a profound melancholy after her death. "yes," he said to marmontel, "she was changed, but i was not; she no longer lived for me, but i ever lived for her. since she is no more, i know not why i exist. ah! why have i not still to suffer those moments of bitterness that she knew so well how to sweeten and make me forget? do you remember the happy evenings we passed together? now what have i left? i return home, and instead of herself i find only her shade. this lodging at the louvre is itself a tomb, which i never enter but with horror." to this "shade" he wrote two expressive and well-considered eulogies, which paint in pathetic words the perfections of his friend and his own desolation. "adieu, adieu, my dear julie," says the heartbroken philosopher; "for these eyes which i should like to close forever fill with tears in tracing these last lines, and i see no more the paper on which i write." his grief called out a sympathetic letter from frederick the great which shows the philosophic warrior and king in a new light. there is a touch of bitter irony in the inflated eulogy of guibert, who gave the too-loving woman a death blow in furthering his ambition, then exhausted his vocabulary in laments and praises. perhaps he hoped to borrow from this friendship a fresh ray of immortality. whatever we may think of the strange inconsistencies of mlle. de lespinasse, she is doubly interesting to us as a type that contrasts strongly with that of her age. her exquisite tact, her brilliant intellect, her conversational gifts, her personal charm made her the idol of the world in which she lived. her influence was courted, her salon was the resort of the most distinguished men of the century, and while she loved to discuss the great social problems which her friends were trying to solve, she forgot none of the graces. with the intellectual strength and grasp of a man, she preserved always the taste, the delicacy, the tenderness of a woman. her faults were those of a strong nature. her thoughts were clear and penetrating, her expression was lively and impassioned. but in her emotional power she reached the proportion of genius. with "the most ardent soul, the liveliest fancy, the most inflammable imagination that has existed since sappho," she represents the embodied spirit of tragedy outlined against the cold, hard background of a skeptical, mocking, realistic age. "i love in order to live," she said, "and i live to love." this is the key-note of her life. chapter xvi. the salon helvetique _the swiss pastor's daughter--her social ambition--her friends--mme. de marchais--mme. d'houdetot--duchesse de lauzun--character of mme. necker--death at coppet--close of the most brilliant period of the salons._ there was one woman who held a very prominent place in the society of this period, and who has a double interest for us, though she was not french, and never quite caught the spirit of the eighteenth-century life whose attractive forms she loved so well. mme. necker, whose history has been made so familiar through the interesting memoirs of the comte d'haussonville, owes her fame to her marked qualities of intellect and character rather than to the brilliancy of her social talents. these found an admirable setting in the surroundings which her husband's fortune and political career gave her. the salon helvetique had a distinctive color of its own, and was always tinged with the strong convictions and exalted ideals of the swiss pastor's daughter, who passed through this world of intellectual affluence and moral laxity like a white angel of purity--in it, but not of it. the center of a choice and lettered circle which included the most noted men and women of her time, she brought into it not only rare gifts, a fine taste, and genuine literary enthusiasm, but the fresh charm of a noble character and a beautiful family life, with the instincts of duty and right conduct which she inherited from her simple protestant ancestry. she lacked a little, however, in the tact, the ease, the grace, the spontaneity, which were the essential charm of the french women. her social talents were a trifle theoretical. "she studied society," says one of her critics, "as she would a literary question." she had a theory of conducting a salon, as she had of life in general, and believed that study would attain everything. but the ability to do a thing superlatively well is by no means always implied in the knowledge of how it ought to be done. social genius is as purely a gift of nature as poetry or music; and, of all others, it is the most subtle and indefinable. it was a long step from the primitive simplicity in which suzanne curchod passed her childhood on the borders of lake leman to the complex life of a parisian salon; and the provincial beauty, whose fair face, soft blue eyes, dignified but slightly coquettish manner, brilliant intellect, and sparkling though sometimes rather learned conversation had made her a local queen, was quick to see her own shortcomings. she confessed that she had a new language to learn, and she never fully mastered it. "mme. necker has talent, but it is in a sphere too elevated for one to communicate with her," said mme. du deffand, though she was glad to go once a week to her suppers at saint-ouen, and admitted that in spite of a certain stiffness and coldness she was better fitted for society than most of the grandes dames. the salon of mme. necker marks a transition point between two periods, and had two quite distinct phases. one likes best to recall her in the freshness of her early enthusiasm, when she gave friday dinners, modeled after those of mme. geoffrin, to men of letters, and received a larger world in the evening; when her guests were enlivened by the satire of diderot, the anecdotes of marmontel, the brilliancy or learning of grimm, d'alembert, thomas, suard, buffon, the abbe raynal, and other wits of the day; when they discussed the affairs of the academy and decided the fate of candidates; when they listened to the recitations of mlle. clairon, and the works of many authors known and unknown. it is interesting to recall that "paul and virginia" was first read here. but there was apt to be a shade of stiffness, and the conversation had sometimes too strong a flavor of pedantry. "no one knows better or feels more sensibly than you, my dear and very amiable friend," wrote mme. geoffrin, "the charm of friendship and its sweetness; no one makes others experience them more fully. but you will never attain that facility, that ease, and that liberty which give to society its perfect enjoyment." the abbe morellet complained of the austerity that always held the conversation within certain limits, and the gay little abbe galiani found fault with mme. necker's coldness and reserve, though he addresses her as his "divinity" after his return to naples, and his racy letters give us vivid and amusing pictures of these fridays, which in his memory are wholly charming. in spite of her firm religious convictions, mme. necker cordially welcomed the most extreme of the philosophers. "i have atheistic friends," she said. "why not? they are unfortunate friends." but her admiration for their talents by no means extended to their opinions, and she did not permit the discussion of religious questions. it was at one of her own dinners that she started the subscription for a statue of voltaire, for whom she entertained the warmest friendship. one may note here, as elsewhere, a fine mental poise, a justness of spirit, and a discrimination that was superior to natural prejudices. sometimes her frank simplicity was misunderstood. "there is a mme. necker here, a pretty woman and a bel esprit, who is infatuated with me; she persecutes me to have me at her house," wrote diderot to mlle. volland, with an evident incapacity to comprehend the innocent appreciation of a pure-hearted woman. when he knew her better, he expressed his regret that he had not known her sooner. "you would certainly have inspired me with a taste for purity and for delicacy," he says, "which would have passed from my soul into my works." he refers to her again as "a woman who possesses all that the purity of an angelic soul adds to an exquisite taste." among the many distinguished foreigners who found their way into this pleasant circle was her early lover, gibbon. the old days were far away when she presided over the literary coterie at lausanne, speculated upon the mystery of love, talked of the possibility of tender and platonic friendships between men and women, after the fashion of the precieuses, and wept bitter tears over the faithlessness of the embryo historian. the memory of her grief had long been lost in the fullness of subsequent happiness, and one readily pardons her natural complacency in the brilliancy of a position which took little added luster from the fame of the man who had wooed and so easily forgotten her. this period of mme. necker's career shows her character on a very engaging side. loving her husband with a devotion that verged upon idolatry, she was rich in the friendship of men like thomas, buffon, grimm, diderot, and voltaire, whose respectful tone was the highest tribute to her dignity and her delicacy. but the true nature of a woman is best seen in her relations with her own sex. there are a thousand fine reserves in her relations with men that, in a measure, veil her personality. they doubtless call out the most brilliant qualities of her intellect, and reveal her character, in some points, on its best and most lovable side; but the rare shades of generous and unselfish feeling are more clearly seen in the intimate friendships, free from petty vanities and jealous rivalries, rich in cordial appreciation and disinterested affection, which we often find among women of the finest type. it is impossible that one so serious and so earnest as mme. necker should have cherished such passionate friendships for her own sex, if she had been as cold or as calculating as she has been sometimes represented. her intimacy with mme. de marchais, of which we have so many pleasant details, furnishes a case in point. this graceful and vivacious woman, who talked so eloquently upon philosophical, political, and economic questions, was the center of a circle noted for its liberal tendencies. a friend of mme. de pompadour, at whose suppers she often sang; gifted, witty, and, in spite of a certain seriousness, retaining always the taste, the elegance, the charming manners which were her native heritage, she attracted to her salon not only a distinguished literary company, but many men and women from the great world of which she only touched the borders. mme. necker had sought the aid and advice of mme. de marchais in the formation of her own salon, and had taken for her one of those ardent attachments so characteristic of earnest and susceptible natures. she confided to her all the secrets of her heart; she felt a double pleasure when her joys and her little troubles were shared with this sympathetic companion. "i had for her a passionate affection," she says. "when i first saw her my whole soul was captivated. i thought her one of those enchanting fairies who combine all the gifts of nature and of magic. i loved her; or, rather, i idolized her." so pure, so confiding, so far above reproach herself, she refuses to see the faults of one she loves so tenderly. her letters glow with exalted sentiment. "adieu, my charming, my beautiful, my sweet friend," she writes. "i embrace you. i press you to my bosom; or, rather, to my soul, for it seems to me that no interval can separate yours from mine." but the character of mme. de marchais was evidently not equal to her fascination. her vanity was wounded by the success of her friend. she took offense at a trifling incident that touched her self-love. "the great ladies have disgusted me with friendship," she wrote, in reply to mme. necker's efforts to repair the breach. they returned to each other the letters so full of vows of eternal fidelity, and were friends no more. apparently without any fault of her own, mme. necker was left with an illusion the less, and the world has another example to cite of the frail texture of feminine friendships. she was not always, however, so unfortunate in her choice. she found a more amiable and constant object for her affections in mme. d'houdetot, a charming woman who, in spite of her errors, held a very warm place in the hearts of her cotemporaries. we have met her before in the philosophical circles of la chevrette, and in the beautiful promenades of the valley of montmorency, where rousseau offered her the incense of a passionate and poetic love. she was facile and witty, graceful and gay, said wise and thoughtful things, wrote pleasant verses which were the exhalations of her own heart, and was the center of a limited though distinguished circle; but her chief attraction was the magic of a sunny temper and a loving spirit. "he only is unhappy who can neither love, nor work, nor die," she writes. though more or less linked with the literary coteries of her time, mme. d'houdetot seems to have been singularly free from the small vanities and vulgar ambitions so often met there. she loved simple pleasures and the peaceful scenes of the country. "what more have we to desire when we can enjoy the pleasures of friendship and of nature?" she writes. "we may then pass lightly over the small troubles of life." she counsels repose to her more restless friend, and her warm expressions of affection have always the ring of sincerity, which contrasts agreeably with the artificial tone of the time. mme. d'houdetot lived to a great age, preserving always her youthfulness of spirit and sweet serenity of temper, in spite of sharp domestic sorrows. she took refuge from these in the life-long friendship of saint-lambert, for whom mme. necker has usually a gracious message. it is a curious commentary upon the manners of the age that one so rigid and severe should have chosen for her intimate companionship two women whose lives were so far removed from her own ideal of reserved decorum. but she thought it best to ignore errors which her world did not regard as grave, if she was conscious of them at all. one finds greater pleasure in recalling her ardent and romantic attachment to the granddaughter of the marechale de luxembourg, the lovely amelie de boufflers, duchesse de lauzun, whose pen-portrait she sketched so gracefully and so tenderly; whose gentle sweetness and shy delicacy, in the rather oppressive glare of her surroundings, suggest a modest wild flower astray among the pretentious beauties of the hothouse, and whose untimely death on the scaffold has left her fragrant memory entwined with a garland of cypress. but we cannot dwell upon the intimate phases of this friendship, whose fine quality is shown in the few scattered leaves of a correspondence overflowing with the wealth of two rare though unequally gifted natures. at a later period her husband's position in the ministry, and the pronounced opinions of her brilliant daughter, gave to the salon of mme. necker a marked political and semi-revolutionary coloring. her inclinations always led her to literary diversions, rather than to the discussion of economic questions, but as mme. de stael gradually took the scepter that was falling from her hand, she found it difficult to guide the conversation into its old channels. her pale, thoughtful face, her gentle manner, her soft and penetrating voice, all indicated an exquisitely feminine quality quite in unison with the spirit of urbanity and politeness that was even then going out of fashion. her quiet and earnest though interesting conversation was somewhat overshadowed by the impetuous eloquence of mme. de stael, who gave the tone to every circle into which she came. "i am more and more convinced that i am not made for the great world," she said to the duchesse de lauzun, with an accent of regret. "it is germaine who should shine there and who should love it, for she possesses all the qualities which put her in a position to be at once feared and sought." if she was allied to the past, however, by her tastes and her sympathies, she belonged to the future by her convictions, and her many-sided intellect touched upon every question of the day. profoundly religious herself, she was broadly tolerant; always delicate in health, she found time amid her numerous social duties to aid the poor and suffering, and to establish the hospital that still bears her name. her letters and literary records reveal a woman of liberal thought and fine insight, as well as scholarly tastes. if she lacked a little in the facile graces of the french women, she had to an eminent degree the qualities of character that were far rarer in her age and sphere. though she was cold and reserved in manner, beneath the light snow which she brought from her native hills beat a heart of warm and tender, even passionate, impulses. devoted wife, loyal friend, careful mother, large-minded and large-souled woman, she stands conspicuous, in a period of lax domestic relations, for the virtues that grace the fireside as well as for the talents that shine in the salon. but she was not exempt from the sorrows of a nature that exacts from life more than life can give, and finds its illusions vanish before the cold touch of experience. she had her hours of darkness and of suffering. even the love that was the source of her keenest happiness was also the source of her sharpest griefs. in the days of her husband's power she missed the exclusive attention she craved. there were moments when she doubted the depth of his affection, and felt anew that her "eyes were wedded to eternal tears." she could not see without pain his extreme devotion to her daughter, whose rich nature, so spontaneous, so original, so foreign to her own, gave rise to many anxieties and occasional antagonisms. this touches the weak point in her character. she was not wholly free from a certain egotism and intellectual vanity, without the imagination to comprehend fully an individuality quite remote from all her preconceived ideas. she was slow to accept the fact that her system of education was at fault, and her failure to mold her daughter after her own models was long a source of grief and disappointment. she was ambitious too, and had not won her position without many secret wounds. when misfortunes came, the blows that fell upon her husband struck with double force into her own heart. she was destined to share with him the chill of censure and neglect, the bitter sting of ingratitude, the lonely isolation of one fallen from a high place, whose friendship and whose favors count no more. in the solitude of coppet, where she died at fifty-seven, during the last and darkest days of the revolution, perhaps she realized in the tireless devotion of her husband and the loving care of mme. de stael the repose of heart which the brilliant world of paris never gave her. with all her gifts, which have left many records that may be read, and in spite of a few shadows that fall more or less upon all earthly relations, not the least of her legacies to posterity was the beautiful example, rarer then than now, of that true and sympathetic family life in which lies the complete harmony of existence, a safeguard against the storms of passion, a perennial fount of love that keeps the spirit young, the tranquility out of which spring the purest flowers of human happiness and human endeavor. there were many salons of lesser note which have left agreeable memories. it would be pleasant to recall other clever and beautiful women whose names one meets so often in the chronicles of the time, and whose faces, conspicuous for their clear, strong outlines, still look out upon us from the galleries that perpetuate its life; but the list is too long and would lead us too far. from the moving procession of social leaders who made the age preceding the revolution so brilliant i have chosen only the few who were most widely known, and who best represent its dominant types and its special phases. the most remarkable period of the literary salons was really closed with the death of mme. du deffand, in . mme. geoffrin had already been dead three years, and mlle. de lespinasse, four. some of the most noted of the philosophers and men of letters were also gone, others were past the age of forming fresh ties, the young men belonged to another generation, and no new drawing rooms exactly replaced the old ones. mme. necker still received the world that was wont to assemble in the great salons, mme. de condorcet presided over a rival coterie, and there were numerous small and intimate circles; but the element of politics was beginning to intrude, and with it a degree of heat which disturbed the usual harmony. the reign of esprit, the perpetual play of wit had begun to pall upon the tastes of people who found themselves face to face with problems so grave and issues so vital. there was a slight reaction towards nature and simplicity. "they may be growing wiser," said walpole, "but the intermediate change is dullness." for nearly half a century learned men and clever women had been amusing themselves with utopian theories, a few through conviction, the majority through fashion, or egotism, or the vanity of saying new things, just as the world is doing today. the doctrines put forth by montesquieu, vivified by voltaire, and carried to the popular heart by rousseau had been freely discussed in the salons, not only by philosophers and statesmen, but by men of the world, poets, artists, and pretty women. the sparks of thought with which they played so lightly filtered slowly through the social strata. the talk of the drawing room at last reached the street. but the torch of truth which, held aloft, serves as a beacon star to guide the world towards some longed for ideal becomes often a deadly explosive when it falls among the poisonous vapors of inflammable human passions. liberty, equality, fraternity assumed a new and fatal significance in the minds of the hungry and restless masses who, embittered by centuries of wrong, were ready to carry these phrases to their immediate and living conclusions. they had found their watchwords and their hour. the train was already laid beneath this complex social structure, and the tragedy that followed carried to a common ruin court and salon, philosophers and beaux esprits, innocent women and dreaming men. that the salons were unconscious instruments in hastening the catastrophe, which was sooner or later inevitable, is undoubtedly true. their influence in the dissemination of thought was immense. the part they played was, to a limited extent, precisely that of the modern press, with an added personal element. they moved in the drift of their time, directed its intelligence, and reflected its average morality. as centers of serious conversation they were distinctly stimulating. it is quite possible that they stimulated the intellect to the exclusion of the more solid qualities of character, and that they were the source of a vast amount of affectation. it was the fashion to have esprit, and those who were deficient in an article so essential to success were naturally disposed to borrow it, or to put on the semblance of it. but no phase of life is without its reverse side, and the present generation cannot claim freedom from pretension of the same sort. it is not unlikely that in expanding the intelligence they established new standards of distinction, which in a measure weakened the old ones. but if they precipitated the downfall of the court they began by rivaling, it was in the logical course of events, which few were wise enough to foresee, much less to determine. it is worthy of remark that this reign of women, in which the manners and forms of modern society found their initiative and their models, was not a reign of youth, or beauty, though these qualities are never likely to lose their own peculiar fascination. it was, before all things, a reign of intelligence, and ascendency of women who had put on the hues of age without laying aside the permanent charm of a fully developed personality. it was intelligence blended with practical knowledge of the world and with the graceful amenities that heightened while half disguising its power. the women of the present have different aims. they are no longer content with the role of inspirer. their methods are more direct. they depend less upon finesse, more upon inherent right and strength. but it is to the women who shone so conspicuously in france for more than two hundred years that we may trace the broadened intellectual life, the unfettered activities, the wide and beneficent influence of the women of today. chapter xvii. salons of the revolution--madame roland _change in the character of the salons--mme. de condorcet--mme. roland's story of her own life--a marriage of reason--enthusiasm for the revolution--her modest salon--her tragical fate_ the salons of the revolution were no longer simply the fountains of literary and artistic criticism, the centers of wit, intelligence, knowledge, philosophy, and good manners, but the rallying points of parties. they took the tone of the time and assumed the character of political clubs. the salon of was not the salon of . a new generation had arisen, with new ideals and a new spirit that made for itself other forms or greatly modified the old ones. it was not led by philosophers and beaux esprits who evolved theories and turned them over as an intellectual diversion, but by men of action, ready to test these theories and force them to their logical conclusions. mirabeau, vergniaud, and robespierre had succeeded voltaire, diderot, and d'alembert. impelled towards one end, by vanity, ambition, love of glory, or genuine conviction, these men and their colleagues turned the salon, which had so long been the school of public opinion, into an engine of revolution. the exquisite flower of the eighteenth century had blossomed, matured, and fallen. perhaps it was followed by a plant of sturdier growth, but the rare quality of its beauty was not repeated. the time was past when the gentle touch of women could temper the violence of clashing opinions, or subject the discussion of vital questions to the inflexible laws of taste. no tactful hostess could hold in leading strings these fiery spirits. the voices that had charmed the old generation were silent. of the women who had made the social life of the century so powerful and so famous, many were quietly asleep before the storm broke; many were languishing in prison cells, with no outlook but the scaffold; some were pining in the loneliness of exile; and a few were buried in a seclusion which was their only safeguard. but nature has always in reserve fresh types that come to the surface in a great crisis. the women who made themselves felt and heard above the din of revolution, though by no means deficient in the graces, were mainly distinguished for quite other qualities than those which shine in a drawing room or lead a coterie. they were either women of rare genius and the courage of their convictions, or women trained in the stern school of a bitter experience, who found their true milieu in the midst of stirring events. the names of mme. de stael, mme. roland, and mme. de condorcet readily suggest themselves as the most conspicuous representatives of this stormy period. with different gifts and in different measure, each played a prominent role in the brief drama to which they lent the inspiration of their genius and their sympathy, until they were forced to turn back with horror from that carnival of savage passions which they had unconsciously helped to let loose upon the world. the salon of the young, beautiful, and gifted mme. de condorcet had its roots in the old order of things. during the ministry of necker it was in come degree a rival of the salon helvetique, and included many of the same guests; later it became a rendezvous for the revolutionary party. the marquis de condorcet was not only philosopher, savant, litterateur, a member of two academies, and among the profoundest thinkers of his time, but a man of the world, who inherited the tastes and habits of the old noblesse. his wife, whom he had married late in life, was sophie de grouchy, sister of the marechal, and was noted for remarkable talents, as well as for surpassing beauty. belonging by birth and associations to the aristocracy, and by her pronounced opinions to the radical side of the philosophic party, her salon was a center in which two worlds met. in its palmy days people were only speculating upon the borders of an abyss which had not yet opened visibly before them. the revolutionary spirit ran high, but had not passed the limits of reason and humanity. mme. de condorcet, who was deeply tinged with the new doctrines, presided with charming grace, and her youthful beauty lent an added fascination to the brilliancy of her intellect and the rather grave eloquence of her conversation. in her drawing room were gathered men of letters and women of talent, nobles and scientists, philosophers and beaux esprits. turgot and malesherbes represented its political side; marmontel, the abbe morellet, and suard lent it some of the wit and vivacity that shone in the old salons. literature, science, and the arts were discussed here, and there was more or less reading, music, or recitation. but the tendency was towards serious conversation, and the tone was often controversial. the character of condorcet was a sincere and elevated one. "he loved much and he loved many people," said mlle. de lespinasse. he aimed at enlightening and regenerating the world, not at overturning it; but, like many others, strong souls and true, he was led from practical truth in the pursuit of an ideal one. his wife, who shared his political opinions, united with them a fiery and independent spirit that was not content with theories. her philosophic tastes led her to translate adam smith, and to write a fine analysis of the "moral sentiments." but the sympathy of which she spoke so beautifully, and which gave so living a force to the philosophy it illuminated, if not directed by broad intelligence and impartial judgment, is often like the ignis fatuus that plays over the poisonous marsh and lures the unwary to destruction. for a brief day the magical influence of mme. de condorcet was felt more or less by all who came within her circle. she inspired the equable temper of her husband with her own enthusiasm, and urged him on to extreme measures from which his gentler soul would have recoiled. when at last he turned from those scenes of horror, choosing to be victim rather than oppressor, it was too late. perhaps she recalled the days of her power with a pang of regret when her friends had fallen one by one at the scaffold, and her husband, hunted and deserted by those he tried to serve, had died by his own hand, in a lonely cell, to escape a sadder fate; while she was left, after her timely release from prison, to struggle alone in poverty and obscurity, for some years painting water-color portraits for bread. she was not yet thirty when the revolution ended, and lived far into the present century; but though the illusions of her youth had been rudely shattered, she remained always devoted to her liberal principles and a broad humanity. the woman, however, who most fitly represents the spirit of the revolution, who was at once its inspiration, its heroine, and its victim, is mme. roland. it is not as the leader of a salon that she takes her place in the history of her time, but as one of the foremost and ablest leaders of a powerful political party. born in the ranks of the bourgeoisie, she had neither the prestige of a name nor the distinction of an aristocratic lineage. reared in seclusion, she was familiar with the great world by report only. though brilliant, even eloquent in conversation when her interest was roused, her early training had added to her natural distaste for the spirit, as well as the accessories, of a social life that was inevitably more or less artificial. she would have felt cramped and caged in the conventional atmosphere of a drawing room in which the gravest problems were apt to be forgotten in the flash of an epigram or the turn of a bon mot. the strong and heroic outlines of her character were more clearly defined on the theater of the world. but at a time when the empire of the salon was waning, when vital interests and burning convictions had for the moment thrown into the shade all minor questions of form and convenance, she took up the scepter in a simpler fashion, and, disdaining the arts of a society of which she saw only the fatal and hopeless corruption, held her sway over the daring and ardent men who gathered about her by the unassisted force of her clear and vigorous intellect. it would be interesting to trace the career of the thoughtful and precocious child known as manon or marie phlipon, who sat in her father's studio with the burin of an engraver in one hand and a book in the other, eagerly absorbing the revolutionary theories which were to prove so fatal to her, but it is not the purpose here to dwell upon the details of her life. in the solitude of a prison cell and under the shadow of the scaffold she told her own story. she has introduced us to the simple scenes of her childhood, the modest home on the quai de l'horloge, the wise and tender mother, the weak and unstable father. we are made familiar with the tiny recess in which she studies, reads, and makes extracts from the books which are such strange companions for her years. we seem to see the grave little face as it lights with emotion over the inspiring pages of fenelon or the chivalrous heroes of tasso, and sympathize with the fascination that leads the child of nine years to carry her plutarch to mass instead of her prayer book. she portrays for us her convent life with its dreams, its exaltations, its romantic friendships, and its ardent enthusiasms. we have vivid pictures of the calm and sympathetic sophie cannet, to whom she unburdens all her hopes and aspirations and sorrows; of the lively sister henriette, who years afterward, in the generous hope of saving her early friend, proposed to exchange clothes and take her place in the cells of sainte-pelagie. in the long and commonplace procession of suitors that files before us, one only touches her heart. la blancherie has a literary and philosophic turn, and the young girl's imagination drapes him in its own glowing colors. the opposition of her father separates them, but absence only lends fuel to this virgin flame. one day she learns that his views are mercenary, that he is neither true nor disinterested, and the charm is broken. she met him afterward in the luxembourg gardens with a feather in his hat, and the last illusion vanished. there is an idyllic charm in these pictures so simply and gracefully sketched. she sees with the vision of one lying down to sleep after a life of pain, and dreaming of the green fields, the blue skies, the running brooks, the trees, the flowers, that make so beautiful a background for youthful loves and hopes. perhaps we could wish sometimes that she were a little less frank. we miss a touch of delicacy in this nature that was so strong and self-poised. we are sorry that she dismissed la blancherie quite so theatrically. there is a trace too much of consciousness in her fine self-analysis, perhaps a little vanity, and we half suspect that her unchildlike penetration and precocity of motive was sometimes the reflection of an afterthought. but it is to be remembered that, even in childhood, she had lived in such close companionship with the heroes and moralists of the past that their sentiments had become her own. she doubtless posed a little to herself, as well as to the world, but her frankness was a part of that uncompromising truthfulness which scorned disguises of any sort, and led her to paint faults and virtues alike. family sorrows--the death of the mother whom she adored, and the unworthiness of her father--combined to change the current of her free and happy life, and to deepen a natural vein of melancholy. in her loneliness of soul the convent seemed to offer itself as the sole haven of peace and rest. the child, who loved fenelon, and dreamed over the lives of the saints, had in her much of the stuff out of which mystics and fanatics are made. her ardent soul was raised to ecstasy by the stately ceremonial of the church; her imagination was captivated by its majestic music, its mystery, its solemnity, and she was wont to spend hours in rapt meditation. but her strong fund of good sense, her firm reason fortified by wide and solid reading, together with her habits of close observation and analysis, saved her from falling a victim to her own emotional needs, or to chimeras of any sort. she had drawn her mental nourishment too long from voltaire, rousseau, montesquieu, the english philosophers, and classic historians, to become permanently a prey to exaggerated sensibilities, though it was the same temperament fired by a sense of human inequality and wrong, that swept her at last along the road that led to the scaffold. at twenty-six the vocation of the religieuse had lost its fascination; the pious fervor of her childhood had vanished before the skepticism of her intellect, its ardent friendships had grown dim, its fleeting loves had proved illusive, and her romantic dreams ended in a cold marriage of reason. it may be noted here that though mme. roland had lost her belief in ecclesiastical systems, and, as she said, continued to go to mass only for the "edification of her neighbors and the good order of society," there was always in her nature a strong undercurrent of religious feeling. her faith had not survived the full illumination of her reason, but her trust in immortality never seriously wavered. the invocation that was among her last written words is the prayer of a soul that is conscious of its divine origin and destiny. she retained, too, the firm moral basis that was laid in her early teachings, and which saved her from the worst errors of her time. she might be shaken by the storms of passion, but one feels that she could never be swept from her moorings. tall and finely developed, with dark brown hair; a large mouth whose beauty lay in a smile of singular sweetness; dark, serious eyes with a changeful expression which no artist could catch; a fresh complexion that responded to every emotion of a passionate soul; a deep, well-modulated voice; manners gentle, modest, reserved, sometimes timid with the consciousness that she was not readily taken at her true value--such was the personnelle of the woman who calmly weighed the possibilities of a life which had no longer a pleasant outlook in any direction, and, after much hesitation, became the wife of a grave, studious, austere man of good family and moderate fortune, but many years her senior. it was this marriage, into which she entered with all seriousness, and a devotion that was none the less sincere because it was of the intellect rather than the heart, that gave the final tinge to a character that was already laid on solid foundations. strong, clear-sighted, earnest, and gifted, her later experience had accented a slightly ascetic quality which had been deepened also by her study of antique models. her tastes were grave and severe. but they had a lighter side. as a child she had excelled in music, dancing, drawing, and other feminine accomplishments, though one feels always that her distinctive talent does not lie in these things. she is more at home with her thoughts. there was a touch of poetry, too, in her nature, that under different circumstances might have lent it a softer and more graceful coloring. she had a natural love for the woods and the flowers. the single relief to her somber life at la platiere, after her marriage, was in the long and lonely rambles in the country, whose endless variations of hill and vale and sky and color she has so tenderly and so vividly noted. in her last days a piano and a few flowers lighted the darkness of her prison walls, and out of these her imagination reared a world of its own, peopled with dreams and fancies that contrasted strangely with the gloom of her surroundings. this poetic vein was closely allied to the keen sensibility that tempered the seriousness of her character. with the mental equipment of a man, she combined the rich sympathy of a woman. her devotion to her mother was passionate in its intensity; her letters to sophie throb with warmth and sentiment. she is tender and loving, as well as philosophic and thoughtful. her emotional ardor was doubtless partly the glow of youth and not altogether in the texture of a mind so eminently rational; but there were rich possibilities behind it. a shade of difference in the mental and moral atmosphere, a trace more or less of sunshine and happiness are important factors in the peculiar combination of qualities that make up a human being. the marriage of mme. roland led her into a world that had little color save what she brought into it. her husband did not smile upon her friends. sympathy other than that of the intellect she does not seem to have had. but her story is best told in her own words, written in the last days of her life. "in considering only the happiness of my partner, i soon perceived that something was wanting to my own. i had never, for a single instant, ceased to see in my husband one of the most estimable of men, to whom i felt it an honor to belong; but i have often realized that there was a lack of equality between us, that the ascendency of an overbearing character, added to that of twenty years more of age, gave him too much superiority. if we lived in solitude, i had many painful hours to pass; if we went into the world, i was loved by men of whom i saw that some might touch me too deeply. i plunged into work with my husband, another excess which had its inconvenience; i gave him the habit of not knowing how to do without me for anything in the world, nor at any moment. "i honor, i cherish my husband, as a sensible daughter adores a virtuous father to whom she would sacrifice even her lover; but i have found the man who might have been that lover, and remaining faithful to my duties, my frankness has not known how to conceal the feelings which i subjected to them. my husband, excessively sensitive both in his affections and his self-love, could not support the idea of the least change in his influence; his imagination darkened, his jealousy irritated me; happiness fled; he adored me, i sacrificed myself for him, and we were miserable. "if i were free, i would follow him everywhere to soften his griefs and console his old age; a soul like mine leaves no sacrifices imperfect. but roland was embittered by the thought of sacrifice, and the knowledge once acquired that i mad made one ruined his happiness; he suffered in accepting it, and could not do without it." the sequel to this tale is told in allusions and half revelations, in her letters to buzot, which glow with suppressed feeling; in her touching farewell to one whom she dared not to name, but whom she hoped to meet where it would not be a crime to love; in those final words of her "last thoughts"--"adieu.... no, it is from thee alone that i do not separate; to leave the earth is to approach each other." beneath this semi-transparent veil the heart-drama of her life is hidden. for the sake of those who would be pained by this story, as well as for her own, we would rather it had never been told. we should like to believe that the woman who worked so nobly with and for the man who died by his own hand five days after her death, because he could stay no longer in a world where such crimes were possible, had lived in the full perfection of domestic sympathy. but, if she carried with her an incurable wound, one cannot help regretting that her spartan courage had not led her to wear the mantle of silence to the end. posterity is curious rather than sympathetic, and the world is neither wiser nor better for these needless soul-revelations. there is always a certain malady of egotism behind them. but it is often easier to scale the heights of human heroism than to still the cry of a bruised spirit. mme. roland had moments of falling short of her own ideals, and this was one of them. pure, loyal, self-sustained as she was, her strong sense of verity did not permit the veil which would have best served the interests of the larger truth. it is fair to say that she thought the malicious gossip of her enemies rendered this statement necessary to the protection of her fame. perhaps, after all, she shows here her most human and lovable if not her strongest side. we should like minerva better if she were not so faultlessly wise. the outbreak of the revolution found mme. roland at la platiere, where she shared her husband's philosophic and economic studies, brought peace into a discordant family, attended to her household duties and the training of her child, devoted many hours to generous care for the sick and poor, and reserved a little leisure for poetry and the solitary rambles she loved so well. the first martial note struck a responsive chord in her heart. her opportunity had come. embittered by class distinctions over which she had long brooded, saturated with the sentiments of rousseau, and full of untried theories constructed in the closet, with small knowledge of the wide and complex interests with which it was necessary to deal, she centered all the hitherto latent energies of her forceful nature upon the quixotic effort to redress human wrongs. her birth, her intellect, her character, her temperament, her education, her associations--all led her towards the role she played so heroically. she had a keen appreciation for genuine values, but none whatever for factitious ones. her inborn hatred of artificial distinctions had grown with her years and colored all her estimates of men and things. when she came to paris, she noted with a sort of indignation the superior poise and courtesy of the men in the assembly who had been reared in the habit of power. it added fuel to her enmity towards institutions in which reason, knowledge, and integrity paid homage to fine language and distinguished manners. she found even vergniaud too refined and fastidious in his dress for a successful republican leader. her old contempt for a "philosopher with a feather" had in no wise abated. with such principles ingrained and fostered, it is not difficult to forecast the part mme. roland was destined to play in the coming conflict of classes. whatever we may think of the wisdom of her attitude towards the revolution, she represented at least its most sincere side. as she stood white-robed and courageous at the foot of the scaffold, facing the savage populace she had laid down her life to befriend, perhaps her perspectives were truer. experience had given her an insight into the characters of men which is not to be gained in the library, nor in the worship of dead heroes. if it had not shaken her faith in human perfectibility, it had taught her at least the value of tradition in chaining brutal human passions. the tragical fate of mme. roland has thrown a strong light upon the modest little salon in which the unfortunate girondists met four times a week to discuss the grave problems that confronted them. a salon in the old sense it certainly was not. it had little in common with the famous centers of conversation and esprit. it was simply the rallying point of a party. the only woman present was mme. roland herself, but at first she assumed no active leadership. she sat at a little table outside of the circle, working with her needle, or writing letters, alive to everything that was said, venturing sometimes a word of counsel or a thoughtful suggestion, and often biting her lips to repress some criticism that she feared might not be within her province. she had left her quiet home in the country fired with a single thought--the regeneration of france. the men who gathered about her were in full accord with her generous aims. it was not to such enthusiasms that the old salons lost themselves. they had been often the centers of political intrigues, as in the days of the fronde; or of religious partisanship, as during the troubles of port royal; they had ranged themselves for and against rival candidates for literary or artistic honors; but they had preserved, on the whole, a certain cosmopolitan character. all shades of opinion were represented, and social brilliancy was the end sought, not the triumph of special ideas. it is indeed true that earnest convictions were, to some extent, stifled in the salons, where charm and intelligence counted for so much, and the sterling qualities of character for so little. but the etiquette, the urbanity, the measure, which assured the outward harmony of a society that courted distinction of every kind, were quite foreign to the iconoclasts who were bent upon leveling all distinctions. the revolution which attacked the whole superstructure of society, was antagonistic to its minor forms as well, and it was the revolutionary party alone which was represented in the salon of mme. roland. brissot, vergniaud, petion, guadet, and buzot were leaders there--men sincere and ardent, though misguided, and unable to cope with the storm they had raised, to be themselves swept away by its pitiless rage. robespierre, scheming and ambitious, came there, listened, said little, appropriated for his own ends, and bided his time. mme. roland had small taste for the light play of intellect and wit that has no outcome beyond the meteoric display of the moment, and she was impatient with the talk in which an evening was often passed among these men without any definite results. as she measured their strength, she became more outspoken. she communicated to them a spark of her own energy. the most daring moves were made at her bidding. she urged on her timid and conservative husband, she drew up his memorials, she wrote his letters, she was at once his stimulus, and his helper. weak and vacillating men yielded to her rapid insight, her vigor, her earnestness, and her persuasive eloquence. this was probably the period of her greatest influence. many of the swift changes of those first months may be traced to her salon. the moves which were made in the assembly were concocted there, the orators who triumphed found their inspiration there. still, in spite of her energy, her strength, and her courage, she prides herself upon maintaining always the reserve and decorum of her sex. if she assumed the favorite role of the french woman for a short time while her husband was in the ministry, it was in a sternly republican fashion. she gave dinners twice a week to her husband's political friends. the fifteen or twenty men who met around her table at five o'clock were linked by political interests only. the service was simple, with no other luxury than a few flowers. there were no women to temper the discussions or to lighten their seriousness. after dinner the guests lingered for an hour or so in the drawing room, but by nine o'clock it was deserted. she received on friday, but what a contrast to the fridays of mme. necker in those same apartments! it was no longer a brilliant company of wits, savants, and men of letters, enlivened by women of beauty, esprit, rank, and fashion. there was none of the diversity of taste and thought which lends such a charm to social life. mme. roland tells us that she never had an extended circle at any time, and that, while her husband was in power, she made and received no visits, and invited no women to her house. she saw only her husband's colleagues, or those who were interested in his tastes and pursuits, which were also her own. the world of society wearied her. she was absorbed in a single purpose. if she needed recreation, she sought it in serious studies. it is always difficult to judge what a man or a woman might have been under slightly altered conditions. but for some single circumstance that converged and focused their talent, many a hero would have died unknown and unsuspected. the key that unlocks the treasure house of the soul is not always found, and its wealth is often scattered on unseen shores. but it is clear that the part of mme. roland could never have been a distinctively social one. she lived at a time when great events brought out great qualities. her clear intellect, her positive convictions, her boundless energy, and her ardent enthusiasm, gave her a powerful influence in those early days of the revolution, that looked towards a world reconstructed but not plunged into the dark depths of chaos, and it is through this that she has left a name among the noted women of france. in more peaceful times her peculiar talent would doubtless have led her towards literature. in her best style she has rare vigor and simplicity. she has moments of eloquent thought. there are flashes of it in her early letters to sophie, which she begs her friend not to burn, though she does not hope to rival mme. de sevigne, whom she takes for her model. she lacked the grace, the lightness, the wit, the humor of this model, but she had an earnestness, a serious depth of thought, that one does not find in mme. de sevigne. she had also a vein of sentiment that was an underlying force in her character, though it was always subject to her masculine intellect. she confesses that she should like to be the annalist of her country, and longs for the pen of tacitus, for whom she has a veritable passion. when one reads her sharp, incisive pen-portraits, drawn with such profound insight and masterly skill, one feels that her true vocation was in the world of letters. at the close she verges a little upon the theatrical, as sometimes in her young days. but when she wrote her final records she felt her last hours slipping away. life, with its large possibilities undeveloped and its promises unfulfilled, was behind her. darkness was all around her, eternal silence before her. and she had lived but thirty-nine years. mme. roland does not really belong to the world of the salons, though she has been included among them by some of her own cotemporaries. she was of quite another genre. she represents a social reaction in which old forms are adapted to new ideas and lose their essential quality by the change. but she foreshadows a type of woman that has had great influence since the salons have lost their prestige. she relied neither upon the reflected light of a coterie, the arts of the courtier, nor the subtle power of personal attraction; but, firm in her convictions, clear in her purpose, and unselfish in her aims, she laid down her interests, and, in the end, her life, upon the altar of liberty and humanity. she could hardly be regarded, however, as herself a type. she was cast in a rare mold and lived under rare conditions. she was individual, as were hypatia, joan of arc, and charlotte corday--a woman fitted for a special mission which brought her little but a martyr's crown and a permanent fame. chapter xviii. madame de stael _supremacy of her genius--her early training--her sensibility--a mariage de convenance--her salon--anecdote of benjamin constant--her exile--life at coppet--secret marriage--close of a stormy life._ the fame of all other french women is more or less overshadowed by that of one who was not only supreme in her own world, but who stands on a pinnacle so high that time and distance only serve to throw into stronger relief the grand outlines of her many-sided genius. without the simplicity and naturalness of mme. de sevigne, the poise and judgment of mme. de lafayette, or the calm foresight and diplomacy of mme. de maintenon, mme. de stael had a brilliancy of imagination, a force of passion, a grasp of intellect, and a diversity of gifts that belonged to none of these women. it is not possible within the limits of a brief chapter to touch even lightly upon the various phases of a character so complex and talents so versatile. one can only gather a few scattered traits and indicate a few salient points in a life of which the details are already familiar. as woman, novelist, philosopher, litterateur, and conversationist, she has marked, if not equal, claims upon our attention. to speak of her as simply the leader of a salon is to merge the greater talent into the less, but her brilliant social qualities in a measure brought out and illuminated all the others. it was not the gift of reconciling diverse elements, and of calling out the best thoughts of those who came within her radius, that distinguished her. her personality was too dominant not to disturb sometimes the measure and harmony which fashion had established. she did not listen well, but her gift was that of the orator, and, taking whatever subject was uppermost into her own hands, she talked with an irresistible eloquence that held her auditors silent and enchained. living as she did in the world of wit and talent which had so fascinated her mother, she ruled it as an autocrat. the mental coloring of mme. de stael was not taken in the shade, as that of mme. roland had been. she was reared in the atmosphere of the great world. that which her eager mind gathered in solitude was subject always to the modification which contact with vigorous living minds is sure to give. the little germaine necker who sat on a low stool at her mother's side, charming the cleverest men of her time by her precocious wit; who wrote extracts from the dramas she heard, and opinions upon the authors she read; who made pen-portraits of her friends, and cut out paper kings and queens to play in the tragedies she composed; whose heart was always overflowing with love for those around her, and who had supreme need for an outlet to her sensibilities, was a fresh type in that age of keen analysis, cold skepticism, and rigid forms. the serious utterances of her childhood were always suffused with feeling. she loved that which made her weep. her sympathies were full and overflowing, and when her vigorous and masculine intellect took the ascendency it directed them, but only partly held them in check. it never dulled nor subdued them. the source of her power, as also of her weakness, lay perhaps in her vast capacity for love. it gave color and force to her rich and versatile character. it animated all she did and gave point to all she wrote. it found expression in the eloquence of her conversation, in the exaltation and passionate intensity of her affections, in the fervor of her patriotism, in the self-forgetful generosity that brought her very near the verge of the scaffold. here was the source of that indefinable quality we call genius--not genius of the sort which buffon has defined as patience, but the divine flame that crowns with life the dead materials which patience has gathered. it was impossible that a child so eager, so sympathetic, so full of intellect and esprit, should not have developed rapidly in the atmosphere of her mother's salon. whether it was the best school for a young girl may be a question, but a character like that of mme. de stael is apt to go its own way in whatever circumstances it finds itself. she was the despair of mme. necker, whose educational theories were altogether upset by this precocious daughter who refused to be cast in a mold. but she was habituated to a high altitude of thought. men like marmontel, la harpe, grimm, thomas, and the abbe raynal delighted in calling out her ready wit, her brilliant repartee, and her precocious ideas. surrounded thus from childhood with all the appointments as well as the talent and esprit that made the life of the salons so fascinating; inheriting the philosophic insight of her father, the literary gifts of her mother, to which she added a genius all her own; heir also to the spirit of conversation, the facility, the enthusiasm, the love of pleasing which are the gallic birthright, she took her place in the social world as a queen by virtue of her position, her gifts, and her heritage. already, before her marriage, she had changed the tone of her mother's salon. she brought into it an element of freshness and originality which the dignified and rather precise character of mme. necker had failed to impart. she gave it also a strong political coloring. this influence was more marked after she became the wife of the swedish ambassador, as she continued for some time to pass her evenings in her mother's drawing room, where she became more and more a central figure. her temperament and her tastes were of the world in which she lived, but her reason and her expansive sympathies led her to ally herself with the popular cause; hence she was, to some extent, a link between two conflicting interests. it was in that mme. de stael entered the world as a married woman. this marriage was arranged for her after the fashion of the time, and she accepted it as she would have accepted anything tolerable that pleased her idolized father and revered mother. when only ten years of age, she observed that they took great pleasure in the society of gibbon, and she gravely proposed to marry him, that they might always have this happiness. the full significance of this singular proposition is not apparent until one remembers that the learned historian was not only rather old, but so short and fat as to call out from one of his friends the remark that when he needed a little exercise he had only to take a turn of three times around m. gibbon. the baron de stael had an exalted position, fine manners, a good figure, and a handsome face, but he lacked the one thing that mme. de stael most considered, a commanding talent. she did not see him through the prism of a strong affection which transfigures all things, even the most commonplace. what this must have meant to a woman of her genius and temperament whose ideal of happiness was a sympathetic marriage, it is not difficult to divine. it may account, in some degree, for her restlessness, her perpetual need of movement, of excitement, of society. but, whatever her domestic troubles may have been, they were of limited duration. she was quietly separated from her husband in . four years later she decided to return to coppet with him, as he was unhappy and longed to see his children. he died en route. the period of this marriage was one of the most memorable of france, the period when noble and generous spirits rallied in a spontaneous movement for national regeneration. mme. de stael was in the flush of hope and enthusiasm, fresh from the study of rousseau and her own dreams of human perfectibility; radiant, too, with the reflection of her youthful fame. among those who surrounded her were the montmorencys, lafayette, and count louis de narbonne, whose brilliant intellect and charming manners touched her perhaps too deeply for her peace of mind. there were also barnave, chenier, talleyrand, mirabeau, vergniaud, and many others of the active leaders of the revolution. a few woman mingled in her more intimate circle, which was still of the old society. of these were the ill-fated duchesse de gramont, mme. de lauzun, the princesse de poix, and the witty, lovable marechale de beauvau. as a rule, though devoted to her friends and kind to those who sought her aid, mme. de stael did not like the society of women. perhaps they did not always respond to her elevated and swiftly flowing thoughts; or it may be that she wounded the vanity of those who were cast into the shade by talents so conspicuous and conversation so eloquent, and who felt the lack of sympathetic rapport. society is au fond republican, and is apt to resent autocracy, even the autocracy of genius, when it takes the form of monologue. it is contrary to the social spirit. the salon of mme. de stael not only took its tone from herself, but it was a reflection of herself. she was not beautiful, and she dressed badly; indeed, she seems to have been singularly free from that personal consciousness which leads people to give themselves the advantages of an artistic setting, even if the taste is not inborn. she was too intent upon what she thought and felt, to give heed to minor details. but in her conversation, which was a sort of improvisation, her eloquent face was aglow, her dark eyes flashed with inspiration, her superb form and finely poised head seemed to respond to the rhythmic flow of thoughts that were emphasized by the graceful gestures of an exquisitely molded hand, in which she usually held a sprig of laurel. "if i were queen," said mme. de tesse, "i would order mme. de stael to talk to me always." but this center in which the more thoughtful spirits of the old regime met the brilliant and active leaders of the new was broken up by the storm which swept away so many of its leaders, and mme. de stael, after lingering in the face of dangers to save her friends, barely escaped with her life on the eve of the september massacres of . "she is an excellent woman," said one of her contemporaries, "who drowns all her friends in order to have the pleasure of angling for them." mme. de stael resumed her place and organized her salon anew in . but it was her fate to live always in an atmosphere surcharged with storms. she was too republican for the aristocrats, and too aristocratic for the republicans. distrusted by both parties and feared by the directoire, she found it advisable after a few months to retire to coppet. less than two years later she was again in paris. her friends were then in power, notably talleyrand. "if i remain here another year i shall die," he had written her from america, and she had generously secured the repeal of the decree that exiled him, a kindness which he promptly forgot. though her enthusiasm for the republic was much moderated, and though she had been so far dazzled by the genius of napoleon as to hail him as a restorer of order, her illusions regarding him were very short-lived. she had no sympathy with his aims at personal power. her drawing room soon became the rallying point for his enemies and the center of a powerful opposition. but she had a natural love for all forms of intellectual distinction, and her genius and fame still attracted a circle more or less cosmopolitan. ministers of state and editors of leading journals were among her guests. joseph and lucien bonaparte were her devoted friends. the small remnant of the noblesse that had any inclination to return to a world which had lost its charm for them found there a trace of the old politeness. mathieu de montmorency, devout and charitable; his brother adrien, delicate in spirit and gentle in manners; narbonne, still devoted and diplomatic, and the chevalier de boufflers, gay, witty, and brilliant, were of those who brought into it something of the tone of the past regime. there were also the men of the new generation, men who were saturated with the principles of the revolution though regretting its methods. among these were chebnier, regnault, and benjamin constant. the influence of mme. de stael was at its height during this period. her talent, her liberal opinions, and her persuasive eloquence gave her great power over the constitutional leaders. the measures of the government were freely discussed and criticized in her salon, and men went out with positions well defined and speeches well considered. the duchesse d'abrantes relates an incident which aptly illustrates this power and its reaction upon herself. benjamin constant had prepared a brilliant address. the evening before it was to be delivered, mme. de stael was surrounded by a large and distinguished company. after tea was served he said to her: "your salon is filled with people who please you; if i speak tomorrow, it will be deserted. think of it." "one must follow one's convictions," she replied, after a moment's hesitation. she admitted afterward that she would never have refused his offer not to compromise her, if she could have foreseen all that would follow. the next day she invited her friends to celebrate his triumph. at four o'clock a note of excuse; in an hour, ten. from this time her fortunes waned. many ceased to visit her salon. even talleyrand, who owed her so much, came there no more. in later years she confessed that the three men she had most loved were narbonne, talleyrand, and mathieu de montmorency. her friendship for the first of these reached a passionate exaltation, which had a profound and not altogether wholesome influence upon her life. how completely she was disenchanted is shown in a remark she made long afterward of a loyal and distinguished man: "he has the manners of narbonne and a heart." it is a character in a sentence. mathieu de montmorency was a man of pure motives, who proved a refuge of consolation in many storms, but her regard for him was evidently a gentler flame that never burned to extinction. whatever illusions she may have had as to talleyrand--and they seem to have been little more than an enthusiastic appreciation of his talent--were certainly broken by his treacherous desertion in her hour of need. not the least among her many sorrows was the bitter taste of ingratitude. but napoleon, who, like louis xiv, sought to draw all influences and merge all power in himself, could not tolerate a woman whom he felt to be in some sense a rival. he thought he detected her hand in the address of benjamin constant which lost her so many friends. he feared the wit that flashed in her salon, the satire that wounded the criticism that measured his motives and his actions. he recognized the power of a coterie of brilliant intellects led by a genius so inspiring. his brothers, knowing her vulnerable point and the will with which she had to deal, gave her a word of caution. but the advice and intercession of her friends were alike without avail. the blow which she so much feared fell at last, and she found herself an exile and a wanderer from the scenes she most loved. we have many pleasant glimpses of her life at coppet, but a shadow always rests upon it. a few friends still cling to her through the bitter and relentless persecutions that form one of the most singular chapters in history, and offer the most remarkable tribute to her genius and her power. we find here schlegel, sismondi, mathieu de montmorency, prince augustus, monti, mme. recamier, and many other distinguished visitors of various nationalities. the most prominent figure perhaps was benjamin constant, brilliant, gifted, eloquent, passionate, vain, and capricious, the torturing consolation and the stormy problem of her saddest years. she revived the old literary diversions. at eleven o'clock, we are told, the guests assembled at breakfast, and the conversations took a high literary tone. they were resumed at dinner, and continued often until midnight. here, as elsewhere, mme. de stael was queen, holding her guests entranced by the magic of her words. "life is for me like a ball after the music has ceased," said sismondi when her voice was silent. she was a veritable corinne in her esprit, her sentiment, her gift of improvisation, and her underlying melancholy. but in this choice company hers was not the only voice, though it was heard above all the others. thought and wit flashed and sparkled. dramas were played--the "zaire" and "tancred" of voltaire, and tragedies written by herself. mme. recamier acted the aricie to mme. de stael's phedre. this life that seems to us so fascinating, has been described too often to need repetition. it had its tumultuous elements, its passionate undercurrents, its romantic episodes. but in spite of its attractions mme. de stael fretted under the peaceful shades of coppet. its limited horizon pressed upon her. the silence of the snowcapped mountains chilled her. she looked upon their solitary grandeur with "magnificent horror." the repose of nature was an "infernal peace" which plunged her into gloomier depths of ennui and despair. to some one who was admiring the beauties of lake leman she replied; "i should like better the gutters of the rue du bac." it was people, always people, who interested her. "french conversation exists only in paris," she said, "and conversation has been from infancy my greatest pleasure." restlessly she sought distraction in travel, but wherever she went the iron hand pressed upon her still. italy fostered her melancholy. she loved its ruins, which her imagination draped with the fading colors of the past and associated with the desolation of a living soul. but its exquisite variety of landscape and color does not seem to have touched her. "if it were not for the world's opinion," she said, "i would not open my window to see the bay of naples for the first time, but i would travel five hundred leagues to talk with a clever man whom i have not met." germany gave her infinite food for thought, but her "astonishing volubility," her "incessant movement," her constant desire to know, to discuss, to penetrate all things wearied the moderate germans, as it had already wearied the serious english. "tell me, monsieur fichte," she said one day, "could you in a short time, a quarter of an hour for example, give me a glimpse of your system and explain what you understand by your me; i find it very obscure." the philosopher was amazed at what he thought her impertinence, but made the attempt through an interpreter. at the end of ten minutes she exclaimed, "that is sufficient, monsieur fichte. that is quite sufficient. i comprehend you perfectly. i have seen your system in illustration. it is one of the adventures of baron munchhausen." "we are in perpetual mental tension," said the wife of schiller. even schiller himself grew tired. "it seems as if i were relieved of a malady," he said, when she left. it was this excess of vivacity and her abounding sensibility that constituted at once her fascination and her misfortune. her beliefs were enthusiasms. her friendships were passions. "no one has carried the religion of friendship so far as myself," she said. to love, to be loved was the supreme need of her soul; but her love was a flame that irradiated her intellect and added brilliancy to the life it consumed. she paints in "corinne" the passions, the struggles, the penalties, and the sorrows of a woman of genius. it is a life she had known, a life of which she had tasted the sweetest delights and experienced the most cruel disenchantments. "corinne" at the capitol, "corinne" thinking, analyzing, loving, suffering, triumphing, wearing a crown of laurel upon her head and an invisible crown of thorns upon her heart--it is mme. de stael self-revealed by the light of her own imagination. it was in a moment of weakness and weariness, when her idols had one after another been shattered, and all the pleasant vistas of her youth seemed shut out forever, that she met m. de rocca, a wounded officer of good family, but of little more than half her years, whose gentle, chivalric character commanded her admiration, whose suffering touched her pity, and whose devotion won her affection. "i will love her so much that she will end by marrying me," he said, and the result proved his penetration. this marriage, which was a secret one, has shadowed a little the brilliancy of her fame, but if it was a weakness to bend from her high altitude, it was not a sin, though more creditable to her heart than to her worldly wisdom. at all events it brought into her life a new element of repose, and gave her a tender consolation in her closing years. when at last the relentless autocrat of france found his rock-bound limits, and she was free to return to the spot which had been the goal of all her dreams, it was too late. her health was broken. it is true her friends rallied around her, and her salon, opened once more, retook a little of its ancient glory. few celebrities who came to paris failed to seek the drawing room of mme. de stael, which was still illuminated with the brilliancy of her genius and the splendor of her fame. but her triumphs were past, and life was receding. her few remaining days of weakness and suffering, darkened by vain regrets, were passed more and more in the warmth and tenderness of her devoted family, in the noble and elevated thought that rose above the strife of politics into the serene atmosphere of a christian faith. at her death bed chateaubriand did her tardy justice. "bon jour, my dear francis; i suffer, but that does not prevent me from loving you," she said to one who had been her critic, but never her friend. her magnanimity was as unfailing as her generosity, and it may be truly said that she never cherished a hatred. the life of mme. de stael was in the world. she embodied the french spirit; she could not conceive of happiness in a secluded existence; a theater and an audience were needed to call out her best talents. she could not even bear her griefs alone. the world was taken into her confidence. she demanded its sympathy. she chanted exquisite requiems over her dead hopes and her lost illusions, but she chanted them in costume, never quite forgetting that her role was a heroic one. she added, however, to the gifts of an improvisatrice something infinitely higher and deeper. there was no problem with which she was not ready to deal. she felt the pulse beats in the great heart of humanity, and her tongue, her pen, her purse, and her influence were ever at the bidding of the unfortunate. she traversed all fields of thought, from the pleasant regions of poetry and romance to the highest altitudes of philosophy. we may note the drift of her ardent and imaginative nature in the youthful tales into which she wove her romantic dreams, her fancied griefs, her inward struggles, and her tears. in the pages of "corinne" we read the poetry, the sensibility, the passion, the melancholy, the thought of a matured woman whose youth of the soul neither sorrow nor experience could destroy. we may divine the direction of her sympathies, and the fountain of her inspiration, in her letters on rousseau, written at twenty, and foreshadowing her own attitude towards the theories which appealed so powerfully to the generous spirits of the century. we may follow the active and scholarly workings of her versatile intellect in her pregnant thoughts on literature, on the passions, on the revolution; or measure the clearness of her insight, the depth of her penetration, the catholicity of her sympathies, and the breadth of her intelligence in her profound and masterly, if not always accurate, studies of germany. the consideration of all this pertains to a critical estimate of her character and genius which cannot be attempted here. it has grown to be somewhat the fashion to depreciate the literary work of mme. de stael. measured by present standards she leaves something to be desired in logical precision; she had not the exactness of the critical scholar, nor the simplicity of the careful artist; the luxuriance of her language often obscures her thought. she is talking still, and her written words have the rapid, tumultuous flow of conversation, together with its occasional negligences, its careless periods, its sudden turns, its encumbered phrases. misguided she sometimes was, and carried away by the resistless rush of ideas that, like the mountain torrent, gathered much debris along their course. but her rapid judgments, which have the force of inspiration, are in advance of her time, though in the main correct from her own point of view, while her flaws in workmanship are more than counterbalanced by that inward illumination which is heaven's richest and rarest gift. but who cares to dwell upon the shadows that scarcely dim the brilliancy of a genius so rare and so commanding? they are but spots on the sun that are only discovered by looking through a glass that veils its radiance. it is just to weigh her by the standards of her own age. born at its highest level, she soared far above her generation. she carried within herself the vision of a statesman, the penetration of a critic, the insight of a philosopher, the soul of a poet, and the heart of a woman. if she was not without faults, she had rare virtues. no woman has ever exercised a wider or more varied influence. with one or two exceptions, none stands on so high a pinnacle. george sand was a more finished artist; george eliot was a greater novelist, a more accurate scholar, and a more logical thinker; but in versatility, in intellectual spontaneity, in brilliancy of conversation and natural eloquence of thought she is without a rival. her moral standards, too, were above the average of her time. her ideals were high and pure. the wealth of her emotions and the rich coloring of sentiment in which her thoughts and feelings were often clothed left her open to possible misconceptions. it was her fate to be grossly misunderstood, to miss the domestic happiness she craved, to be the victim of a sleepless persecution, to pass her best years in a dreary exile from the life she most loved, to be maligned by her enemies and betrayed by her friends. her very virtues were construed into faults and turned against her. though we may not lift the veil from her intimate life, we may fairly judge her by her own ideals and her dominant traits. the world, which is rarely indulgent, has been in the main just to her motives and her character. "i have been ever the same, intense and sad," were among her last words. "i have loved god, my father, and liberty." but she was a victim to the contradictory elements in her own nature, and walked always among storms. this nature, so complex, so rich, so ardent, so passionate, could it ever have found permanent repose? chapter xix. the salons of the empire and restoration--madame recamier _a transition period--mme. de montesson--mme. de genlis--revival of the literary spirit--mme. de beaumont--mme. de remusat--mme. de souza--mme. de duras--mme. de krudener--fascination of mme. recamier--her friends--her convent salon-- chateaubriand--decline of the salon_ in the best sense, society is born, not made. a crowd of well-dressed people is not necessarily a society. they may meet and disperse with no other bond of union than a fine house and lavish hospitality can give. it may be an assembly without unity, flavor, or influence. in the social chaos that followed the revolution, this truth found a practical illustration. the old circles were scattered. the old distinctions were virtually destroyed, so far as edicts can destroy that which lies in the essence of things. a few who held honored names were left, or had returned from a long exile, to find themselves bereft of rank, fortune, and friends; but these had small disposition to form new associations, and few points of contact with the parvenus who had mounted upon the ruins of their order. the new society was composed largely of these parvenus, who were ambitious for a position and a life of which they had neither the spirit, the taste, the habits, nor the mellowing traditions. naturally they mistook the gilded frame for the picture. unfamiliar with the gentle manners, the delicate sense of honor, and the chivalrous instincts which underlie the best social life, though not always illustrated by its individual members, they were absorbed in matters of etiquette of which they were uncertain, and exacting of non-essentials. they regarded society upon its commercial side, contended over questions of precedence, and, as one of the most observing of their contemporaries has expressed it, "bargained for a courtesy and counted visits." "i have seen quarrels in the imperial court," she adds, "over a visit more or less long, more or less deferred." perhaps it is to be considered that in a new order which has many aggressive elements, this balancing of courtesies is not without a certain raison d'etre as a protection against serious inroads upon time and hospitality; but the fault lies behind all this, in the lack of that subtle social sense which makes the discussion of these things superfluous, not to say impossible. it was the wish of napoleon to reconstruct a society that should rival in brilliancy the old courts. with this view he called to his aid a few women whose names, position, education, and reputation for esprit and fine manners he thought a sufficient guarantee of success. but he soon learned that it could not be commanded at will. the reply of the duchesse d'brantes, who has left us so many pleasant reminiscences of this period, in which she was an actor as well as an observer, was very apt. "you can do all that i wish," he said to her; "you are all young, and almost all pretty; ah, well! a young and pretty woman can do anything she likes." "sire, what your majesty says may be true," she replied, "but only to a certain point. if the emperor, instead of his guard and his good soldiers, had only conscripts who would recoil under fire, he could not win great battles like that of austerlitz. nevertheless, he is the first general in the world." but this social life was to serve a personal end. it was to furnish an added instrument of power to the autocrat who ruled, to reflect always and everywhere the glory of napoleon. the period which saw its cleverest woman in hopeless exile, and its most beautiful one under a similar ban for the crime of being her friend, was not one which favored intellectual supremacy. the empire did not encourage literature, it silenced philosophy, and oppressed the talent that did not glorify itself. its blighting touch rested upon the whole social fabric. the finer elements which, to some extent, entered into it were lost in the glitter of display and pretension. the true spirit of conversation was limited to private coteries that kept themselves in the shade, and were too small to be noted. the salon which represented the best side of the new regime was that of mme. de montesson, wife of the duc d'orleans, a woman of brilliant talents, finished manners, great knowledge of the world, fine gifts of conversation, and, what was equally essential, great discrimination and perfect tact. if her niece, mme. de genlis, is to be trusted, she had more ambition that originality, her reputation was superior to her abilities, and her beauty covered many imperfections. but she had experience, finesse, and prestige. napoleon was quick to see the value of such a woman in reorganizing a court, and treated her with the greatest consideration, even asking her to instruct josephine in the old customs and usages. her salon, however, united many elements which it was impossible to fuse. there were people of all parties and all conditions, a few of the nobles and returned emigres, the numerous members of the bonaparte family, the new military circle, together with many people of influence "not to the manner born." mme. de montesson revived the old amusements, wrote plays for the entertainment of her guests gave grand dinners and brilliant fetes. but the accustomed links were wanting. her salon simply illustrates a social life in a state of transition. mme. de genlis had lived much in the world before the revolution, and her position in the family of the duc d'orleans, together with her great versatility of talent, had given her a certain vogue. author, musician, teacher, moralist, critic, poser, egotist, femme d'esprit, and friend of princes, her romantic life would fill a volume and cannot be even touched upon in a few lines. after ten years of exile she returned to paris, and her salon at the arsenal was a center for a few celebrities. many of these names have small significance today. a few men like talleyrand, laharpe, fontanes, and cardinal maury were among her friends, and she was neutral enough, or diplomatic enough, not to give offense to the new government. but she was a woman of many affectations, and in spite of her numerous accomplishments, her cleverness, and her literary fame, the circle she gathered about her was never noted for its brilliancy or its influence. as a historic figure, she is more remarkable for the variety of her voluminous work, her educational theories, and her observations upon the world in which she lived, than for talents of a purely social order. one is little inclined to dwell upon the ruling society of this period. it had neither the dignity of past traditions nor freedom of intellectual expression. its finer shades were drowned in loud and glaring colors. the luxury that could be commanded counted for more than the wit and intelligence that could not. as the social elements readjusted themselves on a more natural basis, there were a few salons out of the main drift of the time in which the literary spirit flourished once more, blended with the refined tastes, the elegant manners, and the amiable courtesy that had distinguished the old regime. but the interval in which history was made so rapidly, and the startling events of a century were condensed into a decade, had wrought many vital changes. it was no longer the spirit of the eighteenth century that reappeared under its revived and attractive forms. we note a tone of seriousness that had no permanent place in that world of esprit and skepticism, of fine manners and lax morals, which divided its allegiance between fashion and philosophy. the survivors of so many heart-breaking tragedies, with their weary weight of dead hopes and sad memories, found no healing balm in the cold speculation and scathing wit of diderot or voltaire. even the devotees of philosophy gave it but a half-hearted reverence. it was at this moment that chateaubriand, saturated with the sorrows of his age, and penetrated with the hopelessness of its philosophy, offered anew the truths that had sustained the suffering and broken-hearted for eighteen centuries, in a form so sympathetic, so fascinating, that it thrilled the sensitive spirits of his time, and passed like an inspiration into the literature of the next fifty years. the melancholy of "rene" found its divine consolation in the "genius of christianity." it was this spirit that lent a new and softer coloring to the intimate social life that blended in some degree the tastes and manners of the old noblesse with a refined and tempered form of modern thought. it recalls, in many points, the best spirit of the seventeenth century. there is a flavor of the same seriousness, the same sentiment. it is the sentiment that sent so many beautiful women to the solitude of the cloister, when youth had faded and the air of approaching age began to grow chilly. but it is not to the cloister that these women turn. they weave romantic tales out of the texture of their own lives, they repeat their experiences, their illusions, their triumphs, and their disenchantments. as the day grows more somber and the evening shadows begin to fall, they meditate, they moralize, they substitute prayers for dreams. but they think also. the drama of the late years had left no thoughtful soul without earnest convictions. there were numerous shades of opinion, many finely drawn issues. in a few salons these elements were delicately blended, and if they did not repeat the brilliant triumphs of the past, if they focused with less power the intellectual light which was dispersed in many new channels, they have left behind them many fragrant memories. one is tempted to linger in these temples of a goddess half-dethroned. one would like to study these women who added to the social gifts of their race a character that had risen superior to many storms, hearts that were mellowed and purified by premature sorrow, and intellects that had taken a deeper and more serious tone from long brooding over the great problems of their time. but only a glance is permitted us here. most of them have been drawn in living colors by saint-beuve, from whom i gather here and there a salient trait. who that is familiar with the fine and exquisite thought of joubert can fail to be interested in the delicate and fragile woman whom he met in her supreme hour of suffering, to find in her a rare and permanent friend, a literary confidante, and an inspiration? mme. de beaumont--the daughter of montmorin, who had been a colleague of necker in the ministry--had been forsaken by a worthless husband, had seen father, mother, brother, perish by the guillotine, and her sister escape it only by losing her reason, and then her life, before the fatal day. she, too, had been arrested with the others, but was so ill and weak that she was left to die by the roadside en route to paris--a fate from which she was saved by the kindness of a peasant. it was at this moment that joubert befriended her. these numerous and crushing sorrows had shattered her health, which was never strong, but during the few brief years that remained to her she was the center of a coterie more distinguished for quality than numbers. joubert and chateaubriand were its leading spirits, but it included also fontanes, pasquier, mme. de vintimille, mme. de pastoret, and other friends who had survived the days in which she presided with such youthful dignity over her father's salon. the fascination of her fine and elevated intellect, her gentle sympathy, her keen appreciation of talent, and her graces of manner lent a singular charm to her presence. her character was aptly expressed by this device which rulhiere had suggested for her seal: "un souffle m'agite et rien ne m'ebrante." chateaubriand was enchanted with a nature so pure, so poetic, and so ardent. he visited her daily, read to her "atala" and "rene," and finished the "genius of christianity" under her influence. he was young then, and that she loved him is hardly doubtful, though the friendship of joubert was far truer and more loyal than the passing devotion of this capricious man of genius, who seems to have cared only for his own reflection in another soul. but this sheltered nook of thoughtful repose, this conversational oasis in a chaotic period had a short duration. mme. de beaumont died at rome, where she had gone in the faint hope of reviving her drooping health, in . chateaubriand was there, watched over her last hours with bertin, and wrote eloquently of her death. joubert mourned deeply and silently over the light that had gone out of his life. we have pleasant reminiscences of the amiable, thoughtful, and spirituelle mme. de remusat, who has left us such vivid records of the social and intimate life of the imperial court. a studious and secluded childhood, prematurely saddened by the untimely fate of her father in the terrible days of , an early and congenial marriage, together with her own wise penetration and clear intellect, enabled her to traverse this period without losing her delicate tone or serious tastes. she had her quiet retreat into which the noise and glare did not intrude, where a few men of letters and thoughtful men of the world revived the old conversational spirit. she amused her idle hours by writing graceful tales, and, after the close of her court life and the weakening of her health, she turned her thoughts towards the education and improvement of her sex. blended with her wide knowledge of the world, there is always a note of earnestness, a tender coloring of sentiment, which culminates towards the end in a lofty christian resignation. we meet again at this time a woman known to an earlier generation as mme. de flahaut, and made familiar to us through the pens of talleyrand and gouverneur morris. she saw her husband fall by the guillotine, and, after wandering over europe for years as an exile, became the wife of m. de souza, and, returning to paris, took her place in a quiet corner of the unaccustomed world, writing softly colored romances after the manner of mme. de la fayette, wearing with grace the honors her literary fame brought her, and preserving the tastes, the fine courtesies, the gentle manners, the social charms, and the delicate vivacity of the old regime. one recalls, too, mme. de duras, whose father, the noble and fearless kersaint, was the companion of mme. roland at the scaffold; who drifted to our own shores until the storms had passed, and, after saving her large fortune in martinique, returned matured and saddened to france. as the wife of the duc de duras, she gathered around her a circle of rank, talent, and distinction. chateaubriand, humboldt, curier, de montmorency were among her friends. what treasures of thought and conversation do these names suggest! what memories of the past, what prophecies for the future! mme. de duras, too, wore gracefully the mantle of authorship with which she united pleasant household cares. she, too, put something of the sad experiences of her own life into romances which reflect the melancholy of this age of restlessness and lost illusions. she, too, like many of the women of her time whose youth had been blighted by suffering, passed into an exalted christian strain. the friend of mme. de stael, the literary confidante of chateaubriand, the woman of many talents, many virtues, and many sorrows, died with words of faith and hope and divine consolation on her lips. the devotion of mme. de cantal, the mysticism of mme. guyon, find a nineteenth-century counterpart in the spiritual illumination of mme. de krudener. passing from a life of luxury and pleasure to a life of penitence and asceticism, singularly blending worldliness and piety, opening her salon with prayer, and adding a new sensation to the gay life of paris, this adviser of alexander i, and friend of benjamin constant, who put her best life into the charming romances which ranked next to "corinne" and "delphine" in their time; this beautiful woman, novelist, prophetess, mystic, illuminee, fanatic, with the passion of the south and the superstitious vein of the far north, disappeared from the world she had graced, and gave up her life in an ecstasy of sacrifice in the wilderness of the crimea. it is only to indicate the altered drift of the social life that flowed in quiet undercurrents during the empire and came to the surface again after the restoration; to trace lightly the slow reaction towards the finer shades of modern thought and modern morality, that i touch--so briefly and so inadequately--upon these women who represent the best side of their age, leaving altogether untouched many of equal gifts and equal note. there is one, however, whose salon gathered into itself the last rays of the old glory, and whose fame as a social leader has eclipsed that of all her contemporaries. mme. recamier, "the last flower of the salons," is the woman of the century who has been, perhaps, most admired, most loved, and most written about. it has been so much the fashion to dwell upon her marvelous beauty, her kindness, and her irresistible fascination, that she has become, to some extent, an ideal figure invested with a subtle and poetic grace that folds itself about her like the invisible mantle of an enchantress. her actual relations to the world in which she lived extended over a long period, terminating only on the threshold of our own generation. without strong opinions or pronounced color, loyal to her friends rather than to her convictions, of a calm and happy temperament, gentle in character, keenly appreciative of all that was intellectually fine and rare, but without exceptional gifts herself, fascinating in manner, perfect in tact, with the beauty of an angel and the heart of a woman--she presents a fitting close to the long reign of the salons. we hear of her first in the bizarre circles of the consulate, as the wife of a man who was rather father than husband, young, fresh, lovely, accomplished, surrounded by the luxuries of wealth, and captivating all hearts by that indefinable charm of manner which she carried with her to the end of her life. both at paris and at her country house at clichy she was the center of a company in which the old was discreetly mingled with the new, in which enmities were tempered, antagonisms softened, and the most discordant elements brought into harmonious rapport, for the moment, at least, by her gracious word or her winning smile. here we find adrien and mathieu de montmorency, who already testified the rare friendship that was to outlive years and misfortunes; mme. de stael before her exile; narbonne, barrere, bernadotte, moreau, and many distinguished foreigners. lucien bonaparte was at her feet; laharpe was devoted to her interests; napoleon was trying in vain to draw her into his court, and treasuring up his failure to another. the salon of mme. recamie was not in any sense philosophical or political, but after the cruel persecution of laharpe, the banishment or mme. de stael, and the similar misfortunes of other friends, her sympathies were too strong for her diplomacy, and it gradually fell into the ranks of the opposition. it was well known that the emperor regarded all who went there as his enemies, and this young and innocent woman was destined to feel the full bitterness of his petty displeasure. we cannot trace here the incidents of her varied career, the misfortunes of the father to whom she was a ministering angel, the loss of her husband's fortune and her own, the years of wandering and exile, the second period of brief and illusive prosperity, and the swift reverses which led to her final retreat. she was at the height of her beauty and her fame in the early days of the restoration, when her salon revived its old brilliancy, and was a center in which all parties met on neutral ground. her intimate relations with those in power gave it a strong political influence, but this was never a marked feature, as it was mainly personal. but the position in which one is most inclined to recall mme. recamier is in the convent of abbaye-aux-bois, where, divested of fortune and living in the simplest manner, she preserved for nearly thirty years the fading traditions of the old salons. through all the changes which tried her fortitude and revealed the latent heroism of her character, she seems to have kept her sweet serenity unbroken, bending to the passing storms with the grace of a facile nature, but never murmuring at the inevitable. one may find in this inflexible strength and gentleness of temper a clue to the subtle fascination which held the devoted friendship of so many gifted men and women, long after the fresh charm of youth was gone. the intellectual gifts of mme. recamier, as has been said before, were not of a high or brilliant order. she was neither profound nor original, nor given to definite thought. her letters were few, and she has left no written records by which she can be measured. she read much, was familiar with current literature, also with religious works. but the world is slow to accord a twofold superiority, and it is quite possible that the fame of her beauty has prevented full justice to her mental abilities. mme. de genlis tells us that she has a great deal of esprit. it is certain that no woman could have held her place as the center of a distinguished literary circle and the confidante and adviser of the first literary men of her time, without a fine intellectual appreciation. "to love what is great," said mme. necker "is almost to be great one's self." ballanche advised her to translate petrarch, and she even began the work, but it was never finished. "believe me," he writes, "you have at your command the genius of music, flowers, imagination, and elegance. ... do not fear to try your hand on the golden lyre of the poets." he may have been too much blinded by a friendship that verged closely upon a more passionate sentiment to be an altogether impartial critic, but it was a high tribute to her gifts that a man of such conspicuous talents thought her capable of work so exacting. her qualities were those of taste and a delicate imagination rather than of reason. her musical accomplishments were always a resource. she sang, played the harp and piano, and we hear of her during a summer at albano playing the organ at vespers and high mass. she danced exquisitely, and it was her ravishing grace that suggested the shawl dance of "corinne" to mme. de stael and of "valerie" to mme. de krudener. one can fancy her, too, at coppet, playing the role of the angel to mme. de stael's hagar--a spirit of love and consolation to the stormy and despairing soul of her friend. but her real power lay in the wonderful harmony of her nature, in the subtle penetration that divined the chagrins and weaknesses of others, only to administer a healing balm; in the delicate tact that put people always on the best terms with themselves, and gave the finest play to whatever talents they possessed. add to this a quality of beauty which cannot be caught by pen or pencil, and one can understand the singular sway she held over men and women alike. mme. de krudener, whose salon so curiously united fashion and piety, worldliness and mysticism, was troubled by the distraction which the entrance of mme. recamier was sure to cause, and begged benjamin constant to write and entreat her to make herself as little charming as possible. his note is certainly unique, though it loses much of its piquancy in translation: "i acquit myself with a little embarrassment of a commission which mme. de krudener has just given me. she begs you to come as little beautiful as you can. she says that you dazzle all the world, and that consequently every soul is troubled and attention is impossible. you cannot lay aside your charms, but do not add to them." in her youth she dressed with great simplicity and was fond of wearing white with pearls, which accorded well with the dazzling purity of her complexion. mme. recamier was not without vanity, and this is the reverse side of her peculiar gifts. she would have been more than mortal if she had been quite unconscious of attractions so rare that even the children in the street paid tribute to them. but one finds small trace of the petty jealousies and exactions that are so apt to accompany them. she liked to please, she wished to be loved, and this inevitably implies a shade of coquetry in a young and beautiful woman. there is an element of fascination in this very coquetry, with its delicate subtleties and its shifting tints of sentiment. that she carried it too far is no doubt true; that she did so wittingly is not so certain. her victims were many, and if they quietly subsided into friends, as they usually did, it was after many struggles and heart burnings. but if she did not exercise her power with invariable discretion, it seems to have been less the result of vanity than a lack of decision and an amiable unwillingness to give immediate pain, or to lose the friend with the lover. with all her fine qualities of heart and soul, she had a temperament that saved her from much of the suffering she thoughtlessly inflicted upon others. the many violent passions she roused do not seem to have disturbed at all her own serenity. the delicate and chivalrous nature of mathieu de montmorency, added to his years, gave his relations to her a half-paternal character, but that he loved her always with the profound tenderness of a loyal and steadfast soul is apparent through all the singularly disinterested phases of a friendship that ended only with his life. prince augustus, whom she met at coppet, called up a passing ripple on the surface of her heart, sufficiently strong to lead her to suggest a divorce to her husband, whose relations to her, though always friendly, were only nominal. but he appealed to her generosity, and she thought of it no more. why she permitted her princely suitor to cherish so long the illusions that time and distance do not readily destroy is one of the mysteries that are not easy to solve. perhaps she thought it more kind to let absence wear out a passion than to break it too rudely. at all events, he cherished no permanent bitterness, and never forgot her. at his death, nearly forty years later he ordered her portrait by gerard to be returned, but her ring was buried with him. the various phases of the well-known infatuation of benjamin constant, which led him to violate his political principles and belie his own words rather than take a course that must result in separation from her, suggest a page of highly colored romance. the letters of mlle. de lespinasse scarcely furnish us with a more ardent episode in the literature of hopeless passion. the worshipful devotion of ampere and ballanche would form a chapter no less interesting, though less intense and stormy. but the name most inseparably connected with mme. recamier is that of chateaubriand. the friendship of an unquestioned sort that seems to have gone quite out of the world, had all the phases of a more tender sentiment, and goes far towards disproving the charge of coldness that has often been brought against her. it was begun after she had reached the dreaded forties, by the death bed of mme. de stael, and lasted more than thirty years. it seems to have been the single sentiment that mastered her. one may trace in the letters of chateaubriand the restless undercurrents of this life that was outwardly so serene. he writes to her from berlin, from england, from rome. he confides to her his ambitions, tells her his anxieties, asks her counsel as to his plans, chides her little jealousies, and commends his wife to her care and attention. this recalls a remarkable side of her relations with the world. women are not apt to love formidable rivals, but the wives of her friends apparently shared the admiration with which their husbands regarded her. if they did not love her, they exchanged friendly notes, and courtesies that were often more than cordial. she consoles mme. de montmorency in her sorrow, and mme. de chateaubriand asks her to cheer her husband's gloomy moods. indeed, she roused little of that bitter jealousy which is usually the penalty of exceptional beauty or exceptional gifts of any sort. the sharp tongue of mme. de genlis lost its sting in writing of her. she idealized her as athenais, in the novel of that name, which has for its background the beauties of coppet, and vaguely reproduces much of its life. the pious and austere mme. swetchine, whose prejudices against her were so strong that for a long time she did not wish to meet her, confessed herself at once a captive to her "penetrating and indefinable charm." though she did not always escape the shafts of malice, no better tribute could be offered to the graces of her character than the indulgence with which she was regarded by the most severely judging of her own sex. but she has her days of depression. chateaubriand is absorbed in his ambitions and sometimes indifferent; his antagonistic attitude towards montmorency, who is far the nobler character of the two, is a source of grief to her. she tries in vain to reconcile her rival friends. once she feels compelled to tear herself from an influence which is destroying her happiness, and goes to italy. but she carries within her own heart the seeds of unrest. she still follows the movements of the man who occupies so large a space in her horizon, sympathizes from afar with his disappointments, and cares for his literary interest, ordering from tenerani, a bas-relief of a scene from "the martyrs." after her return her life settles into more quiet channels. chateaubriand, embittered by the chagrins of political life, welcomed her with the old enthusiasm. from this time he devoted himself exclusively to letters, and sought his diversion in the convent-salon which has left so wide a fame, and of which he was always the central figure. the petted man of genius was moody and capricious. his colossal egotism found its best solace in the gentle presence of the woman who flattered his restless vanity, anticipated his wishes, studied his tastes, and watched every shadow that flitted across his face. he was in the habit of writing her a few lines in the morning; at three o'clock he visited her, and they chatted over their tea until four, when favored visitors began to arrive. in the evening it was a little world that met there. the names of ampere, tocqueville, montalembert, merimee, thierry, and sainte-beuve suggest the literary quality of this circle, in which were seen from time to time such foreign celebrities as sir humphry and lady darcy, maria edgeworth, humboldt, the duke of hamilton, the gifted duchess of devonshire, and miss berry. lamartine read his "meditations" and delphine gay her first poems. rachel recited, and pauline viardot, garcia, rubini, and lablache sang. delacroix, david, and gerard represented the world of art, and the visitors from the grand monde were too numerous to mention. in this brilliant and cosmopolitan company, what resources of wit and knowledge, what charms of beauty and elegance, what splendors of rank and distinction were laid upon the altar of the lovely and adored woman, who recognized all values, and never forgot the kindly word or the delicate courtesy that put the most modest guests at ease and brought out the best there was in them! one day in there was a vacant place, and the faithful ballanche came no more from his rooms across the street. a year later chateaubriand died. after the death of his wife he had wished to marry mme. recamier, but she thought it best to change nothing, believing that age and blindness had given her the right to devote herself to his last days. to her friends she said that if she married him, he would miss the pleasure and variety of his daily visits. old, blind, broken in health and spirit, but retaining always the charm which had given her the empire over so many hearts, she followed him in a few months. mme. recamier represents better than any woman of her time the peculiar talents that distinguished the leaders of some of the most famous salons. she had tact, grace, intelligence, appreciation, and the gift of inspiring others. the cleverest men and women of the age were to be met in her drawing room. one found there genius, beauty, esprit, elegance, courtesy, and the brilliant conversation which is the gallic heritage. but not even her surpassing fascination added to all these attractions could revive the old power of the salon. her coterie was charming, as a choice circle gathered about a beautiful, refined, accomplished woman, and illuminated by the wit and intelligence of thoughtful men, will always be; but its influence was limited and largely personal, and it has left no perceptible traces. nor has it had any noted successor. it is no longer coteries presided over by clever women that guide the age and mold its tastes or its political destinies. the old conditions have ceased to exist, and the prestige of the salon is gone. the causes that led to its decline have been already more or less indicated. among them, the decay of aristocratic institutions played only a small part. the salons were au fond democratic in the sense that all forms of distinction were recognized so far as they were amenable to the laws of taste, which form the ultimate tribunal of social fitness in france. but it cannot be denied that the code of etiquette which ruled them had its foundation in the traditions of the noblesse. the genteel manners, the absence of egotism and self-assertion, as of disturbing passions, the fine and uniform courtesy which is the poetry of life, are the product of ease and assured conditions. it is struggle that destroys harmony and repose, whatever stronger qualities it may develop, and the greater mingling of classes which inevitably resulted in this took something from the exquisite flavor of the old society. the increase of wealth, too, created new standards that were fatal to a life in which the resources of wit, learning, and education in its highest sense were the chief attractions. the greater perfection of all forms of public amusement was not without its influence. men drifted, also, more and more into the one-sided life of the club. considered as a social phase, no single thing has been more disastrous to the unity of modern society than this. but the most formidable enemy of the salon has been the press. intelligence has become too universal to be focused in a few drawing rooms. genius and ambition have found a broader arena. when interest no longer led men to seek the stimulus and approval of a powerful coterie, it ceased to be more than an elegant form of recreation, a theater of small talents, the diversion of an idle hour. when the press assumed the sovereignty, the salon was dethroned. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) [illustration: "say, girlie, didn't i tell you i'd put the raisin in it?"] jane journeys on by ruth comfort mitchell author of "play the game," etc. d. appleton and company new york :: :: london copyright, , by d. appleton and company copyright, , by the international magazine co. copyright, , by mccall co., inc. copyright, , , by the century co. copyright, , by the crowell publishing co. printed in the united states of america to w. c. morrow guide and friend, who has set so many of us on our way transcriber's note: the table of contents is not printed in the book but has been generated here for the convenience of the reader. contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi chapter xvii chapter xviii chapter xix chapter xx chapter xxi jane journeys on chapter i with but one exception, everybody in the upper layer of life in that placid vermont village was sure that jane vail was going to marry martin wetherby. the one exception was jane herself; she was not sure--not entirely. there were many sound and sensible reasons why she should, and only two or three rather inconsequent ones why she should not. to begin with, he was a wetherby, and the family went steadily back in an unbroken line to colonial days; it was their grave old house with the fanlight over its dignified door which had given wetherby ridge its name. he was doing remarkably well at the bank; it was conceded that he would be assistant cashier at the first possible moment; his habits were exemplary and he was the most carefully dressed young man in the community. his mother freely admitted at the ladies' aid and the tuesday club that he was as perfect a son as any woman ever had, and that he would one day make some girl a perfect husband. jane, after long and rebellious thought, could find nothing to set down on the other side of the ledger beyond the fact that he was just a little too good-looking, that he was already beginning, at twenty-six, to put on the flesh which had always been intended for him, that his hands were softer than hers, with fingers which widened puffily at the base, and that she nearly always knew what he was going to say before he said it. she was twenty-four years old, and the immemorial custom of that village gave her a scant remaining year in which to make up her mind. all girls who ran true to pattern were either snugly married or serenely teaching by the time they were twenty-five, and the choice was not always their own. there had been more marriageable maidens than eligible youths in the set, and it was rather, jane told herself grimly, like a game of musical chairs--a gay, excited scramble, and some one always left out. now, with the exodus of a few and the marrying of many, it had narrowed down to three of them--herself, martin wetherby, and sarah farraday, who was her best friend during childhood and girlhood; and sarah, an earnest, blonde girl with nearsighted eyes and insistent upper front teeth, had, so to speak, stopped playing. she had converted her dead father's old stable into a studio by means of art burlap and framed photographs of famous composers, and was giving piano lessons daily from ten to four. this left the field entirely to jane, and jane was carrying about with her an increasing conviction that she was not going to do the thing every one expected her to do. it came curiously to a crisis on a mild and unimportant day in november. jane spent a footless forenoon in her own room in the green-shuttered, elm-shaded house where she lived with her adoring aunt lydia vail, trying to start a story. miss vail took great care to tiptoe whenever she passed her door, and refrained from summoning her to the telephone, but her pleasant old voice, explaining why her niece could not come, was clearly audible. "yes, dear, she's at home, but she's at work at her writing, and you know i never disturb her.... yes, she's been shut away in her room since right after breakfast.... yes, it's a new story, but i don't know what it's about. i'll ask her at dinner.... how's your mother, dear?... oh, that's _good_! that's what i always use and it never fails to relieve me. you give her my love, won't you? i'll have jane call you up when she comes out for dinner." the story simply would not start. it lay inert in the back of her brain, listening for the telephone and aunt lydia's softly padding footfalls, and at last she gave it up and got out the paper she was to read on "the modern irish dramatists" before the tuesday club that afternoon and went carefully over its typed pages. "oh," said aunt lydia at the dinner table, her plump face clouding over, "i'm _sorry_ the story didn't go well! it wasn't because you were interrupted, was it, dear? i was especially careful this morning. you know, i believe, without realizing it, you're just the least mite nervous about your program. i know i am myself, though i know, of course, you're going to do just beautifully." three and a half hours later, thirty-four matrons and spinsters were warmly asserting that she had. they smiled up at her where she stood on the shallow little platform with approval and affection, and the chairman of the program committee said she was sure they were all deeply indebted to miss vail for a most enlightening little lecture. "i am free to confess," she said, smiling, "that it is a subject upon which i, personally, have been ignorant, and i believe many of our club ladies would say the same." jane, looking down into their pleasant, best-family faces knew this was the fact. the word "irish" conveyed to most of them only the red-armed minions in their kitchens; the boys who ran noisily up alleyways with butchers' parcels; the short-tempered dames in battered hats who came--or distressingly did not come--to them on monday mornings, and who frequently bore away with them bars of perfectly new soap; and the chuckles and sobs and moonlit whimsies of yeats and synge and lady gregory did not, in their minds, connect up at all. "and now," said the president, in her sweet new england voice, "i know you will all wish to express your appreciation both to the chairman of our program committee, who has arranged so many literary treats for us, and to miss vail for her delightful paper by a rising vote of thanks." then the thirty-four ladies of the tuesday club clutched at their gloves and handbags and came to their feet with soft rustlings of new foulards and taffetas and rich old silks, and the president declared the meeting adjourned but trusted that every one would remain for a cup of tea and a social hour. martin wetherby's handsome mother took brisk and proprietary charge of jane and shared her laurels happily. "yes, in_deed_," she beamed, her gray crêpe arm through the girl's, "i can tell you, _we're_ pretty proud of her!" she had clearly cast herself already for the rôle of adoring and devoted mother-in-law, and the tuesday club was just as clearly taking the same view of it. jane, in her wine-red velvet and her glowing, gipsy beauty against the sober blacks and grays and faded cheeks of the gathering, looking like a kentucky cardinal alighted in a henyard, felt her smile stiffening. sudden and inexplicable panic and rebellion descended upon her; it seemed certain that if she heard mrs. wetherby say "proud of this dear girl of ours" once again she would scream. she disengaged her arm and declined tea and little frosted cakes. "i'm so sorry--it looks so tempting, doesn't it?--but i really must fly!" she looked earnestly at her wrist watch. "this very minute! thank you all so much! you've been wonderful--quite turned my head! but i _must_ hurry!" out in the quiet, pretty street the sense of pursuit fell away from her and she was smiling derisively at herself when she reached sarah farraday's house and passed through the side garden to the studio. an hour with old sally would be good for her. sarah was tenderly dusting her severe-looking upright piano and putting away a pile of lesson books, and turned gladly to greet her. "jane, dear! why, how did you get away so early? didn't they serve tea? i was just _sick_ about not going, but the little macey girl has had so many interruptions and is so far behind, and she does want to play at my recital, so that i felt i couldn't put her off again. how did your paper go?" "oh, well enough. they were very nice about it." "i know they loved it. i want to read it!" she closed the music cabinet and came to take the typed manuscript. "why, _jane_! what's the matter?" "i don't know, sally--yes, i do know! it's--it's mrs. wetherby, and every one else! she acts as if--every one acts--" it made her angrier still to feel the color mounting hotly in her cheeks. "well, jane, _dear_," a faint, sympathetic flush warmed her small, pale face, "isn't that perfectly natural? of course, i suppose it teases you, but you know how happy every one is about it." "but there isn't anything to be happy about--yet!" "then it's just because you have--have held things off, dear, that's all. and i think marty has been awfully faithful and patient--for _years_! ever since you were tiny kiddies!" she looked anxiously at her best friend's mutinous face. "i'll tell you," she said, brightly, "let's run around to nannie's for a moment! she'll just be giving the 'teddy-bear' his oil rub. i'll run through the house and get my things--you wait out in front!" nannie slade hunter (mrs. edward r.) was their second-best friend and they had been among her bridesmaids two years earlier. a few minutes of brisk footing through the fading november afternoon delivered them at the hunters' new, little house and in the nursery of their little son. sarah's knowledge of schedule had been correct. nannie, in an enveloping pinafore, her sleeves rolled high, her hands glistening, was anointing her infant with the most expensive olive oil on the market. the house was furnace heated and a small electric stove was radiating fierce warmth, and her cheeks were blazing. jane and sarah flung off their wraps and gave themselves whole-heartedly over to the business of worship and praise. little mrs. hunter, on whom matronhood and maternity sat with the effect of large spectacles on a small child, inquired indulgently into the activities of her friends. "paper go nicely, janey? sorry i couldn't go.--yes, he was his muzzie's lamby-lamby-boy! yes, he was!--and how many pupils have you now, sally?" "seventeen," said sarah, thankfully, "and if everything goes well i'll have my baby-grand in four years!" edward r. hunter, unmistakable father of the glistening infant, came into the room as she spoke and at once propounded a conundrum. "here's a good one, jane! what's the difference between nannie and sally? give it up? why, sally'll have a baby-grand, but nannie has a grand baby!" the hot and breathless nursery rang with mirth; it seemed to jane that the very pink room was growing hotter and hotter, and it smelt stiflingly of moist varnish and talcum powder and warm olive oil and expensive soap, and the baby, sitting solemnly erect for his powdering, a steadying hand at his fat back, looked like a pink celluloid kewpie leering at her knowingly. she heard herself saying with unconsidered mendacity that she had an errand to run for her aunt lydia, and that sally mustn't hurry away on her account, and presently she was down in the dim street again, with edward r.'s jocose reproach that old marty wetherby was fading away to skin and bone echoing in her ears. she went dutifully for a magazine miss vail had mentioned and went home the "long way 'round," so that she was barely in time for supper, which consisted of three slices of cold boiled ham, shaved to a refined thinness and spread upon an ancient and honorable platter of blue willow pattern ware, hot biscuit, a small pot of honey and two kinds of preserves, delicate cups of not-too-strong tea, sugar cookies and a pallid custard. her aunt was fond and proud over the afternoon's triumph but didn't quite understand her having gone away so abruptly, and feared that mrs. wetherby had been "just the least mite hurt about it." "but then," she hastened to add, at jane's impatient movement, "it'll be all right, dear! you're going to see her to-night, and i know you can--sort of smooth it over." "i was thinking," said her niece, dark eyes on her plate, "that perhaps i wouldn't go this evening, aunt lyddy." "not _go_? not go to mrs. _wetherby's_? why,--_jane_!" miss vail laid down her fork and stared, her mild eyes wide with astonishment. "you aren't sick, are you?" "i think i'm sick of always and always going to the same places with the same person, and hearing the same people say the same things!" instantly she wished she might recall the sharp words, satisfying as they were to herself, for little miss lydia was regarding her much as the aunt of the wretched girl in the fairy tale might have done,--the girl out of whose mouth a frog jumped every time she opened it. indeed, the sentence seemed actually visible between them, like a squat and ugly small beast on the shining white cloth. "sorry, aunt lyddy," said jane, penitently. "i'm a crosspatch to-night, and i ought to sit by the fire and spin, instead of gamboling." miss vail's face cleared. "no, indeed, dearie, it'll be much better for you to go and have a merry time with your young companions. that paper was a nervous strain, _that's_ all! now you just eat a good supper and then run upstairs and make yourself as pretty as you can!" her plump face broke up into sly lines and she nodded happily. "marty'll come for you at quarter before eight; he telephoned before you got home." martin wetherby was even better than his word, which was one of his most sterling traits. he arrived at twenty-five minutes before eight and waited contentedly in converse with her aunt until jane came down. "i didn't bring the car," he said. "i thought we'd like to walk." when they reached the sidewalk he lifted her right forearm in a warm, moist grasp and held it firmly close against him. "the car's too quick, janey," he said, huskily. "gets us there too soon!" "well," said jane, brightly, "we mustn't be late, your mother likes people to be prompt, you know!" she managed to tug her arm away the fraction of an inch. "she likes _you_, any old time," he said, blissfully. he always got husky and thick sounding in emotion, jane reflected, and breathed heavily. "aren't we going to stop by for sally?" "no; i asked edward r. and nannie to pick her up in their little old boat. no, we aren't going to have anybody--but just--_us_!" he squeezed her arm against him again. "janey, i guess you know all right how i----" "oh!" cried jane,--"here they are, now! hello, people!" "hello yourselves!" said edward r. hunter, bringing his machine to a stop beside them. "want to hop in? plenty room." "no, of course they don't want to hop in, goose!" said his wife, reprovingly. "edward r. hunter, i wonder at you! were you never young yourself?" "oh, but we do!" jane was capably opening the front door of the little car. "we're late! i kept marty waiting! i'm going to ride with the chauffeur, and marty can sit with the girls. when mrs. wetherby says 'eight o'clock' she means it, not quarter past." she was chatty and intensely friendly with them all during the brief drive. she even produced the proper degree of articulate mirth for the young father's painstaking jest about his son's nickname being teddy b-a-r-e, bear, most of the time. when they stopped before the wetherby house martin was out of the automobile with heavy swiftness and lifted jane bodily to the sidewalk and hurried her up the walk. "all right for you, girlie," he chuckled, "all right for you! but you just wait! wait till going home to-night!" jane drew sarah farraday aside when they were in mrs. wetherby's phrase, "taking off their things in the north chamber,"--a solid and dependable-looking room. "sally, i want you to come home with me and stay over night." "oh, jane, i don't believe i could,--not to-night! if i'd known sooner--i haven't anything with me." "i'll loan you everything you need. please, sally! you can telephone your mother now." "but edward and nannie brought me, and it seems sort of----" "sally, don't be a nuisance! i want you. i--_need_ you!" sarah farraday peered closely at her through her nearsighted eyes. "jane! you haven't quarreled with marty, have you? oh, jane!" "no, but i shall if you don't come home with me!" her best friend looked long and anxiously at her and then went with a sigh to telephone her mother, and the evening, which mrs. wetherby described as "a little gathering of the young folks," got under way. jane played cards sedately for the earlier part of it and joined with conscientious liveliness in the games which came later, just before mrs. wetherby's conception of "light refreshments" was served,--pineapple and banana salad with whipped cream and maraschino cherries on it, three kinds of exceptionally sweet and sticky cake, thick chocolate with melted marshmallows floating on its surface, and large quantities of home-made fudge in crystal bonbon dishes. to martin wetherby, watching her contentedly out of his small, bright eyes, jane vail was what he and his mother termed the life of the party, but although she played an unfaltering part in the comedy of, "well, _partner_! didn't you get my signal? _now_ who's asleep?" and the sprightly games which followed, and exclaimed prettily over the decked supper table, deep under the high-piled masses of her dark hair, dark thoughts were stirring. she seemed to herself to be marching inexorably to the crossroads, which was silly, because she had spent exactly that sort of day and evening hundreds of times before and would again, she told herself impatiently, but the feeling was not to be eluded. she held herself up to her own high scorn. why this dramatizing of the pleasant and placid course of wetherby ridge events? why shouldn't she do as the other girls of the set had done? was she, then, so much finer clay? if she didn't want to be another nannie--hot pink nursery in a shining little new house--expensive olive oil--home-coming husband in punning mood--pink celluloid kewpie--half a dozen of everything in flat silver and two _really_ good rugs to start with--then why couldn't she cast herself serenely for the sarah farraday sort of thing, substituting a typewriter for a piano? there was nothing so bleak and dreadful about that; old sally was busily happy, toiling hopefully for her baby-grand. _she_ was enormously lucky, as a matter of fact, lucky beyond her deserts. she could be, it appeared, a nannie or a sarah, as she chose, and the time for choosing had arrived. and presently the girls were exclaiming that it was twenty minutes past eleven and they really _must_ go, but it was mrs. wetherby's fault for always giving them such a perfectly wonderful time that they forgot to watch the clock, and mrs. wetherby was beaming back at them and insisting that she had enjoyed it all just as much as they had, and that she hoped she could always keep young at heart. sally lagged behind as they went down the steps. "come along!" jane called back to her. "i know you'll talk half of what's left of the night, and i want to get you started as soon as possible." "she going to stay all night with you?" there was sulky surprise in martin's voice. "yes," said jane. "but isn't 'stay _all_ night' a silly expression? as if she might rise and stalk home in the middle of it! i wonder why we don't say, 'stay over night'?" she ran on, ripplingly, but her escort at one side and sarah farraday at the other were maintaining, respectively, a sullen and an uncomfortable silence. when they were passing her own house sarah broke away from them with a little gasp. "oh,--do you mind waiting just a minute? i believe i'll just run up and get my things, jane. you know what a fussbudget i am about my own things. and i'll just slip into another dress so i won't have to put this on for breakfast. it won't take me two _minutes_--" she flew up the front steps and let herself softly in with her latch key, and instantly ill humor fell from martin wetherby. "sally's all right," he chuckled. "i'm for sally!" he swept jane out of the circle of light from the street lamp, into the black shadow of the farraday shrubbery, and into a breathless embrace. "you--little--rascal--" he said, huskily, gasping a trifle as he always did in moments of high emotion. "you--little--witch! now i've got you--and i'm going to keep you! now i guess you'll listen to what i've got to say and--and answer me!" his broad, warm face was coming inexorably nearer; life--the pleasant and placid pattern of wetherby ridge--was coming inexorably nearer; life with melted marshmallows floating on its surface! "oh, marty, please!" she was fatally calm and earnest about it. "i'm so sorry--sorrier than i can tell you,--but you mustn't say it! you mustn't make me answer you." he was busily getting both her cool hands into the hot grasp of one of his own, and the fingers of his other hand, a little moist, were forcing themselves beneath her chin, but there was something in the honest sorriness of her tone which made him pause even in that triumphant and satisfying moment. "why? you little----" "because," said jane, steadily, "i do like you such a lot, marty dear, and i wish you wouldn't ask me, and make me tell you that i don't--i can't----" then with a swift and amazing sense of rescue, of sanctuary, she heard herself saying, "besides, you see, i'm going away!" chapter ii while jane's astounding utterance seemed to float and echo on the november night air, sarah farraday let herself as stealthily out of her front door as she had let herself in, and came softly down the steps. "i didn't wake mother," she said in a whisper. she was in sober, every-day serge now, and pulling on her second-best cloak. she carried a small bag and was faintly pink with her haste. there was apprehension in the look she gave her friend. "wasn't i quick, jane?" she had left them alone to give martin wetherby his chance, but ancient girl loyalty had winged her heels. "yes," said jane, slipping her hand through sarah's arm. "sally, i've just been telling marty that i'm going away for a while." "jane vail! going _away_? what for? where?" she stood still on the sidewalk, exploding into tiny, staccato sentences. "to new york," jane heard herself saying with entire conviction. "i'm going away to work." "to _work_?" they were all in the brightness of the street light now, and sarah brought her nearsighted gaze close to jane's glowing face. "have you lost your senses?" "neither my senses nor my cosy little hundred-a-month," said jane. "come along, people,--it's a scandalous hour." she started briskly up the silent thoroughfare and the others followed. "no, it's really all quite sane and simple." (the astounding thing was that she had known it less than five minutes herself, and now it was a solid and settled fact to her. happily, gloriously, she didn't have to choose, after all. she didn't have to be either a nannie slade hunter or a sally farraday; there was a chance to be something quite fresh and new.) "i'm going to _new york_ to write. i mean, to see if i can write." martin wetherby, heavily keeping step beside her, not even touching her arm at crossings, was silent, but her best friend was vocal and vehement. "jane vail! i never heard anything so--so far-fetched in all my life! going to _new york_ to write! can't you write here in your own town, in your own home? of course you can. why,--see what you've accomplished already." "i haven't accomplished anything, old dear, except a few papers for the tuesday club and the ladies' aid, and----" "you've had three stories accepted and published and one of them _paid for_,--i think you've had a _great deal_ of encouragement, don't you, martin?" the stout young man made a husky assent. "but sally, you don't realize the interruptions, the distractions----" "interruptions! distractions!" sarah cut in hotly. "why, your aunt lydia is perfectly wonderful about not letting you be disturbed! and anyhow--what about harriet beecher stowe, writing _uncle tom's cabin_ with poverty and sickness and a debilitating climate and seven children?" "my good woman," said jane, cautiously, "it's entirely possible that i may not have exactly the same urge. i want to find out if i have any at all." she slipped an arm through sarah's and through martin's and gave each of them a gay little squeeze. "don't be so horrified, old dears. it isn't across the world, you know, and i'll be coming home for all high-days and holidays. after i really get started i daresay i _can_ work at home,--and perhaps, you know, it will be bo-peep herself who comes home, bringing her tales behind her!" but sarah farraday was still protesting in a cross panic when they had taken leave of a subdued martin and were creeping upstairs in miss lydia vail's house. "look!" said jane, nodding at the transom over her aunt's door. "she's fallen asleep again without turning off her light. you go on, sally, i'll be right in." miss lydia was propped up on two pillows, an open book before her on the patchwork quilt, and her head had sagged forward on the breast of her blue flannelette nightgown. she was making a low comedy sound which would have distressed her beyond measure if she had heard it. when jane took the book from under her plump hands and gently removed one of the pillows she came back to consciousness with a jerk. "i wasn't asleep," she stated with dignity. "not really asleep; i just closed my eyes to rest them and sort of lost myself for an instant." her eyes narrowed intently. "my dear, what is it? you look--you look queer! sort of--excited!" a quick, pink blush mounted over her face. "jane! oh, my _darling_ child--is it--has martin"--then, disappointedly, as the girl shook her head,--"is it just that you've been having a wonderful time?" "it's just that i've been having a wonderful idea, aunt lyddy!" she patted the pillow. "i'll tell you to-morrow!" "what, jane? what _is_ it? i sha'n't sleep a wink if you don't tell me!" "i'm going away for a while, aunt lyddy, dear,--to new york. i want to see if i can really do something with my writing." the little spinster paled. "jane! going _away_?" her eyes brimmed up with sudden tears. "my dearest girl, aren't you happy in your home? i've tried, oh, how i've tried to take your dear, dead mother's place! but it seems----" "of course i'm happy,--i've always been happy, aunt lyddy! now, we'll wait till morning and then talk it all over." she pulled up the gay quilt smoothly, but her aunt sat stiffly upright, her face twisted with alarm. "my _dear_ child! what _is_ it?" jane stood looking down at her for an instant before she stooped and gathered her into a hearty hug. "it's nothing to be frightened about. it's just this, aunt lyddy; i do want to write, and i don't want to marry martin wetherby!" * * * * * in the difficult days which followed she found sarah farraday the most rebellious. miss vail had a little creed or philosophy which was as plump and comfortable as she was herself, and which had helped to make her, jane considered, the world's most satisfactory maiden aunt, and after a few tears and those briskly winked away, she was able to be sure that her dear girl knew best what was best for herself, _much_ as she would miss her, _empty_ as the house would be without her. nannie slade hunter, though she disapproved, was too deeply engulfed in the real business of life to be much concerned over the vagaries of a just-about-to-be-engaged girl, and martin wetherby, coached, jane knew, by the sapient father of the teddy-bear, was presently able to translate her exodus into something very soothing to his own piece of mind. jane could watch his mental processes as easily as she could watch the activities of a goldfish in a glass globe; he was concluding that it was the regular old startled fawn stuff ... he _had_ been rushing her pretty hard ... better let her have a little time ... play around with this writing game. he'd be asst. cashier (that was the way he visualized it) the first of the year, and that would be a great time to get things settled. but sarah, in the burlapped studio, between piano pupils, was aghast and bitter. "'going to seek your fortune!' i never heard anything so absurd, jane! you've got more than most girls right now,--a hundred dollars a month of your very own to do just what you like with, and when your aunt lydia--is taken from you, you'll have that adorable old house, jammed full of rosewood and mahogany and willow pattern ware!" wrath rose and throve in her. "i've sometimes--i'm ashamed to admit it, but it's the truth--i've sometimes envied you your advantages, jane,--going away to that wonderful school, and six months in europe after you graduated--but if the result has been to make you dissatisfied with your own home and your own friends"--she was crying now--"why, then i'm thankful i've always stayed here, and never known or wanted anything different!" jane crossed over to her and put penitent arms about her, and at the touch sarah began to cry in earnest. "oh, _jane_! i can't stand it! i can't have you go away! jane,--for you to _go away_----" "oh, sally dear," said jane, patting her, "it isn't really going away,--geography doesn't matter! it's just--going _on_, sally! that's it,--i'm just going on. _and_ on, i hope! and i'll write you miles of letters." "letters!" her friend sniffed. "what are letters?" "mine are something rather special, i've been told. i'll write you everything, sally,--letters like diaries, letters like stories, letters like books. think of all the marvelous things i'll have to write about! why, rodney harrison thinks my letters from wetherby ridge, with nothing----" sarah farraday jerked away from her, her cheeks suddenly hot, her eyes accusing. "so, that's it! that's the reason! it's the man you met on the boat!" she said it with hyphens--"the-man-you-met-on-the-boat!" she knew his name quite well, but she always spoke of him thus descriptively; it was her little way of keeping him in his place, which was well outside of the sacred circle of wetherby ridge. jane laughed. "goose! of course, he's part of the picture, and a very pleasant part, and it will be very nice to have him meet me and drive me opulently to hetty hills' sedate boarding-house. aunt lyddy is so rejoiced to have me there with some one from the village that i couldn't refuse, but i suspect it will be a section of the old people's home." "poor marty!" said sarah. "poor old marty! after all his years of devotion----" "but don't you think he got large chunks of enjoyment out of them?" her best friend's earnestness made her flippant, and it was a curious fact that good old sally, a predestinate spinster herself, settled on her moated grange of music teaching, always took a most militant part in other people's love affairs. in every lovers' quarrel in the village, in the rare divorces, she had stood fiercely, hot dabs of color on her cheekbones, for the swain or the husband. "i still contend," she would say, "that with all his faults, and i'm not denying that he has faults, a different sort of a woman could have saved him and made something of him!" sarah came to stay the night with her before she was to leave in the morning, and cried herself to sleep with a thin drizzle of tears which jane found at once flattering and touching and irritating, and when at last the weeper was drawing long and peaceful breaths she slipped out of bed and flung on her orange-colored kimono and knelt down before the open window, her shining hair, so darkly brown that it was almost black, hanging gypsylike about her shoulders. (the greater portion of sarah's hair was at rest upon the rosewood bureau top, coiled like a pale snake, and the remainder was done up on curlers in topsy twists.) over in the east there was the first graying advance of the dawn. (there had been a "little gathering of the young folks" and then jane had finished packing and they had talked for two hours.) jane felt a little guilty, and a little foolish--leaping thus into the village spotlight, sallying forth into the wide world--and a little gay and thrilled. the morning was coming steadily up the sky; the daily miracle was going on. and she was going on--_on_! old sally's scoldings didn't matter, nor marty's smug confidence. she shivered a little but kept her eyes on the growing glory. she was--going--_on_! a week later sarah farraday tore open the first letter with the new york postmark. sally dear, the typed page began, i meant to write at once, but i've been settling down so busily! of course aunt lyddy telephoned you of my safe arrival?--safe, my dear?--it was positively regal. visiting royalty effect. rodney harrison met me and i find i had quite forgotten how very easy to look at he is! he apologized for the taxi which seemed most opulent to me, because his own speedster was in the shop, he having "broken a record and some vital organ the night before, and the mater was using the limousine and the governor was out of town with the big bus." his pretty plan was for dinner and the theater and then supper and some dancing, but i thought there was just the least bit of the king and the beggar maid lavishness about that, so i discreetly revised it to tea. we purred extravagantly up the avenue, and how horrified aunt lyddy would be at the taximeter! it makes me think of when we used to play hide-and-seek, "_twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty--ready or not you shall be caught_!" he had brought me a corsage of orchids and lilies-of-the-valley, and i had to wear it at tea--and the price of that tea, my dear, would feed a first family in wetherby ridge for a day!--and when i came up here to my room i found three dozen red roses with stems like stilts and a three-story red satin box of chocolates. hardly a thrifty person, this man-i-met-on-the-boat, as you persist in calling him, sally, but the last word in reception committees! just as i had forgotten his charms, so he seemed to have mislaid the memory of mine, and we really made a very pleasant fuss over each other. rodney had several bright and beamish ideas for the next few days, but i reminded him that while he may be an idle rich, i'm a laboring class, and i frugally accepted one invitation out of four. "a country mouse came to visit a town mouse--" but i can clearly see that he will greatly add to the livableness of life. i have bought myself a second-hand, elderly, but still spry think-mobile with only a slight inclination to stutter, and a pompous-looking eraser with a little fringe of black whiskers on its chin, and i'm beginning to begin, sally, dear! it's going to be a marvelous place to work. nice old hetty hills keeps a really super-boarding house, and the personnel isn't going to be in the least distracting,--staid, concert-going ladies, some teachers, a musician or two, a middle-aged bank clerk; only two other youngish people, both settlement workers, a man and a woman. her name is emma ellis and she's only about thirty, but she acts fifty--you know--shabby hair and dim fingernails and a righteously shining nose,--and i wish you could see her hat! it looks exactly like the lid to something. she doesn't like me at all, though i've been virtuously nice to her. the man is a big, lean irishman, named michael daragh. don't you like the sound of that, sally? it makes me think of those yeats and synge things i was reading up on just before i left home. he's like a person in a book,--very tall and very thin and yet he seems like a perfect tower of strength, some way. his hair is ash blond and his eyes are gray and look straight through you and for miles beyond you, and he has splashes of good color in his thin, clear cheeks. he has a quaint, long, irish, upper lip. i'd describe him as a large body of man entirely surrounded by conscience. (i'm describing him so fully to you because it's such good practice for me, and i know you don't mind.) his clothes are old, but not so much shabby as mellow, like old, good leather. and such a brogue, sally! it could be eaten with a spoon! he asked me at once what i meant to do (he can't conceive, of course, that one isn't a do-er!), and when i said that i meant to write, at least, to try, he said: "'tis the great gift, surely. when our like"--he looked at emma ellis--"are toiling with our two hands and wishing they were twenty, yourself can reach the wide world over with your pen." miss ellis didn't seem especially impressed with his figure, but he nodded gravely and went on. "'tis a true word. you can span the aching world with a clean and healing pen." (isn't that delicious, sally?) i tried to explain that i was just starting, that i was afraid i hadn't anything of especial importance to say, and then he said, very sternly--and he has the eyes of a zealot and a fighter's jaw--"let you be stepping over to the tenements with me and i'll show you tales you'll dip your pen in tears and blood to tell!" he's going to be enormously interesting to study.--there--i've just this instant placed the resemblance that's been teasing me! he's like the st. michael in my favorite botticelli, the one of tobias led by the archangels, carrying the fish to heal his father, tobit, you know,--there's a tiny copy of it in my room at home. next time you stop by to see aunt lyddy (you're a lamb to do it so often!) run up and look at it. i loved it better than any other picture in florence; you can't get the lovely old tones from the little brown copy, but everything else is there--tobias, carrying his fish in the funny little strap and handle, utter trust on his lifted face, the wonderful lines of drapery, the swaying lily, the absurd little dog with his tasseled tail (i wonder if he was botticelli's dog?) and at the side, guarding and guiding, with sword and symbol, stern st. michael _captain-general of the hosts of heaven_. this michael daragh is really like him, name and all. isn't it curious? write me soon and much, old dear. my best to every one, and i sent the teddy-bear a bib from the proudest baby-shop on the avenue. devotedly, jane. p.s. you might ring up aunt lyddy and ask her to send me that little botticelli picture--my bare walls are rather bleak. chapter iii jane settled jubilantly into the new life,--a brisk walk after breakfast, up the gay avenue or down the gray streets below the square, then three honest hours at the elderly typewriter, writing at top speed ... tearing up all she had written ... writing slowly, polishing a paragraph with passionate care, salvaging perhaps a page, perhaps a sentence out of the morning's toil. then she hooded her machine, lunched, and gave herself up to an afternoon of vivid living,--a russian pianist, or an exhibition of vehemently modern pictures screaming their message from quiet walls in a fifth avenue gallery, an hour at hope house settlement with emma ellis or michael daragh, tea and dancing with rodney harrison, or dinner and a play with him, or a little session of snug coziness with mrs. hetty hills, giving the exile news of the vermont village,--nothing was dull or dutiful; the prosiest matters of every day were lined with rose. she dramatized every waking moment. she was going to _work_, she wrote sarah. i have been just marking time before, but now i'm marching, sally. i was up at six-thirty, had a cold dip and a laborer's breakfast,--i'm afraid i haven't any temperament in my appetite, you know--and sped off for atmosphere _and_ ozone, far below the square, on a two-mile tramp, and now i'm about to write. rodney harrison, who knows everybody who _is_ anybody, has introduced me to some vaudeville-powers-that-be and i am encouraged to try my hand at what they call a sketch--a one-act play. it seems that they are in need of something a little less thin than the usual article they've been serving up to their patrons,--more of a playlet; something, i suppose, to edify the wife of the tired business man after he has enjoyed the tramp juggler and the trained seals. rodney harrison has helped me no end,--trotted me about to all the best places and helped me to study and learn from them, and now i'm ready to begin. and--heavens--how i adore it, sally! it's breaking my iron schedule to write a letter in business hours but i knew you'd love to picture me here, gleefully clicking off dollars and fame. poor lamb! i wish you were on a job like this, instead of pegging away at your piano. i wish there could be as much fun in your work as mine. of course, music is the most marvelous thing in the world, but isn't there something of deadly monotony in it? but i fly to my toil! busily, jane. _january ninth_, . a.m. it is just one week since i wrote you. i rend my garments, sarah farraday, and sit in the dust. that fatuous note i sent you was a thin crust of bluff over an abyss of fright. who am i to write a one-act play? i have sat here for eight solid horrible days with a fine fat box of extra quality paper untouched and the keyboard leering at me, and not a line, not a word, have i written! the hideous period of beginning to begin! i imagine it's like the tense moment in a football game, just before the kickoff, only those lucky youths are pushed and prodded into action, willynilly. if only a whistle would blow or a pistol crack for me! i have come to realize that the most dangerous thing for a writer to have is uninterrupted leisure. _now_ i know how harriet beecher stowe could write _uncle tom's cabin_ with poverty and sickness and a debilitating climate and seven children. so could i. it's the awful quiet of this orderly room, the jeering taunt of washington square, looking in at my window to say, "what! here you are in my throbbing, thrilling midst at last, having left your sylvan home because it ceased to nourish you,--and you have nothing to say?" i've simulated a mad business. i've answered every letter--some that i've owed for years; i've put my bureau and chiffonier and closet in sickening order; i've mended every scrap of clothing i possess, reinforced all my buttons and run in miles of ribbon; i've visited the sick and even been to the dentist. i really ought to die just before i start a new piece of work. at no other time is my house of life in such shining order. sally, didn't i say something nitwitted about music? now, indeed, i pour ashes on my head. lucky you, who need only sit down and spill out your soul in something thoughtfully arranged for that very purpose by mr. chopin or mr. tschaikovsky! while i--"out of senseless nothing to evoke"--i wish i did something definite and tangible like plain sewing! if i don't start soon i'll sell this think-mobile for junk and put out a sign--"mending and washing and going out by the day taken in here." just now the painted ship upon the painted ocean is a bee-hive of activity compared to me. jane. _monday noon._ sarah, sh-h...! i'm off! j. _wednesday, more than midnight._ dearest s., i'm a dying woman but my sketch is done! i've lived on board the typewriter since twelve o'clock on monday, coming briefly ashore for a snatch of food or sleep, but it's done and i adore it! (says the author, modestly.) the heavenly mad haste of the actual doing makes up for all the agonies of the start, restoring the years that the locusts have eaten. i'll tell you all about it in the morning. drowsily but triumphantly, jane. _thursday._ sally, my dear, i wouldn't thank king george to be my uncle, as aunt lyddy would say! i never experienced anything in all my life as satisfying as pounding out that word curtain! want to hear about it? you must,--you can't elude me. well, i've called it "one crowded hour." the scene is a lonely telegraph station on the desert and the time is the present. the characters are: the girl--the brother--the man. the setting shows the front room of the telegraph station crude and rough and bare, just the ticker on the table, another table and three chairs, yet there is a pathetic attempt at softening the ugliness,--a bunch of dried grasses, magazine covers pinned to the wall, gay cushions in the chairs, a work basket, books. at rise of curtain girl is discovered alone, sewing. she is faintly, quaintly pretty in a mild new england way, no longer young, yet with a pathetic, persistent girlishness about her. a faint whistle is heard. she rises, goes to door of rear room and calls to brother that the train has whistled for the bend. the two trains--east-bound and west-bound--are the events of their silent and solitary days. she brings him from rear room, her arm about him, steadying him. he is younger than his sister, frail, despondent. she seats him at the instrument and brings him a cup of hot broth, standing over him until he drinks it up. the necessary exposition comes in brief dialogue: he has been sent west for his cough, has become so weak he is unable to do his work, has taught her, and she in reality carries on all the affairs of the lonely station. he stays in bed most of the time, only dragging himself up at train time, so that the trainmen will not suspect their secret. the noise of the approaching limited grows louder and louder until it arrives with loud clamor just off stage. girl runs out with the orders and the train is heard pulling out again. she comes in and is about to help him back to bed when the instrument begins to click and instantly they are electrified. "the hawk," a daring hold-up man who has baffled justice for a year, has just made off with the bar k ranch paysack and posses are forming, but the new sheriff has sworn to take him single-handed. brother excitedly asserts that the sheriff can do it,--a regular fellow, that new sheriff,--looks and acts just like a man in a movie! he regrets that his sister was not at home the day he came to see them--the one time she'd left the station for more than an hour. she'd have liked him fine! they excitedly discuss the chances of the bandit's coming their way, for just beyond their station is the famous pass through the mountains, through which so many rogues have ridden to freedom. in feverish haste brother gets out his clumsy pistol and loads it, to her timid distress. their drab day has turned to scarlet; he talks glowingly of the new sheriff, envies him.... instrument clicks again. it is the sheriff, asking if they have seen a solitary horseman, and saying that he is on his way there, to watch the pass. brother gets himself so wrought up that he brings on a fit of coughing and she makes him go back to bed. left alone again in the front room, she tries to settle down to her sewing, but she sings as she rocks-- "in days of old when knights were bold, and barons held their sway--" then, childishly, half ashamed, she begins to "pretend." she snatches off the red table cover and drapes it about herself for a train, casts the crude furniture for the roles of moat and drawbridge and castle wall, and herself for a captive princess, held by a robber chief, flinging herself into her fantasy with such abandon that she does not hear the approaching hoof beats. at the pinnacle of her big speech the door is wrenched open and the man stands there, a gun in each hand, demanding-- "who's here?" it fits in with her make-believe so amazingly that for an instant she is dazed and can hardly tell reality from romance, but then she gathers herself and says with a little gasp-- "why, mister sheriff, we aren't hiding the hawk!" the man, who is, of course, the bandit, instantly catches her mistake and poses as the sheriff. she asks him eagerly if she may send a message for him, to cover up her confusion as she takes off her table-cloth train. then, realizing that she has betrayed their secret, she throws herself on his mercy and tells of her brother's failing health, and of how she has had to do the work to hold the job, and begs him not to tell. he promises, and then has her send several messages for him in the name of the sheriff, and from his expression as she is telegraphing, the audience will infer that he has good and sufficient reason to know that the sheriff will not arrive. he states to the several ranches where she wires for him that he--the sheriff--will guard the pass. brother, roused by voices, comes silently to the door. their backs are toward him and they do not see him. brother hears her call him "mister sheriff," stares, takes in the situation, his face speaking his terror. he softly pulls the door to and disappears. girl and man talk. he is a gay, dashing, robin hood sort of chap and she is charmed. she asks him to step outside to see the gallant little garden she is raising in the desert. they go out, and instantly brother creeps out, stumbles to table, waits until they are out of hearing, sends a quick message. then he creeps to the door and conveys by his mutterings that he is going to untie the hawk's horse and let him run away. apparently the horse doesn't go, for he reaches back, picks up a cane and leans out again. this time there is the sound of skurrying hoofs and the horse tears away. brother staggers back into the rear room, closing the door. man and girl rush in. he is desperate,--the horse,--a wild and half-broken one, has made straight for the pass. girl wants to wire for another horse to be brought to him, but after a moment's grim thought, he decides to jump on the eastbound train, due in a few minutes, and go on to the next station, where he can get a good horse. then there is a pretty scene between them, when she confesses her pity for the hawk and her wicked hope that he may get away--"i can't bear to have even _things_ hunted, let alone a man!" the man is touched, and tells her that he knows a good deal about the bandit; that he has had a rotten deal straight through life; that there's a streak of decency in him for all the yellow; that he's heard that the hawk meant to make this his last job ... to go back east again and make a fresh start.... the girl, star-eyed and pink-cheeked now, tells him of her home "down east," of how keen she was to come to the wild, wonderful west, of how she thinks that "one crowded hour of glorious life" is worth a whole leaden existence. that reminds her of her graduating essay, which she digs out of the trunk, tied with baby-blue ribbon. "one crowded hour" was her burning topic, but her hours and days and years have been crowded only with homely toil and poverty and worries. the man, softened incredibly, tells her she is the gentlest thing he ever knew.... he takes the blue ribbon and says he's going to keep it for luck. there is a beautiful, wordless moment for her, touched by magic into girlhood again. then--shouts, galloping hoofs, shots! the man springs to his feet, hands on his guns. brother, at door of rear room, his old pistol describing wavering circles in his shaking hand, cries hoarsely, "harriet mary, you come here to me! that's not the sheriff! that's the hawk!" the man, with a gentle word to her, tells her to stand aside.... "they'll never put the hawk in a cage!" the girl, after a dazed moment, turns to a veritable fury of resolution. the east-bound train whistles. there is still a chance, if she can get him on board. sound of posse riding nearer. she makes man hide under the curtain where her dresses hang. brother starts toward the front door but she seizes him roughly, pushing him back toward the bedroom. "listen," he gasps, "harriet mary--that's the hawk!" "i don't care! i don't care! i don't _care_! you hush! you keep still!" she pushes him into the room so violently that he falls, coughing terribly, to the floor. a look of fleeting horror crosses her face but she bangs and bolts the door. she draws the curtain more carefully over the man, flings open the front door and calls above the clamor of the on-coming train-- "he's gone! gone! we tried to keep him--quick--through the pass! _don't you see the hoof-prints?_" the posse wheels and thunders away. the train roars in. the man, coming out from under the curtain, snatches up her thin hand, kisses it, dashes out. she forces herself to take the message out to the trainmen. she comes back, stands in strained and breathless listening.... the train pulls noisily out. little by little her tension relaxes. the magic robe of youth, renewed, falls from her thin shoulders. at a sound from the inner room she gasps, clutches her hands together on her breast, her eyes wide with terror and remorse, starts running to her brother. curtain! can you _see_ it, sally? do you think it will "get across?" will i be able to "put it over"? now, convoyed by rodney harrison, i'm off to the booking office with a 'script, enchantingly typed in black and scarlet, under my arm and hope in my heart. jauntily, jane. _later._ p.s. they were quite wonderful to me, which is to say, they pronounced "not bad" and will cast it at once. they talk vaguely of changes and "gingering it up," and "adding a little pep," but say that can be done at rehearsals. i started to say i preferred not to have any alterations made, but i thought it would be more tactful to wait and see. oh, but the forlorn wretches in the waiting room! some of them had been there for hours and when the proud and prosperous-looking rodney sent in his name and we were taken in at once without waiting for our turn and they looked at me with their mournful made-up eyes i felt as if my wicked french heels were on their necks. i noticed one girl, particularly; there was something so gallant about her cracked and polished shoes, her mended gloves, her collar, laundered to a cobweb thinness, and about the improbable sea-shell pink in her hollow cheeks. she had a sort of eager, sharpened sweetness in her face and a regular burne-jones jaw. i refused tea and said farewell to rodney uptown and walked home, and on the way i saw her again, standing outside of one of the white and shining _café des enfants_, watching the man turn the muffins. she opened a collapsed little purse and poked about in it for an instant and then shut it again and turned away. before i knew what i meant to do, i heard myself saying, "hello! i saw you just now at the booking office, didn't i? i wish you'd come in and have some coffee and butter cakes,--i detest eating alone!" she hung back a bit but they are not formal in her world, and in we went. sally, i wish you could have seen that poor thing eat! she's been sick and out of work and fearfully depressed. i've got her name and address and if all goes as well with this vaudeville work as rodney thinks it will, i may be able to help her. at any rate, she's stuffed like a christmas turkey at this moment. sally, i can't tell you how happy i am! much love, old dear, jane. p.s. ii. i read the act to michael daragh and he set the seal of his sober approval on it. he thinks i'm going personally to uplift the two-a-day. chapter iv _friday._ dearest sally: it just happened that they need a new sketch act, so they cast "one crowded hour" at once and it is already in rehearsal. brother is excellent, a wistful-eyed, shabby youth who really looks convincingly ill and coughs in a way to carry conviction. oh, but the girl! my quaint new england spinster is gone and with her all the point of my playlet. they've given the part to a blooming, buxom, down-to-the-minute young person, late of "oh, you kewpie-kid!" (in the chorus) and frankly contemptuous of this rôle. and the man--the bandit--a fair-haired canary, an inch shorter than she is! they quarrel like fishwives and scold about the number of "sides" each other has, and refuse to play up prettily, and i'm heartsick over it all, sally. the producing agent says it would be utterly impossible to "put it over" with the characters as i wrote it. he was fairly mild and merciful with me (thanks to rodney, i daresay) but unbudgably firm, and at every rehearsal some touch of coyness or kittenishness is added. as an elixir of youth, i recommend him. the girl patronizes me until i am ready to fling myself on the floor and squeal with rage. "listen, girlie," she cooes, "don't you worry about this lil' ol' act! you leave it to me, hon'! i'll put the raisin in it!" rodney harrison is hugely amused at my woe. he says i must remember that you can't slip the idylls of the king in between the black-faced comedian and the elephant act. i suppose i must just bear it, grinning if possible, until i have won my footing and then i won't allow so much as a comma to be changed. brother is a dear. he opened his heart and gave me a five-act play of his own to read. the stage business is much funnier than the dialogue. after a melting moment he has--"exeunt mother." the old lady was clearly beside herself. also me. wearily, jane. _tuesday._ dear sally, we open thursday afternoon at a weird little try-out theater 'way downtown. i am like to perish of weariness and exasperation. girl and man have been fighting like kilkenny cats. yesterday she said, "dearie, god is my witness, he uses me like i was the dirt under his feet!" the brother of brother, a lean, clean-looking chap, lounges about at rehearsals and comforts me vastly with his under-the-breath comments on them. she has worked up the bit before the man arrives, when she is pretending, you remember, into screaming comedy. she assures me it will "knock 'em dead!" and they have introduced a dance! yes. he shows her "the coyote lope." i'm telling you the solemn truth, sarah farraday. do you wonder that i'm an old woman before my time? and as if i did not have enough to annoy me, michael daragh has been quite superfluously unpleasant about it. i wrote you how much he liked it when i read the original 'script to him? well, he has kept talking about the glorious privilege of doing really good work and leavening the lump, and of how the public really wants the best, only the managers haven't faith to know it, and when i had to tell him about the changes,--the comedy and the dance and so on, he just looked at me and looked at me as if i were a lost soul. it was very tiresome. "good gracious, michael daragh," i said, "you don't suppose i like it, do you? but i've got to get my foothold. you can't be high-brow in the two-a-day, it seems. you've got to capitulate. it's simply what they call 'putting it over.'" and he said, "i should be calling it 'putting it under,'" and stalked away. excuse a cross letter. so am i. j. p.s. just for which, i won't even tell him when or where the tryout is to be. _thursday night._ well, my dear, they say it went fairly well. but it was absolutely the most harrowing thing i ever had to bear. brother was a gem but girl and man messed up their lines and gave an alien interpretation to everything. how i hated the audience for roaring at her common comedy! they howled with delight when she pushed brother over, and the coyote lope got the biggest hand of the day. i was behind the scenes, holding the 'script. oh, but it's a grim land of disillusion back there! as she came off she gave me a kindly pat and said-- "ain't they eatin' it up? say, girlie, didn't i tell you i'd put the raisin in it?" unbelievably, heaven alone knows why, we are to open at the palace next monday. some big act is canceled owing to illness and they have to have a sketch. we play two more performances downtown and then rehearse day and night to smooth over the rough places. i ought to be bubbling with thankful joy--the palace! but i'm not. i doubt if i go on with vaudeville work after this. jadedly, jane. _friday._ dear s., something made me think of that girl i fed the other day and i looked her up. she was actually starving and her room rent long overdue and her landlady a regular story-book demon, so i fed her up and brought her home and coaxed mrs. hills to put a cot in my room for her. her burne-jones jaw is sharper than ever and she has the mournfully grateful eyes of a setter. she's sleeping now as if she could never have enough,--just thirstily drinking up sleep. performance no better to-day. terrific rehearsing starts early to-morrow morning. hastily, jane. _sunday morning._ dearest sally, rehearsal was called for nine sharp yesterday. brother and his brother were waiting. girl and man appeared at ten-ten. she said-- "dearie, i hate to tell you, but i got bad news for you." then, turning to him, she said, compassionately, "say, hon', you tell her! i haven't got the heart." "why," said the bandit, regretfully, "what she means is this: she's got a swell chance to go on tour with 'kiss and tell,' and she feels like she hadn't ought to turn it down. it's more her line than this kind of thing, you know." i counted ten to myself, slowly, and then i said: "very well. i daresay you know of some girl who is a quick study and can get up in the part by monday, with your help." she stared and then began to giggle. "say, girlie, i'm the limit. didn't i tell you? i _married_ the boy!" at my gasp she went on, confidentially, linking her arm in mine. "yes, dearie. you see, it's like this. i gotter have somebody, anyhow, to look after luggage, and you know what this life is. a girl's gotter have protection." when they were gone i turned to look at brother. i almost thought he was going to cry, and he began to cough, just as he does in the sketch. "oh, please," i said, "don't keep doing that! we aren't rehearsing now." and he stopped and said, "that's just it, miss vail. i'm not rehearsing. it's--that's how it is with me. that's why i knew i could get by with the part. i thought if we got good bookings, why, i'd be fixed to take a good long rest, afterwards,--out on the desert or up in the snow. it isn't bad, yet. they tell me i've got a great chance." then his chin quivered. "that's why it kind of hits me right where i live, having this thing go on the rocks." "it mustn't," i said. "it can't! we won't let it!" i knew it was only a miracle that could save us, in that breathlessly short time, but i have a vigorous belief in miracles. "there must be a man and a girl, somewhere----" then the lean, silent brother of brother spoke. "i don't suppose you'd give me a whack at it, would you? i've learned every word of the whole 'script, watching every day the way i have. i can do it. i can do it if you'll let me. i don't think that fellow ever had your idea of it. look,--the part where the hawk tells her what a rotten deal he's always had, isn't this how you meant it?"--and he dropped into a chair, took a knee between his brown, lean hands, looked off into the empty theater for a moment--and then, sally, he read the lines as i'd written them. instantly, i was happier than i'd been since i tore the final page out of the typewriter, visualizing the thing as i meant it to be. "it's yours," i chortled in my joy. "you can have it on a silver salver!" "if only we can get a girl," brother was worrying. "we ought to get one, easy. she needn't be so much of a looker." "and we'll cut the comedy and the dance," i said, thankfully. "there must be a hundred girls crazy for the job, with all the idle acts there are now. all she's got to do is walk through,--it's actress proof, that part. if we could just get a girl, not too young, kind of pathetic looking----" then, suddenly and serenely, i knew what i was going to do. and i knew that, sink or swim, never again was i going to "put it under." i told them to wait. i taxied opulently home. my waif was curled up in my kimono, feeding my fan-tailed goldfish. "hurry up," i said, briskly. "you're holding the rehearsal!" while she was scrambling, bewilderedly, into her clothes, i explained to her and dug out the old 'scripts and carbons, and on the way back i told her the story and gave her the idea of how she was to play it. she hadn't had time to put on her sea-shell tint, but the hollows in her cheeks filled up with pink excitement as i talked. when i marched in with her the men gave her one look, grinned, and heaved gusty sighs of relief. we rehearsed all day and half the night. we haven't told the office a word about the defection of the two vaude-villains. the printing is out, of course, and the old names will stand. she is stiff with fright and bodily unfit for the strain, but she's giving everything she's got, and she's delicious in quality for the part. yours in weary bliss, j. _monday._ . a.m. sarah, i feel like guido reni (if it was guido reni) when he stabbed his servant to get the actual agony for the "ecce homo!" my girl fainted away in the middle of her big speech an hour ago. i have tucked her up in bed after a rub and a cup of hot milk and she is to sleep until noon. brother's brother tried pitifully, but he didn't get through a single speech without prompting. i'm terrified! suppose they muddle it utterly, what will the powers say to me--after not telling them of the change in cast? i wish i hadn't asked michael daragh to come to the matinée. i _must_ stop. i know i won't sleep a wink, but i'll put out the light and lie down and shut my eyes. jane. _monday midnight._ oh, sally dearest, i don't know where to begin! i'll make myself start with the morning. i slipped out before my starveling was awake, leaving a cheering note for her. i took the bus up to grant's tomb and walked back along the river to seventy-second street. it was the most marvelous blue-and-gold morning; i speeded myself to a glow on shady paths or sat steeping for a moment in the sun. i held happy converse with democratic dogs and reserved and haughty babies and dawdled, but even so i found myself with a panicky margin of time on my hands. then i bethought myself of my never-failing remedy for troublesome thoughts and i went joyously forth like a he-goat on the mountains and bought a ruinous pair of proud shoes and put them on. i knew the gloating over them would leave me small room for forebodings. you know how i've always been. you used to call me "goody two-shoes." these are cunningly contrived to make my no. , triple a, look like a , and i walked upon air, narrowly missing being mown down by traffic, my eyes upon my feet. on the way to the palace i made myself repeat that lovely thing of gelett burgess's-- "my feet, they haul me round the house; they hoist me up the stairs; i only have to steer them, and they ride me everywheres!" i purchased an orchestra seat and inquired carelessly at what hour my sketch (only i didn't say it was my sketch) went on. i found we were sandwiched in between the newest tramp juggler and the trained seals! then i went behind and saw my gallant little company, made up and dressed too soon, waiting in awful idleness with strained smiles and ghastly cheer. i petted and patted them all round and cast an agitated eye over the set. a grimy young stagehand made a minor change for me with a languid, not unkind contempt. "what's the big idea?" he wanted to know. "goner slip 'em some high-brow stuff? say, this is the wrong pew, sister. they won't stand for nothing like that here. up in the bronx, maybe--" i turned and basely fled. i went out in front and found my place. the orchestra rollicked through the overture and people poured in and ushers slid down the aisles and snapped down the seats. i studied the people's faces as a gladiator might have done in the arena. thumbs up? thumbs down? a row behind me, across the aisle, sat michael daragh, but he did not see me. two petulantly pretty girls in regal furs sank into seats beyond me, and a white-spatted, rosy-wattled gentleman in a subduedly elegant waistcoat took the one on the end. the annunciator flashed a and a pair of black-face comedians "opened the show," but they did not get it very far open for people were jamming in and elbows were silhouetted against the light. they doggedly plugged away, firing their tragic comedy, making brave capital even of the silences, but through my glasses i was sure i could see the strained anxiety of their eyes. it was a relief to have them go. then the trained seals were with us, lovely things like gentle, tidy, sleek-headed little girls. my heart was going like a metronome set for a tarantella and my wrist-watch ticked breathlessly--"coming--coming--coming!" if only we were z instead of c! "funny thing, you know," said the occupant of the end seat, conversationally, "they tell me they're easier than any other animal in the world to train, except a pig. fact. circus man told me." he had a genial face, creased into jolly patterns, and my heart warmed to him, and to michael daragh and the pretty girls and the fat old lady in front of me. nice people, kind people. it seemed certain that they must want real things, clean things. i took out a pencil to make notes for corrections, but the annunciator said d, and a lady who would have done nicely as venus came out attired as cupid and the house rocked with welcome. i was cold with conjecture. _what_ had happened back there? had my poor starveling fainted again? had brother's brother died of fright? i sat shivering through the sprightly number until c, said the electric lights, and the orchestra began softly to play-- "in days of old, when knights were bold--" the curtain rose on the bleak telegraph station, on my thin spinster in her rocking chair. it was a lean vision for eyes lately ravished by the venus lady's charms; programs rattled; the tramp juggler was to follow. i could see her chest rising and falling jerkily with her frightened breath and her hands shook so that she could hardly hold her sewing. from far aloft came that loud guffaw that speaks the vacant mind and one of the pretty girls next me giggled in echo. then something seemed to go through my waif; the burne-jones jaw was taut; she got hold of herself; then, slowly, steadily, surely, little by little, she got hold of the house. the man on the end who had slouched comfortably down in his seat, sat sharply upright and the girls stopped whispering. brother came on, and his brother as the man. the tempo was perfect, the acceleration blood-quickening. laughs came at unexpected places, friendly and cordial. the girl was like a melody in low tones; she built up her climax cunningly, warming, coloring, kindling. "good gad!" ejaculated the spatted gentleman in the aisle seat, "you know, that girl can act!" the old lady in front lifted a frank handkerchief; the giggling girls were raptly watching. now the girl's big moment came. her voice, faded and gentle before, was harsh and strident. "_i don't care! i don't care! you hush! you keep still!_" when she gave him his broth she had seemed the gentlest of living creatures; now, pushing him ruthlessly to the floor, she was a fury, pitiless, obsessed. all the starved romance, all the pinched poverty of her life, all the lean and lonely years she had known cried out in hunger, not to be denied; she was a tigress doing battle for her mate. and then, when the rattle and roar of the train died away, brother's hacking cough sounded from behind the closed door, and stark reality laid hold on her again. her thin hands went together on her breast and then fell slackly to her sides. she seemed visibly to shrink and shrivel. racked and spent with her one crowded hour, she stood looking into the bleak and empty vista of the years. i was in the aisle before the curtain fell, speeding past the people, the applauding people, the beautiful, kind, understanding people, past the benediction of michael daragh's lifted look. the applause followed me out through the lobby--oh, sally dear, no choir invisible could make half so celestial a sound!--and when i got behind the scenes it was still coming in--solid, genuine, hearty waves of it. i heard hurrying feet behind me but i did not pause. i guessed who it was, but i wouldn't turn to look. in the orderly chaos of props and people--and it was an ugly land of disillusion no longer but the land of heart's desire, sally--i found my gallant little band of fighting hope, beaming and breathless after the fifth honest curtain, coming to me on buoyant feet. stern st. michael had caught up with me then, and he bent his austere head to say very humbly, "woman, dear, i'm so high with pride for you, and so low with shame for me, that i could ever be doubting----" but the grimy young stagehand, halting in front of me with an armful of the tramp juggler's playthings, cut his sentence in two. "say,"--he held out a dark and hearty paw--"put her there, sister! say, i guess maybe that's poor? say, i guess maybe that's not puttin' it over!" jubilantly, jane. chapter v the grave irishman, michael daragh, was a constant delight. he was no more aware, she saw clearly, of her as a person, as a woman, than he was of emma ellis of the lidlike hats and shabby hair. nothing that was human was alien to him, certainly, and nothing that was feminine was anything more than merely human to him. it appeared, however, that he did have a sense of values of a sort, for he halted her in the hall, one dark december day, with a request. would she be coming with him to-morrow to the agnes chatterton home, where there was a girl in black sorrow? "why, yes, of course i'll come, but--why?" jane wanted to know. "what makes you think i could help? i don't know very much about--that sort of thing." he smiled swiftly and winningly and it was astonishing to see how the process lighted up his lean face. "ah, that's the reason! she's had her fill of us, god help her. the way we've been exhorting her for days on end. you'll be bringing a fresh face and a fresh feeling to the case. and"--he stopped and looked her over consideringly--"'tis your sort can help and heal." "why?" jane persisted. she was finding the conversation piquantly interesting. "because," said michael daragh, and she had the startled feeling that he was not in the least paying her a compliment but rather laying a charge upon her, "you have been anointed with the oil of joy above your fellows." then, quite as if the matter were wholly settled, he gave her directions and went his way. jane had never seen an agnes chatterton home. she had heard of them, of course, as asylums for what the village called unfortunate girls, furtive and remote retreats for stricken creatures who fled the light of day, but when she found herself actually on her way to see one, the following day, she slackened her pace and made her way more slowly and with conscious reluctance. she was a little annoyed with herself for acquiescing so meekly to the big irishman's plan. after all, she had not broken the old home ties (to put it lyrically) for this sort of thing, now, had she? she had to come to new york to seek her fortune, not to--to--whatever it was that michael daragh wanted her to do. and yet, she was always being drawn, willynilly, into any woe within her ken. herself a contained creature of radiant health and placid nerves with a positively masculine aversion to scenes and applied emotion of any sort, people were always coming and confiding in her. she had been the reluctant repository for the secrets of half her little town. as a matter of fact, and this she could not know of herself, it was because she demonstrated the solid theory that one happy person was worth six who were trying to make others happy. but now she was marching deliberately into the heart of a misery which did not in the least concern her and where, she felt sure, she would be wholly unwelcome. she stood still in an unsavory thoroughfare, seriously considering a retreat, but she saw michael daragh waiting for her on the next corner, and she kept on. "i very nearly turned back," she said. "and i very nearly didn't come at all. i had the most alluring invitation for matineé and tea." (rodney harrison had been most insistent.) "i had your word you'd be coming," said the irishman. he looked at her impersonally. she was buttoned to the chin in a cloak the color of old red wine and there was a jubilant red wing in her dark turban, and it may have occurred to him that she made a thread of good cheer in the dull woof of that street, but he went at once into the story. "ethel's lived on at the home ever since her baby was born. it'll be two, soon, and herself going for eighteen." "_eighteen?_ oh----" "yes. doing grandly, she is, in the same shop as her good elder sister. well, one day she tells the matron she has a sweetheart, a decent chap, wanting to marry her. "'fine,' says mrs. richards. 'what were we always telling you? and will he be good to the baby?' "'he doesn't know i've the baby,' says ethel, 'and what's more he never will!' "'you'll be giving up your child, that you kept of your own free will, that you've worked and slaved for, and be wedding him with the secret on your soul?' "'i will,' says the girl, and not all the king's horses and all the king's men can move her, jane vail." they were picking their way through a damp and squalid street and he stooped to set a wailing toddler on its unsteady feet. "'tis the sister's doing, we think, she the hard, managing kind and ethel the weak slip of a thing. coming to-day, irene is, to carry it off to the place she's found for it--some distant kin down boston way, long wanting to adopt and never dreaming this child is their own blood." "doesn't ethel care for the baby?" "there's the heart scald. 'tis the light of her eyes. but irene, d'you see, has scared her into feeling sure she'll lose him if she tells. wait till you see the look she has on her. 'supping the broth of sorrow with the spoon of grief,' they would be calling it, home in wicklow." "and i'm to talk to her--to beg her to tell him?" he nodded. jane sighed. "she'll loathe me, of course,--an absolute outsider. coming in--nobly giving up a matinée and tea--to rearrange her life for her. oh, i don't believe i dare!" he nodded again, comprehendingly. "i know well the way you're feeling. but with the likes of her, poor child, somebody has to rearrange the lives they've mussed and mangled!" jane sighed again. "i'll try, michael daragh. you know, your two names make me think of the wind off the three lakes on the road to kenmare and the black line of the mcgillicuddy reeks against the sky?" his eyes lighted. "'tis good, indeed, to know you've seen ireland. whiles, i'm destroyed with the homesickness." he kept a long silence after that, his eyes brooding. jane watched him and wondered. "he's a mystery to me," mrs. hetty hills always appended after a mention of him. (it teased her to have mysteries in her boarding-house.) "has an income, of course--has to have, to live--doesn't earn anything worth mentioning with all this uplift work--and gives away what he does get. emma ellis doesn't know any more about him than i do. but i will say he's less trouble than any man i ever had under my roof. and, of course, he's not _common_ irish." (mrs. hills had still her vermont village feeling of red-armed, kitchen minions, freckled butcher boys running up alley-ways, short-tempered dames in battered hats who came--or distressingly didn't come--to you of a monday morning.) they walked swiftly and without speech now, and jane had again her sense of his resemblance to the botticelli st. michael. "he ought really to be carrying his sword and his symbol," she told herself, "and i daresay raphael and gabriel are beside him if i could only see them. am i tobias? and have i a fish to heal a blindness?" "there's the house," said michael daragh, at length. "of course," said jane, indignantly. "i should have known it at once, even without the hideous sign, for its smugly dreary look of good works! _why_ must they have that liver-colored glass in the door?" they mounted the worn steps. "and 'welcome' on the mat! oh, michael daragh, how ghastly! who did that to them?" he shook his head. "most of our things are given, you see." he rang the bell and they heard its harsh and startling clamor. a sullen-faced girl in a coarse, enveloping pinafore opened the door. her hands and arms were red and dripping and from a dim region at the rear came the smell of dishwater. down the narrow, precipitate stairway floated an infant's thin, protesting wail and jane felt a sick sense of sudden nausea. "thank you, lena," said the irishman. "this lady is jane vail, a good friend come to see us." the girl, who might have been sixteen, gave jane a stolid, incurious look and shuffled down the hall, closing the door on a portion of the stale smell. mrs. richards was in her office. she greeted jane civilly but eyed her in some puzzlement. here was a strange bird, clearly, to alight in this dingy barnyard. "jane vail will be trying her hand at ethel for us," michael daragh said. the matron bridled a little. she was a pallid, tired woman with skeptical eyes. "well, i'm sure that's very kind of her but i'm afraid it's no use. i've just come down from talking to her, nearly all her noon hour. she wouldn't go to the table. she's turned sullen, now. she won't take any interest in the christmas preparations; wouldn't help the girls a bit." she sighed and looked at a table cluttered with paper paraphernalia for holiday decorations. in her world of bleak realities the tinsel trimmings for _fête_ days left her cold. "i declare, mr. daragh, i believe we've worried with her long enough. i've about made up my mind that we'd better tell the young man ourselves and have done with it. i believe it's our duty." "it's her right," said michael daragh. "but, if she won't? they're planning to be married monday, and irene's coming to-day to take billiken away with her." "let jane vail be trying her hand. will you come up to her now?" he strode out of the room and jane followed him, smiling back at mrs. richards with a deprecatory shake of her head. she wished the matron could know how much of an intruder she felt. but once out of the severe little office, mounting the stairs after michael daragh, her usual vivid sense of drama came back to her. this was, after all, what she had left the snug harbor for and put out to sea. this was better than tea with sarah farraday in the "studio"--than "little gatherings of the young people,"--than walking home with marty wetherby--than laughing painstakingly at the jokes of teddy-bear's father. this was life more abundantly. it didn't even matter that the grave irishman took so for granted her dedication to this obscure girl's need. that had been very nice ... about the oil of joy. "here's where she'll be," he said, pausing at a closed door, "feeding her child." "i'll do what i can," said jane, lifting a look of girded resolve. "i know that, surely," said michael daragh, knocking for her. chapter vi "going for eighteen," he had said, but even that had not prepared jane for the poignant youth of the girl. she looked a child, in her shrunken middy blouse, her fair hair hanging about her eyes. she was sitting on the floor, urging bread and milk on a fat and gurgling baby in a little red chair. she did not look up at first, but went on speaking to the child. "please, billiken, eat for muddie! billiken--when it's the last time muddie'll ever have to feed you? take it quick or muddie'll give it to the kitty-cat!" "ethel?" jane closed the door softly and came toward her. the other eyed her defensively and she tried to tidy her hair with hands that shook. on the left was a tiny, pinhead solitaire. "i am michael daragh's friend, ethel. he asked me to talk with you." "oh, my god!" little red spots of rage flamed in her thin cheeks and she struck her hands together. "can't they leave me alone? i've told 'em i won't talk any more. i've told 'em my mind's made up for keeps. but they keep at me and _keep_ at me!" jane stood still. "i know i haven't any right here," she said, distressedly, "and i know you don't want me." the girl scrambled to her feet and went to the bureau where she stood pulling and patting at her hair. "what'd you come for, then?" she muttered it under her breath, but jane caught the words. "well, if you know michael daragh, you must know that when he asks you to do a thing, even a hard one, you--just do it!" ethel did not comment or turn her head and jane found the sense of drama which had borne her so buoyantly up the stairs deserting her. she wanted to go out of that drab room and down those drab stairs and out of that drab house forever, but she resolutely forced herself to cross the room and bent down beside the giddy little red chair. "why do you call her billiken?" "can't you see?" it was curt and sullen, not at all the tone for an unfortunate girl to employ toward a young lady anointed with the oil of joy. "she grins just like the billikens do. ever since she was a teenty thing." she gave her caller a long, rebellious stare. "you don't look like a nurse or a do-gooder." "i'm not," said jane promptly. "i'm merely michael daragh's fr----" she broke off, catching herself up. well, now, was she? his friend, after a few weeks of slenderest acquaintance? she had a feeling that the grave irishman had obeyed the command to come apart and be separate. rodney harrison was a warm and tangible friend, but this stern and single-purposed person--"michael daragh asked me to talk with you," she said, sitting down beside the baby. "i'd love to feed her. may i?" "no!" ethel swooped down on her child, jealously snatching up the bowl. "not when it's my last chance!" she leveled a spoonful and held it to the widely grinning billiken. "come! gobble--gobble! eat for poor muddie!" a wave of self-pity went visibly over her and she held her head down to keep jane from seeing her tears. "i don't see how you can bear to give her up." "d'you s'pose i want to?" she snarled it, savagely. here was maternity, parenthood, another breed than that of the teddy-bear's hot, pink nursery. jane picked up the baby's stubby little hand and patted it. "then, why do you?" ethel's face flamed, but she looked her inquisitor more fully in the eye than she had done at any time before. "because--jerry! _jerry!_ that's why." "oh ... i see. you care more for him than for your baby?" now there came into the childish face a look of shrewd and calculating wisdom. "i can--i _could_--have other babies, but i couldn't ever have another--_him_!" strength here, of a sort, it appeared, in this weak sister. "it must be very wonderful to care for any one like that," said jane, respectfully. the girl looked at her with quick suspicion, but her eyes were entirely honest. "what is he like, this jerry person?" ethel relaxed a little and the tensest lines smoothed out of her face. "well ..." she took her time to it, sorting and choosing her words, "he's not good-looking, but he looks--_good_." jane nodded understandingly. "i know. i know people like that." "handsome men ... you can't trust 'em...." a look of wintry reminiscence came into her eyes for an instant. "i think more of jerry than--than anybody, ever. i can't remember my folks. they died when i was just a little thing. my sister irene, well, i guess she meant all right, only, she was so awful proper, always. she was always scared to talk about--things. i never knew _any_thing till i knew--_every_thing!" a small shiver went over her at that and she was still for a moment. "but jerry!" her mouth was young and soft again on that word. "he's different from anything i ever thought a man could be. he's almost like a girl, some ways. you know, i mean just as nice and comfortable to talk to and be with." she kept her gaze on jane's warmly comprehending face, now. "and he's awful smart, too. the firm wants to send him to the branch store in rochester and put him in charge of gent's furnishings. i guess i'd like to live there ... where everybody'd be strange. jerry, he don't know where i live. i never let him bring me clear home. mrs. richards--she's the matron--she says he'll find out about me some day and hate me, but he won't find out. nobody knows except irene and the people here,--and nobody'd be mean enough to just go and tattle to him,--would they?" "oh, i don't believe any one would, intentionally. but" (how appeal to a sense of fair play where no fair play had been?) "that isn't what frightens me, ethel." "what? you needn't be scared about billiken. she'll be all right. they're awful nice people, rich and everything, and they're crazy to have her. 'a blue-eyed girl with curly hair and a cheerful disposition,' they says to irene. and they think her mother's dead." "i wasn't thinking of billiken." "oh," said ethel, warily. "i was thinking of jerry. if he's as fine as you say he is----" "he is!" "then i think it's pretty mean not to play fair with him, don't you? come," said jane with a brisk heartiness she was far from feeling, "tell him to-day, right now, when you go back." she shook a stubborn head. "now you're being just like all the rest of 'em. i thought you sort of--understood." "i think i do. but i believe you must tell him." "well, it's too late now. irene's coming today to take billiken. it's all settled and everything. it's too late now, even if i wanted to. besides"--she flamed with hot color again--"i couldn't tell him in the daytime ... right there in the store!" "oh, ethel--in anything so big,--something that means your whole life,--time and place can't matter." the girl began to dab at her eyes with a damp, small wad of blue-bordered handkerchief. "i just couldn't tell him in the daytime. i nearly did, last night. i meant to, 'cross-my-heart,' i did! we went for a walk, and i was just--just sort of beginning when a woman came sneaking by and--said something to him. _you_ know. and he said--'poor devil!' that's what he called her. '_poor devil!_' that's just how he said it." now she dropped her inadequate handkerchief and wept convulsively into her hands and a thin shaft of sunshine lighted up the meager solitaire. billiken leaned forward, her fat, small face filled with contrition and patted her mother on her bowed head. "billiken gob--gobble din--din! muddie not cly!" it seemed to jane that she was marching endlessly round a jericho with walls that reached to the sky with a flimsy tin toy trumpet in her hands. how blow a blast to shatter them? "ethel, the only thing you can bring him is the truth. are you going to give him a lie for his wedding gift?" she winced but her mouth was sullen. "you can make me feel terrible, but you can't make me tell." "no," said jane, "i can't make you tell. and mrs. richards can't make you tell, nor even michael daragh. but--your own heart can." she leaned swiftly nearer and put an arm about the flat, little figure. "ethel, how much do you love him?" "more'n--_anything_ in the world." "more than irene?" the affirming nod was quick and positive. "more than the baby?" again the nod, slower, but still sure. "but that's not enough, ethel. you don't know anything about loving unless you love him more than you love yourself." the girl wriggled out of her clasp and stared at her. "do you know what i'm trying to say to you? i don't know as much about loving as you do, ethel. i've never loved any one--yet. but i know this! your jerry may never find out about your trouble, but whether he does or not, you couldn't be happy while you knew you were cheating him,--while you knew you had married him without telling him the thing it's his right to know. ethel, you've got to love him more than yourself. you've got to love him more than you want him!" the color ebbed slowly out of ethel's small face and billiken began to whimper. far down the street the inevitable hurdy-gurdy ground out the inevitable "marseillaise." "_la jour de gloire est arrivé!_" was it? "love him,--more than i want him?" she said it over in a halting whisper. "love him more than i--" her lips moved inaudibly, forming the second half of the sentence. she bent over billiken, crushing her in an embrace which made her cry. then she caught up her foolish little hat and jammed it on without a glance at the mirror and flung herself into her coat. "i better go quick!" she was still whispering. "i better go quick!" she ran out of the room. jane heard her on the stairs, then the slam of the front door and the sharp staccato of her feet upon the sidewalk. billiken, released from the spell, lifted up her voice and shrilly wept, passionately pushing away her bowl and spoon, roaring with rage when jane tried to touch her. it seemed to jane that there was furious accusation in the small, red countenance. "_don't_ shriek at me like that," she said, indignantly. "i'm not taking your mother away from you,--i'm trying to keep her for you!" the door opened and michael daragh came in, his face glowing. "from the look she had on her when she flew by," he said, "i'm thinking you've surely won where the rest of us lost." "i think she's going to tell him," said jane, soberly. "glory be!" he said, fervently. jane sighed. "she's going to tell him, in the garish daylight, at the gent's furnishing counter. if she can! but she's left me with the 'heart-scald'!" michael daragh had picked up billiken at once and at once she had ceased to roar and soothed to a whimpering cry. "hush, now _acushla_," he said, "hush now,--let you be still, _solis na suile_!" the baby stopped altogether, her ear intrigued by the purling gaelic. "if you'll be slipping out now, the way she won't be noticing, i'll have her fine and fast asleep in two flips of a dead lamb's tail!" jane slipped out obediently and stepped softly down the precipitate stair. the matron looked up, her lips thinly compressed. "mr. daragh thinks you have persuaded her to tell." "i can't be sure. i think she meant to tell him when she left here." "well, i guess she'll change her mind by the time she gets to the store. she's very weak, ethel is." "but there isn't anything weak about the way she cares for the jerry person." mrs. richards' lips tightened to a taut line. "when they get mad crazy about a man" (the plural pronoun pigeonholed ethel in a class) "they're like the rock of gibraltar." "i'd like to stay the rest of the afternoon, if you don't mind," said jane, at her winningest. "that is, if there's something i can do?" she looked at the littered table. "how'd you like to cut out the paper joy-bells?" the matron melted a little. "a lady brought in the paper and the pattern yesterday, but i haven't had time to get the girls at them yet." "but--that's magenta-colored!" jane picked up a sheet of the paper. "well, i guess it isn't the regular christmas shade, but i don't know that it matters, particularly. i expect it was some she had in the house. you might put the girls at cutting them out and you could do the merry christmas sign." she gave her a long and narrow placard in mustard green and shook out some pattern letters from an envelope. then she rang a firm and authoritative bell. "i'll have the girls assemble in the dining room and they can work at the big table." immediately there were shuffling feet in the hall, slow feet on the stair, a heavy tread in the dining room behind them. where was the youth in those young feet? there was something in the dragging gait that made jane shiver. seventeen of them seated themselves about the long table, all in huge, enveloping pinafores of dull brown stuff, coarse and stiff. they ranged in age from twenty to twelve but on every face, pretty or plain, stolid or wistful, sullen or sweet, she read the same look of crushed and helpless waiting. she spread out her materials and gave her directions and the girls set soberly to work. seventeen heads bent in silence over the table; scissors creaked; upstairs a baby cried fretfully. there leapt into jane's mind a memory picture of nannie slade hunter before the joyfully hailed arrival of the teddybear,--the tiny, white, enameled chiffonier with its little bunches of painted flowers spilling over with offerings--lilliputian garments as 'fine as a fairy's first tooth'--the chortling pride of edward r.--the beaming, nervous mother and mother-in-law--the endless flowers and books; nannie herself, cunningly draped and swathed in batik crêpe, prettier than ever before in her pretty life-- jane went quickly out of the room and sat down on the bottom step of the stairs which seemed to be rushing headlong out of the house of drab tragedy. "what is it?" michael daragh bent over her. she lifted a twisting face. "michael daragh, i never cry, even at funerals, but i'm going to cry now!" "now that would be the great waste of time surely," he smiled down at her. "masefield has the true word for it,--'energy is agony expelled,' says he. let you be making that merry christmas sign the while you're sorrowing." "there they sit--in those awful, mud-colored pinafores--making paper joy-bells! i can't _bear_ it! _magenta_ joy-bells!" the matron started upstairs and jane drew aside to let her pass. "what are they going to have for christmas, mrs. richards?" "well, we have a real nice dinner,--not turkey, of course, but a nice dinner," said the matron, "and every girl gets a pair of stockings and a handkerchief and a christmas postcard----" "with more joy-bells?" jane wanted hotly to know, "or an angel in a nightdress and a snow scene?" mrs. richards went firmly up the stairs. "we naturally cannot take much time to pick out the subjects, but every girl gets a pretty card." jane got swiftly to her feet. "michael daragh, do you know what i'm going to do?" she hadn't known herself an instant earlier. "i'm not going home to vermont for the holidays! i'm going to stay and help with the christmasing here--and i'll spend the money i would have spent on my trip. i'm going to buy holly and greens and miles of red ribbon and acres of tissue paper and a million stickers, and seventeen presents--seventeen perfectly useless, foolish, unsuitable, beautiful things! do you hear, michael daragh?" "i hear," he said, and again his lean face lighted oddly from within, "i hear, god save you kindly, and i'm rare and thankful to you, jane vail!" chapter vii the doorbell cut jaggedly into jane's exalted mood and she went into the office and sat down to work on the merry christmas sign. she meant to replace it with a joyful scarlet one, but meanwhile it would keep her fingers busy and give her an excuse for lingering until ethel came back with the news of her confession and its results, and she could be planning the holiday cheer she meant to make in this melancholy house. she was still rather startled at her sudden decision but pleased with herself beyond words. to give up the festive return to the village ... her aunt lydia's damp-eyed delight, the "little gatherings of the young people" in her honor, the gay and jingling joy of the season ... and stay in a boarding house and make determined merriment for the agnes chatterton home. then, tracing a large and ugly m, she laughed aloud. the truth was, she told herself flatly, she was pleased to the marrow of her bones to be here instead of there, not only in fresh fields and pastures thrillingly and picturesquely new, but away from the reckless necessity for settling the marty wetherby matter once and for all. and the big irishman seemed almost pathetically pleased at her announcement, and it was entirely conceivable that rodney harrison would provide flesh-pots and diversions. all in all, she was cannily glad to abide by her hasty and handsome offer, and she worked steadily at her letters while mrs. richards wrote at her littered desk. the doorbell rang again and mrs. richards peered out into the hall. "well, there's irene, come for billiken! that doesn't look much as if ethel had told him." there was a good deal of triumph in the glance she flung at jane. "well, i can't say i'm surprised; i didn't think she'd have the courage." michael daragh came in, his face grave. "here's irene, come for the child. i don't like the look of it." "well, _i'm_ not surprised," said mrs. richards again. a young woman presented herself at the office door. there was resolute respectability in her blue serge suit, brushed shiny, too thin for december wear. she carried a small straw telescope and her voice sounded capable and firm. "can i go right up, mrs. richards?" "why, i suppose you may as well, irene. you've come for billiken?" "yes. i'm taking her on the night-boat." "wait," said the irishman, as she turned toward the stairs. "did ethel tell him?" "you mean, did she tell jerry about--about the baby?" the good sister of the erring sister flushed painfully. "not that i've heard of. i guess she knows better than that." "there is no 'better than that,'" said michael daragh, sternly. "there is nothing better than the truth." the line of his lean jaw was salient. "if i can once get her respectably married," said irene, nippingly, her small face resolute, "i won't worry about what she tells or doesn't tell. it's been hard enough on _me_, i can tell you!" she went briskly upstairs and they heard her firm closing of the door. "you see?" the matron wanted to know. "i'm fearing we've lost the fight," said michael daragh. jane insisted on hope. "perhaps she did tell him, and everything's all right, but she had no chance to see irene and explain! surely you won't let her take billiken until we are sure?" then the front door opened quietly and ethel came in to stand before them, her tragic and accusing eyes on jane. "you made me tell," she said. "_you_ made me!" and when jane ran to her, questioning, eager, she pushed her away. "it's you! it's you did it!" michael daragh strode to her and put a steadying arm about her shoulders. "child, tell us the way of it." her teeth were chattering and her face seemed to grow whiter and whiter. "i told him. i told him everything. i kept saying to myself over and over, all the way to the store, just what she told me"--she flung a bruised and bitter look at jane--"'i must love him more than i want him'--and i went straight up to him at his counter, right there in the daytime. he was selling a necktie to a fat old man with a red neck. it was a dark blue tie with light blue spots on it." she added the detail carefully in her spent little voice. "i waited until he was gone and then i told jerry. he just looked at me and _looked_ at me, and made me say it again, and then--then he just walked away without looking back. i had to go to work, but i watched and watched, and _watched_. he never came back to his counter. pretty soon i just got crazy. i went over and asked. they said he was sick, and gone home." she sagged in michael daragh's hands and he lifted her and carried her into the matron's room, the matron hurrying beside him. then jane vail sat alone in the ugly office, contemplating the result of her eloquence. she could hear ethel's sobbing and the matron's sharp treble, and the steady and rhythmic flow of the irishman's voice. she rose to follow them, but the closed door halted her. they had wanted her to do this thing, to do the thing they had failed to do, and she had done it; and now they shut her away while they strove to heal where she had hurt. why had she done it? why had she come at all? why had she mixed and muddled in this sordid tangle which was none of her bright business? and why--chief of all whys--had she rashly and sentimentally offered to give up her holidays at home for the futile endeavor to make christmas merry for these miserable girls? rage rose in her, rage at herself, rage at the sobbing, tarnished girlhood in there, at her sharp sister, at the matron, at the zealot who had dragged her into it all. let him take emma ellis next time. this was her work, and she--jane vail--belonged in the world of clean and pretty things and in that world she would stay. she decided against undignified flight; she would wait for michael daragh and walk home with him to mrs. hills' boarding house, and she would be very civil about it all, but she would make it clear, even to an other-worldly settlement worker, that her brief detour into this sort of thing was finished; that she was on the highway again, speeding toward the place she had visioned for herself. now she drove her mind resolutely away from the agnes chatterton home, to the vermont village, then across the sea ... florence ... the old palaces ... the arno ... the little tea room in the via tornabuoni where she went sometimes at this very hour ... little heart-shaped cakes with green icing--upstairs three babies began to scream at once, harshly and hideously, and an opened door somewhere at the rear of the house confessed to cabbage for dinner, and the present came swiftly and unbeautifully back. it came back with a bang. jane resolutely set herself to think the thing out clearly. if the matron or the irishman had persuaded ethel to divulge her dark young past to her suitor, he would have repudiated her just the same; therefore she--jane--might shake off her mantle of guilty responsibility. and after all, bleak as life looked to the little creature now, still sobbing stormily in mrs. richards' room, wasn't she safer than she would be married to her jerry with that stalking secret?--"whose happiness resteth upon a lie is as a spirit in prison." the whole world, the whole godly, gossiping, ferreting world, would have conspired together to tell him. now she climbed nimbly to secure conviction in the eternal justice of things. the girl had gone gallantly, in garish daylight, holding her happiness in her hand, and told the truth. now she was in the dust, but wouldn't it all come right for her in the end? wouldn't it _have_ to come right for her? the sense of helpless misery fell away from her and she was so confident of coming joy that she started toward the closed door of the matron's room. no; she would not go in, but she was warm with comfort. it seemed close and breathless in the office and she went to the street door and opened it for a swallow of the keen winter air, and stood out upon the top step, looking down into the dingy thoroughfare. there was a young man, half a block away, on the opposite side. he was walking slowly, looking at the numbers on the houses, and presently he looked across at the agnes chatterton home. then he stood quite still, staring at it. gladness and certainty rose in jane and she beckoned to him. he came over very slowly, and mounted the steps with lagging feet, and he was still staring, his eyes rather dazed. "oh," said jane, "i think i know who you are!" she was a little breathless with happy excitement. "aren't you--i don't know the rest of your name, but aren't you--jerry?" "yes, ma'am," said the youth. there was a close color harmony about him; his jubilant cravat picked up the dominant note of his striped silk shirt and the royal purple of his hose struck it again, an octave lower. the removal of his velvet hat disclosed wide and flanging ears which gave his face an expression of quaint comedy, now at variance with his aghast and solemn look. jane's bright presence there on that dreary doorstep, her hailing of him, her knowledge of his identity, seemed to awake no wonder in him. he looked as if he had finished with surprise; as if nothing could ever startle him again. "i want to see ethel," he said. "yes!" said jane, gladly. "come!" she left him in the correct and cheerless little reception room and flew up the headlong stairs and into ethel's room, her face luminous. the good sister was just finishing her packing of billiken's belongings into the telescope and the child, snug in tiny sweater and knitted cap, watched her absorbedly. jane caught her up without a word and carried her out of the room. "i'm about ready to go," the young woman called after her, sharply. "please don't take her things off!" jane did not answer her. she sped down the stairs as swiftly and easily as a person in a dream, and opened the closed door boldly, without even a knock, and marched in, billiken in her arms. she felt like an army with banners. ethel's first fury of grief had spent itself and she sat leaning limply back, her eyes closed, breathing in long, quivering sighs. "look," cried jane, "here's billiken!" billiken flung herself at her mother with a lilting squeal of joy, and ethel's eyes opened and narrowed with a cold and appraising scrutiny. her hands twisted together in her lap; she seemed to be weighing and balancing. at length, with a little brooding cry, she caught the baby in her arms. michael daragh smiled sunnily at jane, but she had no instant to spare for him then. she pulled ethel to her feet. "come," she said, imperiously. "come and bring billiken!" she led her out of the room. the matron and the irishman followed them, wondering. jane was guiding the girl, her face buried against the baby's woolen cap. "look!" she said again, at the door of the dim reception room. ethel halted on the threshold, peering through the gathering winter dusk. "oh,--_jerry_?" she gasped, uncertainly. the young man from the gent's furnishings strode forward to meet her, his eyes on her blurred and swollen face. "say, listen," he began, "say, listen--" then his gaze dropped to the child in her arms and grew bleak, and ethel shrank back and away from him, her eyes wide and terrified. it seemed to jane, standing there in the ugly hall of the agnes chatterton home, between the sharp-visaged matron and the irishman who looked like botticelli's saint, as if all the love and pity in the world hung by a hair above the pit. it was a new and unpleasing thing to billiken, to find cold eyes upon her, level, unloving, hostile eyes, but she had an antidote. gazing blithely back at him with the wide little grin which had earned her the name of "the god of things as they ought to be," she held out her arms with a gurgling cry and flung herself at the young man with the gay cravat as she had flung herself at her mother two minutes before. the hot color flooded his face, his freckles were drowned in a red sea, his flanging ears were crimson. suddenly, gropingly, he reached out for them both, and got the two of them into his arms. "it'll be o.k.," he said, huskily, winking hard. "it'll be o.k.! say, listen, i got it all figured out! they been wantin' me to go to the rochester store anyway, and we don't know a livin' soul there!" they went away, the other three, and left them there together, and there were two little dabs of color on the matron's high cheekbones and her sharp eyes looked oddly dim. "well," she said, "well--i guess that's settled right enough. and i guess we've got you to thank for it, miss vail." "we have, surely, god save you kindly," said michael daragh, and his face had what jane called its stained-glass-window look. she felt very flushed and humbled under their beaming approbation. "there's only her own courage to thank!" but she snatched up a bit of the despised decoration, her cheeks scarlet. "you know,--i'm so happy--so gorgeously, dizzily happy--i can hear that magenta-colored paper joy-bell ring a silvery chime!" chapter viii it was november when jane made her exodus from the vermont village and her entry into new york, and by early summer she had written and sold three one-act plays for vaudeville which yielded plump little weekly royalties and gave her a reputation quite out of proportion to her output and experience. they began to advertise her sketches as "different" and to build up a vogue. "so and so in a jane vail act," said a pretty billboard, and rodney harrison gave himself jocularly proud airs as her discoverer and sponsor. "i see clearly," said jane, "that i must call you my fairy god-brother!" "i do not seem to crave the brother effect," said mr. harrison deliberately, before he gave his attention to a hovering head waiter. he was distinctly what her village called "not a marrying man," but he was beginning to have his moments of meaningful look and word. "well, then," said jane, after agreeing to alligator pear salad, "shall we say fairy god-cousin? that's a gay and pleasing relationship without undue responsibilities. will that do?" "that will do for the present," said mr. harrison. he regarded her across the small table with perfectly apparent satisfaction. nothing bucolic here; a dark and gypsy beauty which glowed and kindled beside the fainter types about them, a wholly modish smartness, an elusive something to which he could not put a name, which gave him always the sense of glad pursuit. there had been in his early attitude, as she had divined, just a trifle of the king and the beggar maid, the town mouse and the city mouse, but that was gone now. she knew his new york very nearly as well as he did himself and with her increased activities had come decreased dependence on him. she was either so gayly busy or so busily gay that she was able to accept only one invitation in four, which made it very necessary to ask her early and often. he was a wary young man, rodney harrison, urban from head to heel; marriage had not entered into his calculations. yet he was aware of his growing fondness and approval, his growing conviction that domesticity with jane vail need not of necessity be the curbing and cloying thing he had visioned. it was may when he told her that his mother wanted to come to see her, and it was the following day that jane wrote home to tell them she was coming to vermont for the summer months. she wasn't quite ready for rodney harrison's mother to call on her; she wanted a little time and a little perspective, and she knew that the hour had struck for her to go back and put a firm if mournful period to the affair of marty wetherby. there had been constantly recurring scoldings by mail from sarah farraday and nannie slade hunter, and, while he was the poorest and least articulate of correspondents, his stammering letters had still achieved a pathos of their own, and the thing was no longer to be shirked. so she said good-by at the boarding house to mrs. hills and emma ellis and michael daragh and at the station to rodney harrison; and went back in smart triumph with a wardrobe trunk full of clever clothes and the latest shining model in typewriters. they were out in force to meet her; her aunt lydia vail, happily tearful and trembling; nannie slade hunter and edward r. with the amazingly enlarged and humanized teddy-bear, in their new roadster; sarah farraday, a little thinner after her hard-driven winter of teaching; and martin wetherby, panting a little even in his thin summer suit, removing his handsome panama to mop a steaming brow. the first evening was all miss lydia's, save that sarah was coming over later to stay the night, and again jane sat in the rosewood and mahogany dining room, served by the middle-aged maid who did not know that there was a servant problem, and ate the reliable stock supper--the three slices of pink boiled ham on the ancient and honorable platter of blue willow pattern ware, the small pot of honey, the two kinds of preserves, the hot biscuit, the delicate cups of not-too-strong, uncolored japan tea, the sugar cookies, the pale custard. miss vail had missed her niece acutely, as she would have missed a lovely elm from the street or the silhouette of the mountain which she got from her bedroom window, but she had wanted the dear girl to be happy, and she clearly was happy, brimmingly, radiantly, and she had gone down to her twice for merry and bewildered little visits and had come thankfully home again. she beamed at her now across the table and insisted, as of old, that she eat two of the three slices of pink ham shaved to a refined thinness, and then they went into the pretty parlor and visited cozily until the little spinster's head began to jerk forward in the pauses, and sarah farraday, who had waited conscientiously until nine o'clock, appeared. then miss lydia went upstairs to take off her plump, snug things and slip into her flannelette nightdress--the nights were still what she called "pretty sharp," and get into bed and "read until she got sleepy." "hannah says she sneaks in every night and snaps off the light after she's sound asleep," said sarah. "it's a mercy she doesn't have to use a lamp,--she'd have burnt the house down years ago." "she 'doesn't sleep,'" said jane, looking tenderly after her, plodding plumply up the stairs, "she 'just rests her eyes for a moment.' sally, let's go up to my room and have a regular, old-time talk-fest!" so they went up the narrow stairs with their arms entwined about each other and took off their dresses and slipped into kimonos and let down their hair, but they found a strange and baffling constraint. "sally, _dear_," jane determinedly broke the spell, "what's the silly matter with us?" the blonde music teacher's eyes filled up with her ready tears. "it's--you've been away so long, and we've drifted so far apart.... your life--your wonderful life----" "now, sarah farraday," her friend pounced upon her, "after the miles upon miles of letters i've written you, do you dare to feel that you don't know as much about my life as i do? viper-that-bites-the-hand-that-writes-to-it! why, i could have done another playlet--two--in the time i've taken to tell you everything!" "you've been marvelous about letters," sarah admitted with a grateful sniff, "but----" "and what's more--and this admits of no argument--next winter you're coming down to me for a month of giddy gamboling and to soak your soul in symphonies and operas!" sarah farraday gave a little gasp and her thin cheeks flushed. "oh, my dear, you're a lamb to think of it, but of course i couldn't. it's wonderful, just even to _think_ about it, but it couldn't possibly happen." "why not?" "because," said sarah, doggedly, "it's much too good to be true." "now that," said jane sternly, "is a wicked and immoral remark! there is nothing too good to be true, and it's blasphemy to say so." "oh, well ... of course, with _you_--" she left her sentence trailing and let her thin hands fall in her lap limply, palm upward and stared at jane. her dark hair was shimmering and floating about her and her dark eyes were pools of light. "janey," she leaned toward her and spoke wistfully, "are you really as impossibly happy as you look?" "happier," said jane, promptly. she began to brush her dusky mane with long and sweeping strokes. "still doing this a hundred and twenty times a night, sally, no matter at what scandalous hour i come in." but the other persisted with sudden sapience. "i mean, are you really as happy as you act, or are you just--gay?" "both," said jane, stoutly. ("sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four--) i've had a bright and shining time, work and play, with my feet very much on the earth,--or the pavements, rather. i'm satisfied, sally." "but oh," said sarah, forlornly, "you said you wouldn't be really 'going away' from us, but you have! millions of miles away--a whole world away, jane! you've proved your point,--succeeded beyond our wildest dreams----" "not beyond _my_ wildest dreams, old dear," said her best friend with happy impudence. "you were more modest for me than i was for myself!" "--beyond our wildest dreams," sarah repeated stubbornly, "and you can carry on your work just as well here, now, and wouldn't it be the loveliest, most natural thing in the world for you to stay at home? jane--_poor_ old marty!" she ran to jane and flung her arms emotionally about her. "sally, there's no more chance----" but the other cut in, panic-stricken, "oh,--don't make up your mind now--to-night! wait! just spend the summer in the dear old way, as we've always done, and see if you don't fit right into your old niche again, with--with----" "with a steadily fattening marty," said jane, bright-cheeked, "and a hot, pink nursery with a fat and well-oiled kewpie?" "jane," said sarah coldly, "there are some things too sacred to----" "to be anything but decently and sanely frank about," said jane. "my child, the story isn't going to have that particular happy ending for which you pant. you see all my life in a proscribed pattern. like a sentimental ballad's second verse ... back to the grassy meadows ... childhood's happy hours again.... once again he sang-- "'for you are my li--hittel--sw--heet--heart.'" "then," said sarah with conviction, "it's either the man-you-met-on-the-boat, or that irish missionary person!" jane laughed. wasn't it amazing how good old sally, herself conceived for celibacy, yearned to mate up every one within her ken! nature's little way of evening up, perhaps; if sarah herself was to carry on the race chain, was she to make it up by tireless toil in urging others on? "sally, michael daragh, as i've tried to make clear, is an over-soul. his large feet lug his large frame about on this terrestrial sphere, but in reality he isn't here at all. he is quite literally absent from the body and present with the lord. as i told you before,--a large body of man entirely surrounded by conscience. no more aware of me, as a woman, than he is of emma ellis--and you don't get the force of that"--she grinned shamelessly--"unless you know emma." "then, how about--the other one?" jane considered, picking and choosing her words as she loved to do. "well, michael feels i am too much of the world, rodney that i am too little; michael is above me, spiritually speaking, and rodney is beneath--which would, of course, make him much the pleasanter person to live with! rodney is thoroughly and comfortably this-worldly; michael is--other-worldly! this is the truth of the matter, sally; rodney harrison is keen about my neat little brain and michael daragh is gravely concerned about my soul, but i think neither one is interested in my heart!" she sprang to her feet and threw a gorgeous robe about her. "come along, sally! let's go down and make some chocolate! i've come to crave nocturnal nourishment, and much as i adore talking about myself i've really had enough of the topic for to-night. how many pupils have you now? and how near is the baby-grand?" * * * * * she stayed three months at home, tapping briskly at her typewriter in the mornings and giving her afternoons and evenings to the old innocuous routine, and it was said of her that she had changed and gotten citified, of course, but seemed very much interested in everything and everybody, and many were the placid hours in the pink nursery, the drives with the edward r. hunters in the new roadster, the teas in the burlapped studio with sarah farraday, the meetings of the ladies' aid and the tuesday club where she gave gay little talks and readings and vague old ladies asked her gently if she was still going on with her literary work. the only radical change was martin wetherby, whose case came up for decision at once, in spite of the sage counsels of the teddy-bear's father. the second evening at home miss lydia vail had risen flutteringly and left them alone on the porch in the soft dusk, and at once he had plunged to his doom. there was no serene confidence about him this time, no snatching her into a short-breathed embrace; he was rather pathetically humble before her new poise and achievements, pleading, desperate. "marty, dear," said jane unhappily, "i don't want to be unsympathetic, but indeed i don't think i'm ruining your life! you're so nice and young, and you're doing famously at the bank! oh, i know it's just because you've held to the idea for so long--and so many other people have, and made it seem--settled. it's just your _habit_--not your heart, that's aching!" but in spite of this cheering reassurance she had to admit to sarah that marty continued to droop at the corners, and to have, in spite of the assistant cashiership, a look of shaken confidence. his mother, that former arranger of little gatherings for the young people and dispenser of light refreshments, treated jane with coolness, and had her adherents here and there in the village. jane went back to new york the first of september and sold immediately the one-act play she had written during the summer, and was engulfed in the business of putting it on, and presently rodney harrison brought her a well-known actor from the legitimate who wanted to rest and make a corpulent salary in the two-a-day, and she succeeded in fitting him to a sketch. it brought her fresh laurels and a larger audience and a better royalty, and she told herself stoutly (as rodney harrison had first told her) that it didn't matter in the least that he wanted a good deal of broad and rather edgy comedy and, failing to get it from her, had put it in himself, and, therefore, had his name on the program as joint author. every one would know that the clean and clever little story was her own and the edginess his. she took great pains to write this to sarah and to repeat it often to herself and she glowed under rodney harrison's pride in her and the cordial respect of the booking offices and the dazzled admiration of the boarding house. but one humid evening, when all the vigor and backbone seemed to have melted out of the world, michael daragh asked her to ride with him on the top of the bus to grant's tomb and walk back along the river, and presently they sat down on the damp grass like a shop girl and her gentleman friend and looked off across the river, shining in the moonlight, and after a silence jane said pleasantly, with her new admixture of aloofness and indulgence, "well, michael daragh, i know you haven't marched me here merely to revel in the beauty of the evening. it's more a case of--'thank you,' said the oysters, 'we've had a pleasant run!' you may as well begin. i'm feeling very peaceful and very prosperous. who is the poor thing you're concerned with now?" and the big irishman, a dull flush mounting in his lean cheeks, faced her squarely. "the poor thing i'm concerned with now, god save you kindly, is yourself, jane vail!" she hadn't any words in that first dazed moment. she sat staring at him, her great eyes wide. "it's yourself, surely," he said, sternly, "the way you've wandered from the high road and lost yourself in a bog." she was still too startled and bewildered to be angry. "i haven't the vaguest idea what you mean. have you?" "i have, indeed, jane vail. the thing you've just written and sold, now,--are you proud in your heart of it?" "certainly i am," she said stoutly, her voice beginning to warm with resentment. "it isn't a classic, of course, but it's a thoroughly workmanlike, snappy little act, sure to get over, and----" he shook his head. "lost in the bog you are, and sinking deeper every day." "sinking, my good michael? if you'll read this week's _variety_ you'll find there are those who talk about my phenomenal rise! i loathe saying things like that about myself, but you make me do it, in decent self-defense. it's simply that you don't understand these things--that you're looking at them from the wrong angle." she talked on, angrily, defensively, but inwardly she was feeling attacked and abused and crushed. there had been nothing but praise and congratulation and rejoicing now for ten months, and this shabby settlement worker dared--"i'm sure you mean to be very kind," her voice was ice and velvet, "but i'm afraid you've got rather in the way of lecturing young women, haven't you? and i really think you might save your admonitions and exhortations for those who need and want them. personally, i'm entirely satisfied with the way i'm getting on." "'getting on,' yes, god forgive you," he said mournfully, "and that's all you're doing, jane vail!" "i consider you incapable of judging a matter like this," said jane with cool disdain. "you see life always through a stained-glass window and it gives you distorted values. what do you mean,--only 'getting on'?" "wasn't it yourself told me what you said to your friend back in the village--that you were 'going on'? woman dear," the purling brogue dropped an octave, "there's the wide world of difference between the two! 'getting on' you are surely, the way your name screams from the billboards and your bank balance fattens like a stalled ox, but are you 'going on,' jane vail? are you 'going on'? woman, dear," the purling brogue--"the rare, high places you can climb if you will? or will you stop content with the pavement, the likes of you that was made for the mountain peaks? are you going on, i say? answer me, jane vail!" but instead, with flashing eyes and scorching cheeks she took leave of him, requesting him curtly not to follow, and walked alone to the drive and hailed a bus, and sat staring darkly ahead of her as it jolted and swayed down the long blocks to washington square. when michael daragh came down to breakfast next day he found the dining room in a state of excited conjecture. miss vail, dressed for a journey, had roused mrs. hills at six in the morning to say that she was going out of town for several weeks, and had immediately driven off in a taxi with her handbag and suitcase, her steamer trunk and her typewriter. chapter ix nevertheless, when emma ellis came in to luncheon, a little early, the third day following, she espied at michael daragh's place a letter with a boston postmark, addressed in a firm, small hand she knew. she was the only person in the room and she had time to examine it thoroughly, even as to thickness, before mrs. hills came in. it happened that there were mail deliveries just before the three meal times and it was the boarding-house keeper's guileless custom to sort and distribute letters at the table, thus saving a wearisome climb and much pedestrianism through long halls. "well, i've got a line from jane and i'm free to say i'm relieved. i was afraid she was sick or something, rushing off like that, rousing me out of a sound sleep at six in the morning, just saying she was going out of town. _i_ supposed, of course, she was going home to her aunt lydia vail." "didn't she?" "no, she didn't." mrs. hills took the note out of her apron pocket and consulted it. "no, she's going to maine. foot'n alone. says she needs quiet for some special work." "mr. daragh has something from her, too." emma ellis stood behind the irishman's chair, her pale eyes lapping up the inscription. "no!" said mrs. hills, advancing with interest, frank and unashamed. "you don't say! well, he has! sure's you're a foot high! well, now, that beats me!" emma ellis tucked in her lips in a way she had before making a certain type of remark. "it is rather strange.... they were out walking in the evening, and in the morning she left, precipitately." "'tis kinder queer," mrs. hills clucked. "couldn't have quarreled or anything--never paid enough attention to each other for that." "oh," said emma ellis in a hushed voice, "don't you think miss vail has always devoted a great deal of attention to mr. daragh?" "well, jane's a great one to make up to folks and be friendly; always was, as a child. i can remember her, four years old, after her folks died and she came to live with miss lydia. wasn't afraid of anything or anybody, ever. used to slip out and run off down main street after a peddler or a gypsy or anybody she took a fancy to. but--" she came back into the present--"mr. daragh's been kinder queer these last two, three days. but then, far's that goes, he's always queer. oddest mortal i ever met up with in all my born days. odder'n adam's off ox." "if it is odd," said the settlement worker, dull color flooding her sallow skin, "for a man to turn his back on greed and gain and devote his life to altruism----" "now, now," said the boarding-house keeper, pacifically, "you've no call to take me up like that. land knows i set a great store by mr. daragh, if he is irish as the pigs. never had a human being under my roof that was easier to suit and made less fuss, but he's _queer_ and i'd say it on my dying bed!" the other woman stood looking down at jane vail's pretty letter which managed, in spite of the plain, creamy envelope and the many alien hands through which it had passed, to retain a startling individuality, and she spoke in the little smothered voice which was her proclamation of intense feeling. "if--_she_--with the life she leads--has--has disturbed mr. daragh----" "now, then, you look here," said the vermont villager with sudden sharpness, "i guess her life is about as important as anybody else's i might name! i guess if mr. daragh's 'disturbed,' as you call it, it's no worse for him than it's been for others. my land, jane vail could of had her choice of the town, where she comes from. there's _four_ wanted her, to my certain knowledge, and they say martin wetherby (wetherby ridge is named for his family--they go back to revolutionary days) never _will_ get over it. and i guess that mr. harrison that rolls up here in taxis and limousines is sitting up and taking notice, sure's gun's iron! and if mr. michael daragh----" "sh ..." said emma ellis. the big irishman came into the room, graver even than usual, but his eyes lighted warmly at sight of the missive at his place. he nodded to the watching women, tore it open and read it swiftly, and as he read the gladness spread and deepened in his face. "_i_ had a letter from jane, too," said mrs. hills, seating herself. "going to maine for some special work she's got to do." "yes," said michael daragh. "special work, indeed." he folded the letter and put it back in his pocket, and the table filled up with the other members of the household, the music students and the school teachers and the elderly concert-going ladies in their staid silks ... all the sound and sensible persons whom the missing boarder made so drab and colorless by her glowing presence. he smiled sunnily at emma ellis and was astonished to see tears in her light eyes, but he was used to tears and woes and secret sorrows, so he smiled again and more convincingly and went sturdily on with his meal. when he was alone in his bare and austere room on the top floor he took out jane's letter and read it again, slowly and with thankful care. i've decided to forgive you, michael daragh, it began, but it takes a bit of doing! it's easy enough to forgive any one for being in the wrong; that's a really pleasant and soothing sensation; but to pardon you for being in the right--that's taken me all these hours! i said that you always saw life through a stained-glass window and that it gave you distorted values, didn't i? that was temper, pure and simple. you were perfectly right to wail like one of your own banshees because the likes of me--once content when the pale shadow of pegasus passed her by--is become an ink-spattered, carbon-grimed gold digger! ten months ago, shivering and quivering over "one crowded hour," i cowered back in my semi-occasional taxicab and watched the meter with a creeping scalp.... now i can ride from yonkers to the square and admire the scenery all the way. but this isn't what i intended to do. it's been warm, human, jolly sort of work, knitting up the spatted broker in the box to the newsboy in the gallery and i've adored it, but i've lost my way, michael daragh. it isn't what i intended to do; it isn't what i intended to be; the dew is drying on my dreams and my soul shrieks s.o.s.! for the first time in my snug, smug life i've had large chunks of truth told me; i didn't like it. i don't _enjoy_ it even yet, but i've arrived at the decent stage of gratitude, michael daragh. thank you--and good-by. shall i send you bulletins of my pilgrim progress? i'm off to a lean, clean island in maine, to live on eight dollars a week and snare back the thing i lost. jane vail. thereafter, mrs. hills and emma ellis were to see and to marvel over the creamy buff envelopes which came to the irishman, now thin, now thick, postmarked in maine, often only two or three days apart, never less frequently than once a week. the boarding-house keeper had her own pleasant little note, occasionally, and emma ellis had three conscientious picture postcards, but it was to michael daragh that the letters came in a steady stream. "mark my words," said mrs. hills, "there's nothing in it. my land, he's as offhand about 'em as if they were circulars, and i don't believe he answers one in six." "yet she continues to write him constantly," said emma ellis. "well, if she does, it's _her_ business, that's all i've got to say," said the older woman, dangerously. "jane vail never ran after anybody yet and i don't believe she's going to begin now. he says--and _she_ says--she's doing some special work, and i suppose maybe he's advising her about it." "i've never understood before that mr. daragh was a literary authority," said the settlement worker in her little, smothered voice. "well, i'm free to say it beats me. but all i know is, jane vail's nobody's fool." and michael daragh, meanwhile, read his letters in his room, monklike in its simplicity, three times, and then he tore them up, quickly, the line of his lean jaw salient. the second one to come had been dated at six in the morning, on the wharf at bath, and ran-- i'm shivering, michael daragh,--shivering in september! the incredible freshness of this morning, the bracing miracle of cold! i left boston on the night boat and the stewardess rapped me firmly up at three-thirty to see the sun rise. i stayed stubbornly in my berth, at first, but presently a length of quaker gray sky interlined with faintest rose brought me to my elbow and then to the window. the little steamer was feeling her cautious way up a river of dull silver between banks of taupe and mauve. after a moment i could pick up objects here and there in somber silhouette--a windmill, a battered barn, crude landings reaching out to graze the boat. in that tremulous moment before the break of day, shore and stream and sky melted and ran together in the liquid pattern of an abalone shell. then, suddenly, the sun shot up over the rim of the world, "out of the gates of the day," a clear persimmon, gorgeous as a chinese lantern, and the realm of faery warmed into reality,--river and river banks, houses and little hummocky hills. i must walk now to keep warm. there is a young old woman in shabby corduroy footing it briskly to and fro, who may be going to take my toy steamer,--tossing a mane of smoke and champing its bit at the upper wharf--and i'm going to speak to her. _ a.m. going up the river._ she was taking the down boat, but she gave her valuable experience to me. she asked me for which island i was heading, and when i said i didn't know,--that i meant to line them up and say,--"my-mother-told-me-to-take-_this_,--" she said,--"oh, then do take three meadows!" she has been there all summer, and she thinks i can board at the same place--with angelique larideau gillespie, "mis' deac'n gillespie." she is canadian-french and the only woman on the island who can cook any other way than frying. the bad little hotel is closing. she was so merry and footloose and free, michael! that's exactly the sort of old maid i mean to be---- "_love of roving foot and joy of roving eye_----" we have been wriggling up a cunning little river, bumping into clumsy landings here and there and now the porter-purser-steward- newsagent-cabin-boy-and-guide says the next one is mine. wish me luck, michael daragh! j. v. _three meadows, maine, friday afternoon._ it would be tea time anywhere else, michael daragh, but it gives no tea here. eating between meals is deplored and is referred to as "piecing." will you ask mrs. hills to express my tea basket and two cups? this is a lamb of an island. the land lifts away to low hills and the village has splashed a little way up on the sides. a curtain of filmy fog has just risen clear of the treetops and everything is graciously gray. no one ever comes so late in the season and this awful, little hotel is closing,--it ought to be closed and sealed forever. everything about the tiny town is refreshing. a citizen finished up a game of checkers before he went down to consider the case of my trunk. then it took him some time to wake up his horse, which did a bewildered lady macbeth up the street. i was walking beside, and suddenly a roly-poly puppy slipped away from a boy and ran straight under the clumsy hoofs.... you never heard such ki-yi's. you'd think he was being vivisected. there was a shrieking streak of white and he disappeared under a culvert. the old mare stopped, wide-awake and horror-stricken, and the boy--a pitiful little person with his head held tautly back, almost a hunchback--and the driver and i flew to the spot and all the village hectors laid their helmets by and gave themselves to the hour. the sweetest old man in rusty black laid right down flat on his stomach and peeked into the dusty tunnel, calling, "come, pup! come, pup! come, _dear_!" but the yammerings went on. finally the blacksmith next door put down a pink horseshoe and came out. i'm much obliged for blacksmiths nowadays, aren't you, michael daragh? i love their leaping fires and their worn, leather aprons and their dim, rich flemish interiors,--in our soft world of push buttons. this one said, "was they a string around his neck, dan'l?" then he went back into his shop and returned with a long stick with a bent nail in the end and began to fish absorbedly into the culvert. presently a wild crescendo of shrieks announced his catch. i shut my eyes and covered my ears and when i looked again he was hauling out a quivering lump of baby dog. he felt him all over with grimy, gentle fingers and "allowed they warn't nothin' broke ... just skairt him outer a year's growth," handed him back to the boy and went again to his horseshoe. the people pressed close with little clucks of sympathy and made the nicest fuss about it, and the boy turned out to be daniel gillespie and i went right on home with him and arranged to move there to-morrow--his mother desiring a day in which to "red up" for me. i wanted to go at once--i'm so afraid this hotel might close with a snap, with me on the inside. at noon to-day i did not crave any of the ready-to-wear effects on the zebra menu card and asked the aloof young lady under the pompadour how long the chops would take. "'bout fifteen minutes." "very well, then," i said, "i'll take the chops." "_ain't_ any." don't you adore that, michael daragh? _the next friday, at deacon gillespie's._ the top of the morning to you, michael daragh! here in the rich cream of the day we're waiting for the mail, dan'l and i and the pup. guess where? in the graveyard, and i'm sitting on a tumbled-over tombstone. i wish i could make you see this spot. i've always hated cemeteries, the sleek, prosperous, well-fed, well-groomed sort, but this is indeed god's acre. you step over the broken stones of the wall into a land of gracious gray; gray stone and moss, gray sky and feathery fog. twice only in my vista a note of color--a low-growing lobelia, intensely blue against the foot of a new grave, and further on a brave geranium, flaunting the scarlet flag of defiance at death; for the rest, the quiet gray of peace and permanence. involuntarily, one treads softly, as in a room with sleepers ... sleepers of a long, soft sleep ... who have laid them thankfully down to rest and left no call! i hear the _klip-klup_ of lizzie, the postman's horse, so i can't tell you about the gillespies until next letter. dear m.d., i'm growing so nice you wouldn't know me for the frenzied vaude-villain of a fortnight past. some of the old cells in my brains are coming to life again. _thanks_, michael daragh! do you know what m.d. stands for?--do-er of miracles. isn't it pretty much of a miracle to make me turn my back on five orders and bring my soul up here to renovate it? j. v. _tuesday._ michael daragh, i'm up in my cunning little room with its heaving ceiling and its braided mats and patchwork quilt, and i can look down on the corner of the graveyard and see dan'l and his dog waiting for uncle robert. he is not a real postman but he drives down for his own mail every day and "stops by" with the gillespies'. (not that they ever have any!) he's the old man who got down on his rusty black stomach to peek into the culvert and call "come, pup, come, _dear_!" he's the sweetest old thing with dan'l. the child lives in constant hope of a letter, and every day uncle robert (he's everybody's uncle) says, "wall, not _to-day_, dan'l!" and then dan'l and the pup trot home. dan'l is the most appealing child! i've always fancied the freckles and splinters and grime and cheek type of little boy, but dan'l gets into your heart, some way. he makes me think of andrea del sarto's young st. john in the wilderness, for he has, in addition to the unearthly sweetness in his eyes, a warmth of coloring at variance with the drained fairness of these islanders. his canadian mother explains that,--"her that was angerleek larrydoo," as the neighbors say, and that just expresses it. she was--but she isn't any more. she's just the deacon's "woman." (that is his own gallant phrase: "i guess likely my woman'll cal'late she c'n do fer y'u," he said when i asked for board.) she has a sort of petrified prettiness, the ghost of girlhood in a face furrowed and sagging with fretted years. age and unhappiness have hardened about the sweetness of long ago--like a rose imbedded in ice at a country fair. and the deacon! i didn't know it gave his like, in these lax days. he has a beautifully chiseled old face with an eagle beak and ice-blue eyes, and he looks as if his favorite winter sport were turning erring daughters out into the snow. dan'l is the only child at home now and they both adore him,--the mother with timid tenderness and the old man with fierce repression. even the pup takes on character from the family. i call it sweet-alice-ben-bolt, because it very nearly weeps with delight when you give it a smile and trembles with fear at your frown. the deacon is of that large and austere order of persons who "like dogs, in their place"; s.a.b.b. wears his stumpy, little tail at half mast whenever the head of the house is near. there is some mystery about dan'l's watching for a letter. his mother yearns over him and says,--"but, maybe to-morrow, dannie!" but his father sneers, and then the child seems to shrivel before my eyes. i wish i could slip some silver-gray fog in this letter, to rub on your burning brow! j. v. _some day in october._ my days slip by like pearl-gray beads on a rosary, michael daragh. i honestly haven't an idea of the date. but i know dan'l's story. we were sitting on the toppled-over tombstone of a sturdy old patriarch who had buried four wives, just after the postman went by one day, and the child said, defensively, as if in answer to my thought---- "but i did get a letter, once!" i kept mouse-still, and he told me. last summer there came to three meadows a lazy, charming, gypsy sort of fellow from nowhere, stony broke, to whom the deacon gave work for his board. out of danny's clipped phrases i could build up the rogue's personality,--the gay, lavish, careless, happy-go-lucky-ness which warmed the cockles of the little lad's hungry heart. he was here four months, and then a pal wrote him he could get him a job as handy man with a small circus then in vermont. but dan'l's beloved vagabond hadn't a sou, and before he could tramp there, the show would be far on its southern way. naturally, the deacon refused a loan--i can just see the way his mouth would snap shut like a trap, but dan'l, what with egg money and his tiny garden, and errand money from summer boarders, had gathered together twenty slow dollars, and he came lavishly forward. the rover blithely promised to pay him back in two monthly payments. he's never sent a penny. he wrote once; danny showed me the letter, worn with many rapt readings,--a silly, flowing hand which looks as if it had been done up in curl papers over night--and explained that he'd been sick, and had to buy clothes, but next month, _sure_! and dan'l was a sport and true blue and a little old pal, and he'd never forget him. dan'l's "bein' so puny" saved him the whole brunt of his father's rage, but this sneering scorn has been harder to bear,--and the amazing part of it is that the boy doesn't really care about the money,--lean little islander though he is. that is merely the symbol of his friend's good faith. "ef only he'd jest write 'n tell me things," he sighed, "th' money c'd wait. he needs it worse'n i do." meanwhile, with eternal-springing hope in his little flat chest he trots down to the graveyard corner every day, and every day uncle robert says, with a cheery chirp in italics, "wall, not _to-day_, dan'l!" the child is getting thinner and paler, now the sharp weather is coming. his father wrote a laborious letter by the lamp, one evening, and a week later a good gruff old doctor came over from the mainland and chaffed danny about his pup and told him to play in the sun and drink plenty of milk and not to fret about school this year. i waylaid him privately and asked if there was anything i could get or do--a tonic, a change. he patted my shoulder and said, "land t'goodness, no! that youngun's been a-dying ever since i borned him, fourteen years ago. he warn't meant for old bones." oh, michael daragh, i can't stand it--poor little daniel in a lion's den of broken faith, and scorn, and creeping death! what can i _do_? j. v. chapter x but it was well into october before the irishman got the letter which he had been waiting for--the one which sent the color mounting gladly in his lean cheeks. it was not long, but it fairly sang with jubilance and the feel of it in his hand was warm. _on a gold and scarlet afternoon._ michael daragh, i'm at work! steadily, sanely, surely, at work again! long ago, before i began to run after strange gods, i got a story back from the _new england monthly_--that dean of magazines in her sober brown frock with no jewels or adornments at all,--with a quite wonderful personal note. if i had followed it up, i do believe i'd have landed on that stern and rock-bound coast, but i went over to the flesh pots instead. now i have made a stern and rock-bound compact with myself. i'm not coming back to new york, and you are not to write me a line, until i've written a tale that brown-gowned magazine will take. "where there is no vision, the people perish," the deacon thundered, at a meeting. i was very near to perishing, when you scolded me awake, michael daragh, m.d., miracle do-er, god save you kindly! that vaudeville work--and i shall do more of it, some day--was like a fast and furious game of tennis under a scorching sun; now i'm delving in a dim, cool library. i'm going to be as patient as a locust bridge-builder. i know that flocks of long envelopes are coming back, bringing their tales behind them, but one day i shall hear a jubilant note in the _klip-klup_ of lizzie's hoofs and uncle robert will hand me an envelope of bewitching smallness, with a tiny typed letter inside.... "it is with very great pleasure...." until _that_ day break, and the shadows flee away---- j. v. it was michael daragh's custom to read these letters three times, carefully, and then to tear them in pieces which would be annoyingly and impossibly small to the chambermaid, and to throw them into his waste-paper basket, but this time, after his third perusal, instead of destroying it he put it away in his worn leather wallet. "i'll be keeping it, just, till the next one comes," he told himself, silently, "so i can be comparing the way she's coming on--god love her." but the next letter to come and several following held no mention of her task. it was as if she had opened the heart of her mind further than she meant to do, and was shyly standing in front of it, now, talking of things remote and removed. _friday morning._ i've found a way to make dan'l happy, m.d. i was reading to him last night, and suddenly he said in his shy, repressed way, "was you ever to a circus?" i started to say that they bored me to the bone, even in infancy, but i happened to glance up and see his eyes. he's been following his beloved vagabond about in his heart, you see. so i tried to create a circus for him--the round rag rug was the sawdust ring, the steaming kettle was the calliope, wheezing a strident song about a wooden leg, and out of thin air came the haughty ringmaster and the clown and the pink acrobats, and i remembered thankfully that i'd memorized vachel lindsey's "kallyope" long ago---- "tooting joy, tooting hope, i am the kallyope! hoot, toot, hoot, toot, willy, willy wah hoo, sizz--fizz----" dan'l held his breath, his eyes starry, and his mother stopped her work, and i could see that the old man was listening slyly. do you know it, michael? it's pure witchcraft of words. "see the flags; snow-white tent; see the bear and elephant; see the monkey jump the rope; listen to the lion roar, listen to the lion roar! listen to the kallyope, kallyope, kallyope!" (he must have been thinking of the deacon's sort:) "i will blow the proud folk low, humanize the dour and slow, i will shake the proud folk down----" dan'l went to sleep pink and happy. so did i! j. v. _wednesday._ i haven't told you about the "low-down wilkes," have i? they're the pleasantest people in three meadows and we're very clubby. the nice old maid on the wharf at bath told me about them and advised me to have the woman do my washing, but warned me that i should have to come unto her delicately, like agag. being the poorest and most destitute family on the island they are correspondingly proud and "techy." shiftlessness is a fine art with them, they've carried it so far. last winter they lived in a very good two-story house, and as it was a very bitter season and mr. l.d.w. was "kinder run down, someway," he very ingeniously burnt it for fuel while they were living in it,--first the partitions in the second story, then the floor, then the stairs, then the downstairs walls and doors. wasn't that clever of him? now it's just a charred shell, and--grace of a more opulent relative--they are camping in an unused barn. they fish a little, and pick blueberries, and wonder, vaguely, "jest how they'll make out, come wintuh." i wish you might have seen her when, after a long social call, i subtly introduced the subject of laundry and dilated on my helpless predicament. she weighed and considered and consulted with her spouse, and said at last, "wall, i don't keer if i do--but i wunt fetch'n kerry fer nobuddy!" since when i have myself fetched and carried my garments, and they are rapidly taking on the tinge of prevailing island grayness. the l.d.w.'s are gentle and gay, and they love dan'l and "angerleek" even if she is "a furriner," and they sigh that the deacon is "a good man, but ha'ad." his severity has driven all the older children away from home, two of them girls. (wasn't i right about the erring daughters and the snow?) i asked mrs. l.d.w. if i might bestow upon her a tailored suit which has almost worn me out. she hesitated, shifted the model in low-down wilkes to the other hip (babies are their only lavish luxury!) and allowed she didn't mind, if i was a mind to fetch it down to the graveyard corner some night after dusk. every human being in three meadows has seen me wear it and could describe it to the last stitch and button, and every one will know where she got it. nevertheless, in a world of foot-lickers, isn't pride like that delicious? i did for myself when i started that indoor circus effect; sentenced to be scheherazade! lady chariot drivers and spotted clowns and strange beasts swarm through the prim, gray farmhouse. dan'l has stayed in bed for two days, and uncle robert's chirp is growing husky. between circus performances i'm working like a riverful of beavers. the best story i've ever written is almost ready to launch. j. v. _tuesday._ dear michael daragh, i can't _bear_ it about dan'l! i don't mean about his going,--the old doctor is right about that, but oh, that wretched rover! dan'l makes loyal excuses for him--he must be sick again or out of work or too busy; the flame of his faith never burns dim. this morning i went to the deacon. "look here," i said, "that fellow will never pay up and dan'l is breaking his heart." he nodded. "well," i went on, "i mean to make up a letter and put in twenty dollars and send it to a friend of mine in new york to mail back to dan'l." his eagle eye grew bleak. "falsehood and forgery!" he thundered. "i'm a plain man, sinful, adam's seed as we all are, but i never yet soiled my lips with a lie." "oh, you needn't bother about it at all," i assured him. "i'll do the whole thing. you see, my lips aren't so immaculate, or so fussy!" "i wunt act a lie, neither," he said. i could feel myself generating temper, and it was a relief for it deadened my grief over dan'l to be fine and mad at his father. i looked him straight in his ice-blue eye. "just what do you mean by that, mr. gillespie?" "i wunt have the boy deceived. ain't no peace comin' from a lie! land t' goodness," he regarded me mournfully, "don't we have to strive night an' day, 'thout takin' any extry sins on our souls?" "why, no, deacon gillespie," i told him sweetly, "i don't have a bit of trouble being good. it just seems to come naturally to me!" i know he yearned to box my ears. instead, he roared, "we are as prone to evil as the sparks to fly upward!" "_you_ may be," i said. "i shouldn't wonder at all if you are. but as for me, i'm not a miserable sinner and i never was. i shouldn't know an evil impulse if i met it in my mush bowl!" then i left him, purple with scandalized rage, and found angelique and told her my pretty plan. oh, michael, if you could have seen the poor thing! her knees fairly gave way under her and she sank into a chair and put her apron over her head. i said, "i thought if you were willing, perhaps the deacon--" but she cried out, "no, no! one time the oldes' boy, lem," she still has a bit of the soft _habitant_ accent, "he do something bad, an' i tell a lie, so hees father shall not beat heem. by and by, he fin' out ..." she shut her eyes and shivered. "heem he beat twice as hard ... me, he nevair believe again, all these years...." michael daragh, i hate the deacon. i know you consider hate the lowest form of human activity, but i hate the deacon with a husky, hearty, healthy hate and it has a tonic effect which i'm sure must be good for me. i feed my fancy on boiling him in oil. gibbering with perfectly proper rage, j. v. the next note which came to the irishman was only a line in length and a coolly typed line, but even so the letters seemed fairly to sing and to dance---- the story is done. it is good, michael daragh. the letter which followed it went back to the human concerns about her. _friday._ i'm sitting on the gravestone of the four-time widower, m.d., my sweater turned up about my ears, my fingers navy blue, my nose magenta. the world is bleak and bare, indoors and out. dan'l grows hourly weaker, but he brightens at mail time, and grins his gallant little grin at disappointment. "but he _will_," he stoutly whispers. gentle old uncle robert grows fierce. "ef i had that varmint here, i vum i c'd wring his neck!" i'm sorry to report that i am not getting on very well with hating the deacon. (of course, you've kept the intervening air quivering with your admonitory wirelesses!) he is suffering so hideously, and so determinedly, like a fakir. he feels he must speed the parting soul with the scriptures and he reads terrifying things about weird beasts,--lion-mouthed leopards with feet like bears--and when he goes downstairs i try--very clumsily, m.d.--to tell dan'l about the god you know, the one who goes with you into dark alleys and dark hearts. i wish you were here to do it. dan'l's faith is indeed the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen, but i want to put a warm, tangible lie into his thin little claws before he goes.... uncle robert has "been an' went" since i began this letter, and again i must go up to dan'l and tell him "not _to-day_." i'm a coward, m.d. i've never seen death so close before, and i want to run away. but i won't. j. v. p.s. i called on the low down wilkes this morning. mrs. l.d.w. was wearing my suit over a wrapper of faded red calico, but there was nothing in her manner to indicate that i had ever seen it before. _saturday._ here is my story, michael daragh, and it is your story, too, for you shamed me into doing it. i am sending it off to the brown-gowned monthly on the stern and rock-bound coast, and this carbon to you. now will you write and tell me if you like it? _honestly!_ (i know i said i didn't want you to write me until i had landed a story there, but all this grief and grimness brings a sense of bleak loneliness, and _if_ you think i've won back what i've lost, if you think i've found the vision which will keep my soul from perishing, tell me so.) j. v. _sunday night._ i've been making circus all day, m.d.---- "tooting joy, tooting hope, willy wully wah hoo ... i am the golden dream, singing science, singing steam-- listen to the lion roar--" i've roared myself hoarse but i got him to sleep at last. i have figured it out and i see that i can't hear from either you or the monthly before wednesday at the earliest, and i won't let myself really look for anything before friday. j. v. again there came a single line---- _monday night._ it's too heart-breaking to write about, m.d., even to you. _tuesday morning._ i've had to stop hating the poor old deacon altogether; this morning he carried s.a.b.b. upstairs with his own hands and put him on the bed beside the boy. j. v. _tuesday night._ it's very late, michael daragh, but there are things i must tell you before i sleep. i went for a walk this morning, and when i came back i saw angelique waving to me from the window. i _knew_, and i ran into the house and upstairs. the deacon was praying aloud, a terrible, cast-iron prayer, and angelique was sobbing and s.a.b.b. was whining and shivering. i knelt down beside dan'l and he opened his eyes. i could just make out the whisper--"my ... letter?" i jumped up and ran over to his father and took him by the elbow and marched him into my room and shut the door and stood with my back against it. my teeth were chattering so i could hardly speak. "he's dying," i said. "_now_ will you let me?" he was shaking, too, but he quavered, "i wunt bear false witness! i wunt take a lie on my soul!" then something boiled up and over in my heart, michael daragh. i caught hold of him and shook him and i was so strong i scared myself. "you pitiful, craven-hearted old coward," i said, "all you can think of is your sour old self! if you loved him--if you knew the first faint beginning of love--" i snatched up the letter i had addressed to dan'l and ran over to the dresser for my purse. "you stay in here with the truth and keep your musty little soul safe! i'm going in there and tell him a beautiful lie!" but he fumbled some bills from his lean old wallet. "wait! here's twenty dollars! i'm a-comin', too!" we went in together, and he bent over the bed and held the bills close to the boy's eyes. "look a-here, dan'l! look a-here, boy! here's your money! here's your _money_, dan'l!" (wasn't it pitiful, michael? even then, he still thought the money meant most.) dan'l opened his eyes and i said, "you were right all along, danny! you were right to trust and believe in him! he _was_ grateful!"--and i held the envelope where he could see it,--the one i had addressed in a silly, flowing screed. his pinched little face lighted up from within--cheerily, exquisitely, and his chin went up the tiniest fraction in glad pride. "_i_ ... knew ..." he just barely breathed it, michael, and then he sort of relaxed all over and gave a long, comfortable sigh, like a tired puppy, and--and went to sleep. his mother screamed and fell down beside the bed, and the deacon said, "loose him an' let him go, angerleek!"--but he lifted her up and kept his arms around her. i went away and left them there with dan'l and s.a.b.b. i had forgotten all about mail time, but i found myself presently at the graveyard corner. it was one of those gentle, warmed-over summer days and the air was mild and filled with little whispers. i was so happy, michael daragh, that in my heart i heard the "harpers harping with their harps," but by and by i was aware of a nearer, more intimate sound--not "_klip-klup_" as on other days, but _klipety-klipety-klipety_--a panic of frantic speed. down the road they came, old lizzie's hoofs scattering dust and pebbles, uncle robert leaning far forward, laying on the lash. when he saw me he cried out:--"oh, it ain't too late? oh, my dear lord'n saviour, it _ain't_ too late?" then he handed me a plump registered letter, addressed in a foolish, flowing screed which looked as if it had been done up in curl papers over night, and i began to cry for the first time. "no," i said, "oh, no, it's not too late!" and i ran up to dan'l's still little room and gave it to the deacon and he took it with a great wonder in his ice-blue eyes and slipped it under the cold little claw, beside our merciful lie. then i went into my own room, and i noticed for the first time that uncle robert had given me two other letters and i stopped crying and stared at them. one was a very small envelope and the name printed in the corner was that of the brown-gowned magazine on the stern and rock-bound. the other was yours. j. v. p.s. guess which one i opened first, michael daragh, do-er of miracles? chapter xi jane stayed on at three meadows until after the bleak and austere little funeral, and long enough to help angelique soften the harshly new grave with flowers and sturdily started plants, and stopped over at bath and ordered a quaintly simple headstone which would be the gillespie's pride and solace. she was very happy on her return journey to new york,--in vastly different mood than the one of nine weeks before. michael daragh had written her a brief and beautiful letter, a letter she would always keep, as soon as he had read her story, and the thought of it warmed her like a summer sun, but as she went down the twisting silver river she had a vexed feeling that her postscript had been a bit of foolishness. "_guess which one i opened first, michael daragh, do-er of miracles?_" their relationship had shifted in these long weeks; ever since the evening on riverside drive when he had sternly recalled her to herself, they had gone by leaps and bounds, by hedge and byway, into a deeper and more intimate friendship, and yet, she told herself, that added line at the end of her letter to him was a high school girlish thing to have done; it presupposed something between them which wasn't there at all. she had flung it in without weighing it; she had honestly meant at the moment, that his approval of her new and serious story was more precious to her even than the editor's, but ... would michael daragh understand it that way? she did not write him the exact time of her arrival, and it was the merest chance that she found him starting up the steps as her taxicab drew up at mrs. hills' door. they went up together and at his first hearty look and word she was able to laugh at herself for having worried an instant. "it's rare and fine to have you back, jane vail," he said, glowing with gladness. "and you were good indeed to be sending me the long story letters all the while. 'twas like a journey itself, the way i'd be following you up and down on that island with all the queer folk and sad, and waiting at the graveyard corner for the mail!" jane glowed in return. "it's good to be back, michael daragh." (the nice, sane, sensible, dependable creature that he was! what a solid comfort it was to have him! this was exactly the way she wanted him to act and to feel and to be, and she wasn't--she was at some pains to assure herself--in the very least feeling vaguely disappointed or let down by his attitude.) "but it was the best time i ever had,--best in the sense of being the best for me." generously and sweetly she gave him his due. "i'm still thanking you, you know, m.d.!" he nodded gravely. "you've found your way back to the highroad in that tale you were sending me. i'm doubting you'll ever lose it again all the long days of your life." "i won't" said jane, stoutly. (good to be back with him, good to hear his purling brogue and his lyrical construction. he talked like an old song.) the door of the boarding-house opened at their ring and jane hurried in. "here's mrs. hills! hello, mrs. hills! here i am!" she embraced the ex-villager warmly and espied emma ellis in the shadows of the hall, over her shoulder. "and miss ellis! how-do-you-do?" miss ellis did very well, according to her own statement, but it was pathetically clear to one pair of sharp eyes at least that she would have done better if michael daragh had not been bringing in jane's suitcase and handbag and umbrella while a taxi got under way in the street. "it's so nice to be back with you all," said the returned exile, heartily. the settlement worker came out into the light and it was to be observed that she was still more pinched and sallow than of yore and jane's heart melted within her to swift mercy. "i found michael daragh on the sidewalk and pressed him into service as porter. thanks, michael daragh. am i to give you the quarter for your poor and needy?" "you are, indeed," said the irishman, firmly, taking the stairs two at a bound. "more than that, you'll be giving me for a case i know, with the proud and prosperous look you have on you this day!" "i hope," said emma ellis, conscientiously, the taut lines of her face loosening a little, "you had a pleasant outing?" "yes," said jane, flippantly, "but my outing was an inning--and i've delved like a riverful of beavers, and i'll be at work at nine to-morrow morning." "that mr. harrison has been 'phoning and _'phoning_," mrs. hills announced, complacently. "and he wants you should ring him up the minute you got in--something about this evening, i guess, he was so set on having you get the message." "that listens alluringly! i'll call him now,--may i?" she shook herself out of her topcoat and fur and sat down at the hall telephone. mrs. hills and miss ellis discreetly withdrew to the living room, but the low tones of her voice were carrying and it was presently made clear to them that gayety was afoot for the evening, a sort of gayety they two had never known, would never know ... little tables with shaded candles, lights, music, subtle, wheedling music, hovering head-waiters ... the newest play ... then more little tables, more wheedling, coaxing music, more hovering head-waiters, dancing.... the boarding-house keeper told herself, comfortably, that it would never do for _her_, and pushed a tolerant curiosity back into the ragbag of her mind, and the settlement worker tucked in her lips and reminded herself that there would be undernourished children, _hungry_ children, not a mile from where miss vail would be eating out-of-season delicacies, and thanked her god that she was not as other women. michael daragh came into the room an instant before jane did. she was flushed and bright-eyed and smiling. "well! i'll have to _fly_! i won't be here for dinner, mrs. hills,--i'm sorry, but it seems this is a rather special party to-night." "it's your kind of clam chowder, too," said mrs. hills, shaking her head. "oh, what a shame! but save mine for tomorrow's lunch,--i adore it warmed over! here, michael daragh"--she opened her brown, beaded bag with its high lights of orange and gold--"catch!" she tossed the little suede purse to him. "that's exactly the way i feel to-night, scattering largess to the multitude, regally pitching purses about! take what you want--all you want--for that case! i _must_ fly!" she looked at her wrist watch. "mrs. hills, will you let mabel come and do me up in twenty minutes? see you all at breakfast!" she ran out of the room and they heard her swift feet on the stair. the boarding-house keeper beamed. jane vail was her link with the world. "i declare, she's a marvel to me! wouldn't you think she'd be dead on her feet and want to crawl into bed quick's ever she had her supper? she won't close an eye before two o'clock in the morning if she does then, but she'll be down to breakfast, right on the dot, fresh as paint, and out for her walk, rain, hail or snow, and then she'll hammer that typewriter all the forenoon!" "of course," said emma ellis in her small, smothered voice, "miss vail _often_ takes a little nap in the afternoon...." mrs. hills was not to be diverted from her star boarder's glories. "well, it didn't take that mr. rodney harrison very long to get in action, did it?" "it did not, indeed," said the irishman, cheerfully. "how long till dinner, mrs. hills? half an hour? then i'll be stepping up to my room for a letter is keening to be written." the two women were silent until they heard him mounting the stairs to the third floor. "you see?" said the elder, triumphantly. "what did i tell you? not a thing on earth between them! would she be tearing off with another young man, first evening home? and isn't he cool as a cucumber?" miss ellis's narrow little face seemed to ease visibly into looser lines and she sighed. "yes. you were quite right. mr. daragh's mind is on higher things." the other bridled. "well, i don't know as you've any call to put it just that way. i guess jane vail's a high enough thing for any man to think of! and i guess the truth is, jane vail's got other fish to fry!" jane, meanwhile, into her tub, out of her tub, flinging herself once more into urban silk and fine linen, doing her hair with swift craft, was entirely happy. it was good to have gone away, at michael daragh's rousing word, good to have stayed those sober weeks on the lean, clean island, good to have done good work and to have speeded dan'l's parting soul; and it was good to be back, to be going presently into the bright warm world with rodney harrison; it was best of all to find her big irishman as she had found him. her friend. her _best_ friend ... best for her. it was a solid satisfaction to have him tabulated and pigeonholed at last and for all time. michael daragh was her best friend. that was settled. and she had been a vain, light-minded goose to fancy for an instant that he would misinterpret that foolish little postscript on her last letter,--that he would _want_ to misinterpret it. michael daragh had clearly obeyed the command to come apart and be separate, and she should never worry for an instant about him again. and while she flew into her most satisfactory frock and stood still for mabel's slow hookings and fastenings and then sent her down to tell the gentleman she would be with him in two minutes, her best friend, newly elected to that high estate, sat alone in his room on the third floor, and there was in his thin face none of the calm which had helped mrs. hills to carry her point with emma ellis. there had been a little rite, the evening before, of burning such few letters as he had allowed himself to keep, but he had snatched the last one back from the blaze and cut off the final line, the postscript, with his desk scissors, and put the narrow shred of paper into his wallet. and now, hearing the sound of a taxicab in the street below, he approached his window and looked down through the fast-thickening dusk of the late fall evening. he could not see jane's exit from the house nor her entrance into the waiting vehicle, but he remained there, his face pressed against the pane, until the machine set noisily forth upon its uptown way. then he went back to stand before his fire, and he opened his wallet and took out the folded strip of paper and threw it on the coals without reading it again, for he knew it very well by heart, and he was still standing there when the sound of mabel's vigorous gong summoned him down to dinner. * * * * * rodney harrison was a trifle annoyed and a trifle amused at jane's exile, frankly contemptuous of the achievement of a tale in the _new england monthly_ as compared to vaudeville bill-toppers, wholly glad to have her back. his mother was visiting her people in boston at the moment, but as soon as she returned, he was very sure, she would want to make that long-delayed call on his young writing friend. as a matter of fact, it was the tale that did it. mrs. ormsby dodd harrison had not seen her way to the cultivation of a young woman whose end and aim in life was the writing of headline acts for the two-a-day, but a gifted young author who had two charming and thoughtful stories in the brown-gowned magazine that winter and passed likewise the sober portals of the other three of the "big four," was quite another thing. before the holidays, in spite of her telescoping activities at that season, mrs. harrison motored down to washington square and called on miss vail at mrs. hills' boarding house, and asked her with just the right admixture of formality and cordiality to dine with them one evening quite simply ... just themselves. but miss vail, it appeared, was not only a very hard-working and ambitious young author, but very much fêted and dated socially, and in addition, gave generously of her play time to certain worthy settlements and their concomitant affairs, and two more months elapsed before an evening could be arranged. jane wrote of the dinner to sarah farraday. * * * * * a shame, isn't it, sally, that we can't be frank and honest? you can't think how it would have comforted rodney's mother in her black hand-run spanish lace and the harrison pearls to have me say, "be of good cheer, dear lady! i neither design nor aspire to marry your son!" then she could have removed her invisible armor and laid her polished weapons by and given herself over to the delights of my sprightly chatter. rodney's the only son and the only child, and one cannot blame her for being a bit choosey! harrison's pater, however, seemed to think that he could bear up very cheerfully under such a contingency--charmingly cordial, the dear old thing! rodney won't be nearly so nice at his age because he's come up in a less gracious period. but at that he'll be very nice! he is now! chapter xii before the end of her second year in new york, many things, grave and gay, came to pass. sarah farraday came down for a fortnight of operas and concerts and went home to spread the marvels of jane's full and glowing life over the vermont village; emma ellis reluctantly gave up her room at mrs. hills' and became resident superintendent of the hope house settlement, and michael daragh took his noon meal there. jane went home twice for little visits and found changes even there,--the teddy-bear, now trudging sturdily about in rompers, had a small sister, and nannie slade hunter was prettier than ever, if a trifle too rotund, and edward r., very prosperous and pleased with himself, had bought his wife an electric coupé, in which to take his offspring for a safe and opulent airing. martin wetherby, assistant cashier, had somehow put youth aside. his stoutness had closed in on him like an enemy. his mother admitted to jane that he did not take sufficient exercise. "he doesn't seem to ... care," she said, and looked pointedly away. to herself she put it dramatically, with great relish; never, to the day of her death, would she forgive the girl who had ruined her son's life. jane wished with all her good-natured heart that marty would marry, happily and handsomely--it would be such a relief to have mrs. wetherby complacently triumphant instead of heavily reproachful. and even sarah farraday never referred to him as other than, "poor old marty." jane had her moments of wishing that they might, in village parlance, "make a match of it," but they were moments only. sarah was much too fine; she must find sarah a suitor of parts, somehow, somewhere. it was during the second of her visits home that miss lydia vail died. there was no dreariness of illness or misery of suffering; she died exactly as she had lived, plumply and pleasantly, in the plump and pleasant faith that was hers, and jane left the middle-aged maid in charge of the elm-shaded, green-shuttered house and went back to new york with a grief which was more pensive than poignant. she refused, thereafter, to rent the old home, but loaned it instead, the servant with it, to various and sundry of her city clan,--now the girl who had carried her first playlet to success, now to shabby music students at mrs. hills' whom sarah farraday was pledged to regale with tea and cheer in the afternoons, now to sad-eyed women of michael daragh's recommendation. sometimes she ran up herself with a little house-party,--down-at-the-heel vaudevilleans, elderly, concert-going ladies from the boarding house, emma ellis and another settlement worker--and made an expenditure for food and entertainment which secretly scandalized the ancient maid. she wrote her first slim little novel which was accepted for serial publication and rodney harrison insisted that there was the germ of a three-act play in it. she set to work on it and labored harder than ever before in her life, happily, hot-cheeked, shining-eyed, wrote and rewrote and clipped and amplified and smoothed and polished, and one day sarah farraday ran over to the hunter's house with a telegram. "nannie! it's accepted! jane's three-act play is accepted! did you ever in all your born days see such luck? she just can't fail!" her earnest, blonde face was a little wistful. "i never knew any human being to have so much!" mrs. edward r. was herding the teddy-bear into the coupé and she handed little sarah anne to her friend. "get in, sally dear, and i'll run you home. i'm taking the children over to mother hunter's for the day." she steadied sarah and her burden to a seat and then tucked herself neatly in, and started her bright vehicle competently. "well, i don't know.... it's all very fine, of course, but i can think of a good deal she hasn't got!" "oh, of course ..." said the music teacher. after a moment she sighed. "poor old marty.... well, we can't lead other people's lives for them, can we?" "no, we can't," mrs. edward r. admitted, contentedly. she bowled sarah smoothly back to the burlapped studio in time for the eleven-twenty pupil. * * * * * jane, meanwhile, after wiring to sarah, flew to michael daragh with her joyful tidings and lunched with him and emma ellis at hope house. the irishman, who had read the little play and knew its clean verve and charm, was radiant for her, and the superintendent managed grudging congratulations. they were in the sitting room after the meal, and something seemed to smite jane, swiftly, with regard to emma ellis; her bright eyes traveled over the whole of her,--the shabby hair, the hot and steaming face, the moist fingers with their dull and shapeless nails,--the needlessly cruel ugliness of blouse and skirt and shoes; the utter unloveliness of her. as on the day of her return from three meadows, when emma ellis had supposed michael daragh had met her at the train, again her heart melted to mercy within her. oh, the poor thing! the _poor_ thing---- "miss ellis, i've taken your chair, haven't i?" "it doesn't matter where i sit, miss vail. this one does well enough for me," she answered, virtuously. jane sat down on a footstool near the window. "do take it--not that there's any cloying luxury, even there! is it in the constitution of hope house to have only hideous and uncomfortable furniture?" "you cannot know much about this sort of work, miss vail, or you'd realize that our funds are always limited, and that we must conserve them for necessities." it was a depressingly warm day, and the superintendent felt it and showed it, and she reflected bitterly that jane vail was the sort of person who was warm and glowing in january, when normal people were pinched and blue, and cool and crisp in september, when those who had to keep right on working, no matter what the weather was, had pools of perspiration under their eyes and shirtwaists adhering gummily to their backs. and she always wore things in summer which gave out cunning suggestions of shady brooksides, and managed--in that theatrical way of hers--the effect of bringing a breeze in with her. "i wonder," said jane, "if my silly little paper people get the breath of life blown into them and my play goes over and i have regal royalties, if i couldn't do something for hope house?" "you could, indeed, god save you kindly for the thought," said michael daragh, happily. "if your play'll run to it, you could be buying us two bathtubs and----" "the linoleum in the kitchen"--miss ellis forgot her bitterness for a moment--"is simply in shreds!" "i will not!" said jane, crisply. "bathtubs and linoleum, indeed! wring them out of your board! i shall give you a sleepy hollow couch with bide-a-wee cushions, and deep, cuddly armchairs and a lamp or two with shades as mellow as autumn woods! and some perfectly frivolous pictures which aren't in the least inspiring or uplifting,--and every single girl's room shall have a _pink pincushion_!" then at their blankness, she softened. "oh, very well,--you shall have your tubs and your linoleum, if you'll let me humanize the rest of the house,--will you?" she came to her feet with a spring of incredible energy. "come along, miss ellis,--let's have a look upstairs! we don't need you, m.d.--this is woman-stuff." the superintendent pulled herself upstairs with a sticky hand on the banister, "well, i don't know where you'd begin, miss vail. everything's threadbare...." they went through drab halls and into drab rooms where drab occupants greeted them drably, and jane ached with the ugliness of it. wasn't it going to be fun--_if_ the play went over "big"--to vanquish this much of the hideousness of the world? she stopped before a closed door. "what is this?" miss ellis was walking past it. "that's my room." "well, may i see it?" "oh," she said, colorlessly, "i didn't suppose you'd want to fix _it_ over...." she opened the door and stepped in, crossing to the undraped window and running up the stiff shade of faded and streaked olive green. "but of course i shall," said jane, following her in. "well--i might have known!" "what?" asked miss ellis, defensively. "that you'd take the smallest and shabbiest room in the house for yourself." "oh, well ... it doesn't matter. i'm not in it very much." she walked over to the warped golden oak bureau and straightened the metal button hook with the name of a shoe shop pressed into it into line with the whisk broom. besides these two articles there bloomed upon the bureau's top a small pincushion made from a piece of california redwood bark, and a widowed saucer enrolled as a pin-tray, and into the frame of the mirror was stuck a snapshot of an unnecessarily plain small boy. "that's my little nephew," said emma ellis, seeing jane's eye upon it. "my sister bertha's boy." "he--he looks _bright_, doesn't he?" said jane, hastily. she looked about her, consideringly. "you know, i'd like to do this room in deep creamy yellow. that will make it look lighter and seem larger, and it will be nice with your hair." "my hair?..." said miss ellis, limply. "you have such nice hair, but i do wish you'd do it differently," said jane with anxious friendliness. "you have a _mile_ of it, haven't you?" the superintendent's tucked-in lips and her whole taut figure visibly relaxed. "i _used_ to have nice hair," she admitted in the time-hallowed formula. "i wish you could have seen it four years ago. it's come out something terrible! well," she made a virtue of it--"i never spend any time fussing with it." "but you ought to, you know! let me play with it a minute, will you? i adore doing hair. please sit down--i just want to try something with it--something i thought of as i watched you to-day." she pressed her into a stiff chair. "well ..." said miss ellis grudgingly. she produced a comb from a bleakly neat top drawer. "heavens, what neatness," said jane. "and the brush, please! you ought to give it a hundred and twenty strokes a night,--see, like this? no, it wouldn't be wasting time! just consider the good thoughts you could be thinking. you could memorize poetry or dates in history or say your prayers,--and you'd say a prayer of thankfulness in a year, when you looked at the result. it would shine like patent leather." her fingers flew. "there! now you can look. see how it brings out the good lines of your face? wait,--where's your hand mirror? you haven't one? my word! well, you can get the idea, even so! will you try doing it this way? it won't take but a minute longer. just to please me?" "well ..." she couldn't seem to think of anything else to say, and she had a ridiculous feeling that she might be going to cry. "and--do you mind my saying these things?--i've always bullied my friends about their clothes and colors--i do wish you wouldn't wear white, and navy blue." "i always supposed _white_ was right for every one." "it's wicked for most people! cream, buff, tan, apricot, burnt orange--let me come down and go shopping with you some day, will you? i never cared about dressing dolls but i revel in dressing people." "well ..." said miss ellis once more, and this time her stubborn chin quivered. "shall we go downstairs?" jane moved ahead of her, her eyes averted, her voice cheerfully commonplace. "simply torrid up here, isn't it? i'll come some cool morning, and we'll make lists and plans--_if_ my play goes over----" but before her gay little play had been running three months, picking up speed like a motor as it ran--she had kept her word to hope house. she became the lady bountiful of the bathtubs and linoleums, of the frivolous lay pictures and the autumn shaded lamps, and she wrote impudently to sarah farraday that when she looked upon all that she had created she saw that it was very good. even emma ellis has undergone a sea change; she's learned to do her hair decently, and i've actually persuaded her that while it's quite right to let her light so shine before men, it's different with her nose, and you can't think what a dusting of flesh-colored powder does for her! and i've got her out of blue serge and white blouses, and into cream and buff and orange and brown, and i daresay michael daragh will now fall in love with her excellent qualities and her enhanced appearance, and i shall lose my best friend. (e.e. would never allow friendships.) i shall probably wish i'd left her in her state of ugly ducklingness, for i simply can't spare st. michael from my scheme of things! chapter xiii jane and the irishman came into the settlement one day to find the superintendent red-eyed, with two books on her desk. it was clear that she had been having a luxuriously miserable time. "i've just finished two of the most powerful stories," she said, polishing the precious powder from her nose with a damp handkerchief. "every girl should read them--and every _man_!" "i wonder at you, emma ellis," said michael daragh, "the way you'll be keening over a printed tale, when you've your heart and head and hands full of real woes about you, surely!" "oh, mr. daragh, if you'd just sit down and read _i_ and _the narrow path_! both written anonymously,--and you just _feel_ the human heartthrob in every line." "i'll not be cluttering my mind with the likes of that, woman dear!" "i've read them both," said jane, slipping out of her furs and cuddling into one of the great new chairs, "and i'm afraid i think they're fearful piffle." "miss vail!" her face snapped back into its old lines. (miss vail really mustn't think that because she was so situated, financially, that she could do kind and generous things--which others would do if they could--that her word was law on every subject!) "i'll have to be reading them, to decide between the two of you," said michael, lighting his mellowed old pipe. miss ellis winced a little as she looked at her new curtains. "but it's good for moths," said jane, catching her eye. "no, michael, you needn't fuss up your orderly mind with anything so frivolous and distracting. i can tell you the gist of them both in a few well-chosen phrases! the theme of both is that when lovely--and lonely--woman stoops to earning her own living she finds--not too late, but alas, immediately--that men betray! that every prospect pleases and only man is vile! these two heroines set out to make their own way; their faces are their fortune and very nearly their finish! one is a very young girl, the other an unhappy wife, fleeing with, and, one might be pardoned for imagining, protected by, a young child. each is a pattern of dewy innocence and determined virtue, but no matter where they hie or hide, the villains still pursue." "of course," said miss ellis in her small, smothered voice, "if you're going to make a _joke_ of it----" "my dear miss ellis, it _is_ a joke! one of them gets no further than the station in her initial flight when she is accosted by a young millionaire--insulted. (if you were a constant reader of popular fiction, michael daragh, you'd know how difficult it is for millionaires to retain the shreds of human decency.) and that's just the prelude, but it introduces the motif which runs through the entire composition. staid, middle-aged husbands of friends, editors, business men, authors,--don juans all! rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief, doctor, lawyer, indian chief, enmesh the road the ladies are to wander in." "well," said michael daragh, shaking his head, "i'm telling you there's a rare lot of enmeshing, jane vail." emma ellis wagged an eager head. "you can't possibly know, in your sheltered life----" "but i've been about a bit in my day--(didn't i come from my verdant village to the wicked metropolis?)--and i've known men in all ages and stages. my feeling is that these girls must have had a small 'come-hither' in one eye at least, or occasionally men might have passed the butter without a sinister meaning, might have seen them home without attempting to abduct them!" "you came directly to mrs. hills, whom you had known for years," said emma ellis. "and you knew that mr. harrison who helped you to place your writing, and you had enough money to live on." "but i've roamed the city alone, all hours of night or day, and i used to go back and forth to boarding-school alone--a day's and a night's journey, and abroad i used to trot off to galleries and museums by myself, and----" "but you always had your background, jane vail, the way you knew how safe you were." "you can't prove these books are foolish by _your_ experience, miss vail." emma ellis was glowing from the irishman's championship. jane was still for a moment. "no; i don't suppose i can prove it by any experience i've had in the past," she said, slowly, "but i can prove it by an experience i'm going to have!" "now what do you mean by that?" daragh wanted to know. "are you telling your fortune?" jane sat up straight, warm-cheeked, excited. "no, but i'm going out, alone and unaided, under a neat new name, with some cheap, plain clothes in a cheap, plain trunk, to chicago, with fifty dollars only between me and the cold world,--and see what i see!" "well, now, god save us, but that's the mad plan, surely!" "it isn't mad at all! i want a little change,--i've been working like a dynamo--and it will be loads of fun and i'll get corking copy out of it." "it won't be a fair test," the superintendent protested. "you'll be--you, all the time." "that's very nice of you," jane gave her her glad boy's grin, "but i won't be. don't you suppose i have imagination enough to project myself into another type? for a month i'll support myself in any way i can, nursery governess, mother's helper, upstair-work, shop, anything i can get. i'll _be_ that sort of girl, dress, diction, everything. i'll write a truthful bulletin of my luck to you two, but you won't have any address, and no one will know that--let's see ... _edna miles_--isn't that reasonable?--that edna miles is the lucky jane vail who wrote _cross your heart_ and has a wicked balance in the bank!" she pulled herself up out of the depths of the great chair and put on her furs. "i'm quite keen about it! it's going to be more fun than anything i've ever done. tell jane good-by, old dears! you'll hear from edna miles before long!" "wait a bit till we talk it over," said daragh. "'tis a wild plan, i'm telling you, will waste your time and----" but jane was out of the door, with only the echo of her laugh behind her. "i don't think she'll really do it," said miss ellis. "when she comes to think it over, and realizes how uncomfortable she'll be----" "she'll be doing it if she says she will," said the irishman, gloomily, "and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't be stopping her, the way she----" jane thrust her bright head in at the door again. "i'll play fair, and i'll prove my point,--that you see pretty much what you look for, that you get pretty nearly what you give, that common or garden kindness is mirrored in kindness, that affection fairly boomerangs back! and after all, you know, the thing that made the lamb love mary so is the axis on which the world turns! with which pearl of wisdom i give you good-morrow!" this time she went in earnest, and the settlement workers were left alone in their transformed parlor to consider the madness or merit of her little plan. michael saw her at breakfast next morning but she was gayly uncommunicative as to her plans, and that night mrs. hills reported that her star boarder (who had the two best and biggest rooms, now, and a dressing-room and bath and her own telephone) had gone west for a month or so for a change. the first letter came two days later and was addressed to miss emma ellis at the hope house settlement, but the salutation was to them both---- dear emma ellis and michael daragh, i am writing this on the train as the intelligent readers will gather from the chirography. i have just had my breakfast, and it was funny to study the menu card for inexpensive nourishment with staying powers. i shared a tiny table with a large gentleman whose rubicund neck hung over his collar in back in what was distinctly not the line of beauty, a chatty soul, conversation not at all impeded by food ... needed a few table traffic regulations ... the noble head of the animal to whose tribe he belongs beamed from his lapel and his genial heart from his bright little eyes, and he worried heartily because i didn't "tuck away a regular breakfast." i had loads of fun getting my adventure trousseau together yesterday! i flatter myself that i quite look the part,--my meek, brown serge and cotton gloves and my oldest shoes and a well-meaning little hat which took more courage than all the rest. i couldn't quite rise--or sink--to a straw suitcase. i have my shabbiest one--without labels! this is a slow, cheap train and my bye-bye box was in the upper flat, and i haven't spent a penny for chocolate or magazines, and i'm actually beginning to _be_ edna miles! _next morning, nearly in chicago._ last night the beamish buffalo, who had chatted off and on all day and had worried over my modest luncheon from across the aisle, insisted that dinner was to be not only with but "on" him, but i only consented on the "with" plan, and paid my own little check and tip. he said i was a darned independent little piece but he liked my spunk! he asked me where i was bound and i said--sighing a little for good measure, emma--that i was going to chicago to earn my living. now in _i_ or _the narrow path_ he would at once have given me his card and offered to "fix me up with something at the office," but the buffalo merely said "that so!" mistily through his pie _à la mode_ and that "chi" was a great little old berg. isn't that one-in-the-eye for your theory, at the start? time to be brushed off. edna miles gives the ethiopian only a quarter, but she hasn't demanded any service. jane, the honest working girl. _same night, . ._ before i get into my doll's-size bed i'll pen these sleepy lines. my room is just about the dimensions of a bath mat. it contains the aforementioned bed (i shall have to put myself into it with a shoe horn!) _an_ chair, on which i sit, and a bureau. the room must have been built around them ... clearly they didn't come in through the door. my little trunk has to wait outside in the hall like a faithful dog. when i look at my face in the mirror i'm sure that heaven will protect this particular working girl; that my face will be not my fortune but my defender. it looks as if a nervous student had been practicing facial surgery on me. the carpet is just the color of deviled ham, and on the wall is a shiny, violent-colored picture in a tarnished gilt frame which shows a dangerously fat infant in a crib with a kitten standing on its stomach. i left the train without incident. i didn't even see the buffalo to say good-by. in the station i purposely wandered about a bit and asked questions and suddenly a brisk little woman with "stranger's friend" on her bonnet dashed up and asked me where i was going. i told her i was alone in her great city, looking for work, and she told me not to worry,--that she would look after me, and she has,--oh, but hasn't she! she thought a minute and then said, "i know of a good christian room for you." i was so intrigued by the thought of a christian room that i could hardly wait to see it. (i'm in it. this is it.) she told me just where to sit and wait for her, and there i dutifully sat, clutching my luggage, and she ran off to telephone and said it was all fixed--the lady would have me, and it would be five dollars a week for room, breakfast and dinner. and she would put me on the right car and tell me just where to get off, and the landlady would direct me to the employment agency later. just as she was seeing me to the street i spied the buffalo in the offing, waving to me, and i waved back, and he started briskly toward me. "who is that man?" the stranger's friend wanted to know. i said he was a kind gentleman i had met on the train but i didn't know his name. well, the next thing i knew she had whirled me cleverly into an eddy of crowd and thence into the ladies' waiting-room and was regarding me sternly. "we will wait here until he goes away. that is the very _first_ thing to remember, my dear. never talk to strange men!" and i said, "yes, ma'am, i will," and "no, ma'am, i won't," and presently she reconnoitered and said that the coast was clear, and put me on my car, with minute directions for finding my new home.... it is easy and comforting to believe that there is, literally, no place like home, no other place. i shall call my landlady mrs. mussel,--it suits her so perfectly, the way she clings to her drab background, and closes up with a snap at every approach. i daresay she means well. it is necessary to believe that she does. she states that she sets only a plain home table ... and there is a sort of atmospheric menu card--coming events casting their savors before, stale memories of the past.... she marched me straight off to the intelligence office. there was nothing for me, but i signed up and am to be there at eight in the morning. and now, unless i stop, i shall fall asleep and out of my chair and dash my brains out on the deviled-ham carpet. the laboring classes keep early hours. g--n-- j. thereafter the bulletins came thick and fast to hope house, always to the two of them together, now addressed to miss ellis and then to the irishman. the second followed swiftly on the heels of the first. _the next night._ i went early to the intelligence office. (_intelligence!_) the other judy o'gradys and i sat in waiting while our sisters under the skin, the colonel's ladies, looked us over. i registered for nursery governess, mother's help, second maid, or companion, with mrs. mussel and the s.f. for reference, but to-day all the cry for help was for kitchen mechanics! when i reported my empty net to mrs. mussel on returning, she emitted a little desolate cluck. she foresees her christian room rent overdue, poor thing. the kind little s.f. dropped in and bade me be of good cheer. she's a brick, and i feel so guiltily aware of tricking her. i tried to lure my landlady out to a movie, but she thriftily refused. she was watching at the window when i came home to-night and just at the steps i dropped my five cents' worth of literature and a man who was passing picked it up for me. he glanced at the page as he handed it back and grinned, "that's a great little old story!" and i agreed cordially, "it sure is!" and thanked him and ran up the steps. i wish you could have seen my landlady's face. i thought at first i would be sent to bed without my supper. when it comes to your sex, michael daragh, her slogan is--"run, daughter, the indians are upon us!" g--n-- j. it was several days, then, before they heard again from her, and emma ellis secretly considered that miss vail was without doubt giving up and coming home, but michael daragh found himself angrily anxious. but the letter was reassuring. _on the job._ dear people, edna miles is nursery governess to the two small offspring of mrs. arnold laney, an opulent, hard-finished lady who cleverly found the one pearl in the oyster bed, meaning me, this morning. i dashed thankfully home and almost jolted mrs. mussel out of her gloom, bought two gingham dresses for mornings and hied me to my new home. i have a cot in the nursery and one bureau drawer and two hooks in the closet and wrath in my heart, but the kiddies want a story now and i must stop. they are sallow, fretty, plain little things, but i'm conscientiously liking them as hard as ever i can. the work shouldn't be hard, and i have forty a month and three hours every thursday afternoon and every other sunday. i don't like my missus very much, but the master of the house is a typical t.b.m., only i should say, from my brief glimpse, that things at home make him _tireder_ than his business does. i eat with the children in the breakfast room and the food is rather awful. however, the game is young. wish me luck, old dears! it was eight days before another letter came, and then it was headed---- _back in my christian room!_ my dears, here i am! i lasted just exactly one week. but i don't care. i didn't wait to be fired--i went off--spontaneous combustion. i did my honest best at first. it was a horrible house, spilling over with fretful people and fretful things. there wasn't a cool space to hang your eye on anywhere on the walls; you had to make your way through the furniture and bric-a-brac as through traffic. the food, save when there were guests, was wretched. the other servants--a cross cook and a sharp-tongued second-girl--were inefficient and lazy and quarrelsome. the father was a dim, infrequent person who hardly registered on the family film at all. he looked overworked and underfed and the only time i ever heard him speak with any vigor was the night before i left, when he was vehemently insisting (their room was just across the hall from the nursery) that they simply had to cut down expenses, and she was just as vehemently maintaining that it couldn't be done. and the children! if any one had told me, eight days ago, that there were two children loose in the land that i could not love, i should have done battle. the boy was the sort of little boy who makes you feel that herod had the right idea, and the girl was the sort of little girl who makes you feel it was a pity to stop with the slaughter of the male infant. it was the last day of my week. the youngsters and i had had a bad breakfast and a skimpy, cold luncheon, and i was bidden to dress them in their fussiest best and bring them in at the tag end of mrs. laney's bridge afternoon. they were just sitting down to tea as i came in. tea! i was absolutely hungry after the long succession of miserable meals, ready to recite "only three grains of corn, mother," with moving gestures, and the sallow little wretches beside me were clear cases of malnutrition. well, there were three kinds of delectable sandwiches and consommé with whipped cream and chocolate with whipped cream and an opulent salad and wonderful little cakes--four kinds--and candy and salted nuts. my mouth watered and i know my nostrils quivered. first, i blush to say, i thought of hungry me, and then i thought of the undernourished children, and then i thought of the badly fed and badly cared for and badly treated husband, and i looked over the other eight or ten women and catalogued them at once as mrs. laney's type, and suddenly i decided to give myself a treat. i reached calmly over and selected a handful of sandwiches and cakes and gave them to the youngsters and sent them up to the nursery, and then, my dears, with what solid satisfaction you cannot possibly guess, i told my mistress exactly what i thought of her. she was aghast and scared; she thought i was a maniac, a desperate fanatic. "edna, edna," she gasped, "be quiet! my guests--these ladies----" "ladies! _ladies!_" i pounced on it. "do you know what 'ladies' means? of course you don't,--you're much too ignorant. it means--'loaf-givers', providers, dispensers of bounty, care-takers, home-makers. you--all of you--with your lazy, thick bodies trussed into your straight fronts and your fat feet crammed into bursting pumps and your idle hands blazing with jewels" (i know i was bromidic there, but my phillipic was too swift to be polished) "and your empty heads dyed and marcelled, you're not loaf-givers,--you're not givers at all, you're takers! you're loafers--cumberers of the earth--fat slugs, that's what you are, each and every one of you! _you_"--i pointed to mrs. laney--"you don't even see that your children are properly fed! you don't make home livable, let alone lovable for your husband, and at this moment"--i swept the feast with a fierce and baleful eye--"you're a thief!" she shrieked at that and all the women got to their feet. it was as if i'd thrown a bomb--and i daresay they thought i might at any instant. "a thief," i said, "takes what doesn't belong to him, and this doesn't belong to you! you're deep in debts,--bills that your poor, harassed husband cannot pay!"--and before she could emit the furious words on her lips--"oh, no, you're not going to discharge me! you can't, for i've left already! i wouldn't stay another night in your wretched house, i wouldn't eat another of your wretched meals. you may keep my week's wage. i wish you'd buy the children beefsteak with it but i've no doubt it will go for cocktails and henna!" then, while they gasped and jibbered with rage and got behind each other and shook in their bulging pumps, i turned on my heel and made a stunning exit, gathered up my belongings and came away. there was no welcome on mrs. mussel's mat, but i'm still glowing. aren't you both immensely pleased with me? i am with myself! j. chapter xiv _the next night._ my dears, you know, the woman who runs the stupidity bureau didn't think me a heroine at all! quitting your job at the end of the first week, going off explosively, as i did, doesn't endear the honest working girl to the management. it simply isn't done. she was so frigid that i decided to scratch domestic labor from my list. i shall join the gainful army in the busy marts. mrs. mussel telephoned to the stranger's friend and the kind little s.f. bustled right out and took me to a stereopticon lecture on the bee. subtle, wasn't it? treatment by indirection. and she gave me a note to a department store which will probably take me on. meanwhile, g--n-- j. _next night._ they did, dear people, they did. in the basement. in the kitchen ware. all day long i was learning to sell clothespins and eggbeaters and wringers and cookie cutters and i wish you could see my hands! i wonder if they'd consider me up stage if i wore gloves? i'd better not chance it. they were all ever so decent about helping me. the floorwalker was especially kind. (i can see you fling up your head like a warhorse at the smell of powder, emma ellis, but he's a meek young thing who likes to burble of his baby.) but i'm a woman of my word and this chronicle is faithful and true. coming home on the l, i saw the beamish buffalo, and he saw me and plunged to me through the crowd, saying gleefully, "say, girlie, i've thought of you a million times, and i--say, listen, i got in awful dutch with the wife about you, and she said"--but i slipped nimbly into my local and the door slapped shut between us. your heroines, emma, were not so light on their feet. but i honestly felt mean,--he did look so friendly and fat. i'm to have eight a week in my basement. mrs. mussel gets five of it and the rest i may waste in riotous living. good night! jane. _three nights later._ dear m.d. and e.e., please dash downtown and have a million service medals struck off and then rush around and pin them on all the shop girls in the world! the unutterable weariness--the aching, burning, sagging, sickening, faint _tiredness_! if ever again, as long as i live, i'm cross to a saleswoman, no matter how cross she may be to me, then may god send a sudden angel down to grasp me by the hair and bear me far and drop me into the kitchen ware on eight a week and my throbbing feet! jane. _saturday night._ my dears, i'm turned off. after all the trying and enduring and the dead-tiredness, i'm turned off. the kind little floorwalker hated to do it. "say, listen, sister," he said, "it's like this. we gotter let somebuddy go. holidays comin', people ain't goin' to buy kitchen ware. sure they ain't. plug up th' leakin' kettle an' buy mummer th' rhinestone combs! well, you're the last to come, see? you gotter be the first to go." i bought mrs. mussel a shrinking bunch of violets to soften the blow, but she wondered if i couldn't get my money back (_her_ money she figures, poor thing!) if i hurried right downtown with them and explained that i'd changed my mind. heavens, but we had a horrible supper. very down indeed, jane. _monday night._ dear people, i'm doing my best to uplift mrs. mussel, but she's the undisputed queen of all the glooms and my sprightly efforts fall on stony ground. for her peace of mind i divulged the fact that i have nearly thirty dollars left which makes me really a capitalist, but in her eyes i am simply an unemployed. i rush into the house glowing and braced from a brisk walk but my cheer soon gutters out,--i might as well try to illuminate a london fog with a christmas tree candle. i try to help her with her errands and marketing and to-day i was staggering home under a load of parcels and slipped on the glassy pavement just in front of the house and fell flat. a smart motor which was spinning by slid to a standstill and the driver jumped out and ran back to me. he was a beautiful big youth and the machine was one of those low, classy, dachshund effects in mauve. the maiden's dream picked me up and all my packages and looked us all over to make sure we weren't damaged. one of the parcels contained liver, and it became unwrapped.... (dost like the picture, jane vail bearing home the liver for her frugal evening meal?) he did it up very deftly and then he asked me if he couldn't give me a lift. i said he certainly could but for the fact that i was already arrived at my destination. then he said, "i'll give you a hand with the plunder, then. which house?"--and the maiden's dream and the liver and i mounted mrs. mussel's steps together. he was as big and bonny as the impossible young persons in the backs of magazines, and he said it was tough weather to be walking and i said it was tough weather to be out of a job, and he said that was tough luck. (see how i gave him an opening, e.e.?) i thanked him and he said it was nothing and sped down to his speedster and i went in to my christian room. mrs. mussel had been doing her regular sister anne act at the window and had "seen it all," she assured me ... i will omit her phillipic.... jane. _wednesday._ still no gainful occupation, people! compared to her present attitude, mrs. mussel was jest and youthful jollity before. and the blacker things get the earlier we rise. it seems to me that no sooner have i fitted myself compactly into my doll's-size bed and closed my eyes than i hear her mournful summons to another day. oh, the inky gloom of these murky mornings! i know that the young woman who said so lyrically, "_if you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear!_" is popularly supposed to have died without issue, but that is a misconception. i shrink from putting a spoon river scandal on her mossy tombstone, but my mrs. mussel is her lineal descendant. to-day i was racked by a yearning for the flesh-pots. i made myself as near smart as possible and flew for the smartest tea-room on michigan avenue. if i could stay me with orange pekoe and comfort me with toasted crumpets and english marmalade--but just as i was blithely footing it across the threshold the s.f. rose up behind me like a genie from a bottle and plucked me back. "edna miles," she gasped, "my poor child, you can't eat in there! it's the most expensive place in the city. besides,--it is half-past four,--you'll spoil your dinner!" _very_ peevishly and hollowly, jane. _thursday night. on the joyful new job._ oh, my dear people, but i do believe in fairies! i've met one personally! while we sat at melancholy mending this morning, my doleful landlady and i, after my fruitless tour of the agencies, who should dash up to our dull door but the maiden's dream! in his shining chariot! mrs. mussel said, "edna, you go straight upstairs and lock yourself in your room and _i'll_ 'tend to him!" but i was at the door before he had time to ring the bell. "great luck," he said, "'fraid you'd be gone. got a job yet?" "no." "well, i was telling my sister about you, and she thinks she has just the place for you. want to hop in the boat and run out to see her now and talk it over?" mrs. mussel said of course he hadn't any sister, and that i ought to be ashamed of myself and i would probably never be seen or heard of again, and she knew he had a poison needle and she rang up the stranger's friend, but before she got her connection i was spinning up the north shore. the maiden's dream lives in a young palace and miss marjorie, his sister, is also peter pan's sister. he explained to me, as we went, that she had been thrown from her horse and would never walk again, and so she "did things for girls, you know--keeps her busy----" she looks exactly like a fra angelico angel! she kept me to luncheon in her room with her--oh, flesh-pots!--hot broth and tiny chops and pop-overs and magic salad and chocolate and ginger-bread--and told me about this extraordinary job. then the maiden's dream whizzed me home for my things (i found mrs. m. and the s.f. holding an agitated directors' meeting), but when the s.f. heard miss marjorie's last name, she beamed and brought me out here. miss marjorie explained that i'm to be more or less of a maid-companion to my pretty little mistress. she's a limp and lovely nymph who's quarreled with her husband and is in hiding in this funny old house which belonged to her family, in a weird neighborhood where none of her own set would ever discover her. the house is comfortable enough inside, but the locality is a rather rough one, and there is not even a telephone. there is a cook and a cleaner-by-the-day, and the new maid-companion, so she should be reasonably well looked after. whoops, my dears! fifty dollars a month and almost nothing to do! this is the promised land! joyfully, jane. _monday._ dear people, the cook is cross because she drinks and she drinks because she is cross, and i have persuaded my nymph to let her go and give me a try at it. the cleaner-by-the-day will do the grubby things and i shall like it. time to get luncheon! wish you might drop in to sample my fare! jane. p.s. there is the most engaging grocery boy with red hair and a heart-twisting grin. i'm not sure i wasn't considering him when i turned kitchen mechanic. denny dolan is his name and god loves the irish! j. _wednesday._ it's fun, my dears, every inch of it, from my little lady's breakfast tray to denny's extra trips with things he "forgot." she wanted to give me the cook's wages in addition to mine, because she says i do all the work of both places, but i modestly compromised on seventy-five and on my first day out i'm going to take mrs. mussel a regal present. opulently, jane. _friday._ my dear people, my nymph is ill and unhappy and grieving for her husband, but she won't send for him, and it's the time of all times when he should be with her. i went the five blocks to the drug store and telephoned miss marjorie about her, and she sent the old family doctor, and when he left her eyes were red, and i suppose he was urging her to make it up. she's such a vague, sweet, helpless thing! this dreary neighborhood is bad for her. denny dolan says "there's a hard-boiled bunch hangin' around here," and warns me against venturing out after dark, even to the post-box. jane. p.s. he brought me a paper bag of gum drops to-day! _a week later._ almost too busy to write, my dears, what with cooking and catering and maiding and companioning. besides, i'll have you to know i'm keeping company! it's walking out with denny dolan i am! i get the cleaning woman to stay with my nymph for an hour, and i'm stepping out with my young man. twice to the movies we've been, and had dripping ice-cream cones afterwards! so no more at present, for a girl would be thinking of her beau the way she has no time to be palavering on paper and he waiting in the alley! denny's girl. _the next night._ i went into town to-day and i met the buffalo just as i was leaving a loop car, and it seemed only the fair and sporting thing to let him speak to me. he beamed more beamishly than ever. "say, listen, girlie," he said, "i've had the deuce of a time, losin' you every time i find you! say, i was startin' to tell you the other day,--the wife gimme fits when i told her about you. sure, she did." i stood very still and looked at him and listened. "yeah. calls me a big boob. 'you big boob,' she says. 'you sleeper! her tellin' you she was a stranger and all that, and lookin' for work, an' you never give her my address!' honest, she trimmed me for fair. i got to beat it now, but here's her card, see?--telephone'n everything, and she wants you to call her up. she wants to have you out to dinner, aggie does, and have you meet some of her lady friends and get you acquainted. say, ring her up, will you, sure? gee, she was some sore at the old man! bye!" he leaped into his express, and vanished, and i could have sat down in the midst of the scurrying crowd and wept with shame and joy and gratitude. i rang aggie up at once, and i could just _see_ her, from her cozy voice. how about it, emma ellis? do i score? i'm dining with them soon. jane. p.s.--do you realize that my month is up? and my point is won? but i'm going to stay on and see my nymph safely through her dark days. _a week later._ denny and i went to see "twin hearts" this evening and in the meltingest part of the film he held my hand. i thought it was about time to unmask, so i said--retrieving my hand--that i wasn't a regular kitchen mechanic but a volunteer. "my real job," i said, "is writing. i'm a writer." "sure you are!" he chuckled delightedly. "you'n me both! i wrote this spiel here! i'm henry w. dickens!" i couldn't seem to convince him of anything but that i was "some little kidder." he undertook to tell the world about that. to-morrow, in the garish light of day, when he dumps his neat parcels on my spotless table, i must really explain that---- _the next afternoon._ dear e.e. and m.d., i'm perished for sleep, but i'll write what i can. just as i got to "that" above, my nymph called me. she was ill,--terribly, terrifyingly ill, and even i saw that there wasn't an instant to lose. and not a soul to send to the telephone. i couldn't leave her--but i had to leave her! it didn't enter my head to be afraid--only of not getting the doctor in time. denny's warnings were forgotten. i had done one block of the five when a man stepped out of a dark hallway, and halted in front of me. even then, until he spoke, i wasn't really frightened. but when he did,--i tell you, emma ellis and michael daragh, all the horror and wickedness, all the filth and sin of the world seemed to be closing in on me, stifling me, blinding me, hobbling my feet. all the windows about me were blank and black; a block and a half ahead of me was a blaze of light--boldini's saloon--"a rotten bad one," denny had said. i ran, oh, how i ran, but he ran, too, faster, faster. i tried to reach out for something to cling to--for a shield--just fragments came--"_angels charge over thee ... snare of the fowler ... terror by night_...." we were almost at boldini's saloon, and i couldn't run any faster, and twice he had caught hold of my arm.... suddenly another fragment came--"_in all thy ways_ ..." _all!_ i ran through the swinging doors into the saloon, out of the horrid, dark night into the horrid light, and i stumbled and went down onto my knees and pulled myself up by the bar, and i heard my voice--"men--men--_please_--i was going to the drug store to telephone--a woman is sick--a baby--she's all alone there--and this man--this man--" i hung onto the edge of the bar and everything spun dizzily round with me, but i saw three men bolt through the door and fall upon him. michael daragh, i suppose some day i can remember with horror how they beat him, but i can't now. i can't be sorry for him. i can't be anything but gloatingly glad. they were drunk, all of them, but when they finished with him they escorted me to the drug store, one on each side and one marching on before and banged up the night man and while i telephoned the doctor they waited for me, and then they took me home. i wanted to scream with laughter--they couldn't walk straight, two of them--and i wanted more to cry,--"_angels charge over thee_--" they were! i shook hands with them and thanked them, and they mounted guard outside the house and i flew in to my lady. well, presently the doctor came, and then the nurse came, and then roderick frost iii came, a frantic young man with penitent eyes, and presently roderick frost _iv_ came, a bad-tempered young tenor who protested lustily at being born in a spot so far removed from his own rightful social orbit, and then morning came, and i fell into bed for three hours of sodden sleep. now the haughty chef from the lake shore drive is here, taking royal charge, and edna miles' job is over. i'm going to see little miss marjorie and 'fess up, and take farewell of mrs. mussel and my kind s.f., and then, my dears, i'm coming home,--home with palms of victory. haven't i won, emma ellis? haven't i won, michael daragh? do you dare to count the one exception that gloriously proved the rule? didn't my three unsteady angels more than make up for one poor devil? nearly six weeks alone in the wide, cold world, dozens of kindly conductors and policemen and l guards and clerks and fellow citizens, the kind little floorwalker and denny dolan, and the beamish buffalo and the maiden's dream, and my three avenging knights! own up, old dears! admit you're beaten! i have walked _the narrow path_ and found it clean and safe and good! triumphantly--gloatingly-- jane. chapter xv it would be the private opinion of emma ellis to her dying day that miss vail had suppressed a good deal and had embellished a good deal, in that dramatic way of hers. she had written so much fiction and lived so much in her imagination that it was doubtful if she could (with the best intentions) tell the exact and unadorned truth about anything. besides, even if things had happened exactly as she had chronicled them, it was not a fair test anyway; it was a very different case from those of the heroines in the two stories. jane vail knew she was jane vail, with an assured position in the literary world and a large income, and that the whole thing was only play-acting after all. but with mr. daragh entirely convinced and more maudlinly worshipful than ever, what was the use of saying anything? but she could _think_. jane swung happily into her fourth year in new york, flying home to sarah farraday for christmas, meeting the young year with high hopes and canny plans, a definite part, now, of the confraternity of ink. her circle widened and widened; important persons came down from their heights of achievement to make much of her, and the late spring saw the successful launching of another gay little play, and early fall found her deep--head, hands, and heart--in her first serious novel, but she found amazing margins of time for rodney harrison, for hope house, for michael daragh. sarah farraday, resigned but never reconciled, shared vicariously in the life-more-abundantly which had come to her best friend, and she always said, with a small sigh, that nothing jane did or said could ever surprise her again, but she was nevertheless startled, after a long silence, to receive a fat letter bearing a mexican stamp. _on a meandering train, bound, more or less for guadalajara_, it began, and was dated december the seventh. sally dear, you must be thinking me quite mad at last, not hearing from me for weeks, and then--this! like the old woman in the fairy tale,--"can this be i?" i decided all in a wink to fly to california and visit my mother's cousins, the budders. i needed a drastic change, sally. i haven't had a real play-time for a year, and it's four years and a month since i left home for new york--can you realize it? four lucky, beautiful, shining years. but oh, i'm tired, old dear! so tired that my brain creaks. i think there comes a time, in creative work, for playing hooky. write and run away and live to write another day. so i wired the budders i was coming and took the train the same day, and when i reached san francisco i found them all packed up for this mexican trip,--indeed, they were sitting on their trunks with a tentative ticket for me in their hands. and i was pleased pink to come. the budders (doesn't budder sowd as if i ad a code id by ed?) are nice, comfortable creatures,--the sort who are called the salt of the earth but in reality aren't anything so piquant. they're the boiled potatoes and graham bread and rice pudding. you, now, sally darling, are the angel cake, and there's not half enough of you; i'm the olives and anchovies and caviar ... a little goes a long way ... and michael daragh is the rich and creamy milk of human kindness, always being skimmed by a needy, greedy world. behold me, then, ambling through mexico, a spanish phrase book in my lap and peace in my heart. _adiós!_ jane. p.s. i have just read this over, sarah. fiction of purest ray serene. i'm not tired. i don't need to play. it was a very bad time for me to leave,--my work screamed after me all across the continent. i had to fly for my life and liberty. sally, friend of my youth, patient receptacle of all my moods and tenses, i was falling in love. at least, i felt myself slipping. all these four years i have intended michael daragh to be an interesting character part in my drama of new york, down in the cast as "her best friend." he is threatening to take the lead, and it isn't going to do at all. sally, the man's goodness is simply ghastly; i couldn't endure having a husband so incontestibly better than i am. why, you know that all my life i've been "a wonderful influence for good" with _man_kind! didn't i always coax sling shots away from bad little boys and make them sign up for the s.p.c.a.? and wasn't i always getting bad big boys to smoke less and drink less and pass ex'es and dance with wallflowers and write to their mothers? really, when i think of the twigs i've bent and the trees i've inclined, i feel that there should be a tablet erected to me somewhere. but the woman who weds michael daragh, i don't care who she is (lie: i care enormously!) will always be burning incense to him in her lesser soul, always straining on tiptoe to breathe the air in which he lives and moves and has his being. michael daragh, that time he renounced the flesh-pots and "took to bride the ladye povertye with perfect blithenesse," did it so thoroughly that any literal spouse will be only a sort of morganatic wife, anyway. i don't mean that he might not adore her and be wonderful to her _after_ he'd ministered unto a drove of sticky immigrants and a settlement full of drab down-and-outs and an agnes chatterton home full of fallen sisters, but he would really expect her to _prefer_ having him assist at the arrival of the eleventh little lascanowitz in a moldy cellar to keeping a birthday dinner date with her. now, sally dear, in these four years since i left my village home (soft chords) i have labored somewhat, and i confess that i have frankly looked forward to matrimony as a sort of glorified vacation. i couldn't ever give up my work, of course,--it wouldn't give me up--and i don't crave to "sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam and live upon strawberries, sugar and cream" exclusively, but somewhere in the middle ground between that and washing dishes and "feeding the swine," i did visualize a sort of gracious lady leisure, with a vague, worshipful being in the background making me "take care of myself." therefore, feeling myself melting unduly on the irish question, i fly while there is yet time. much love, old dear! jane. _december th._ that was a silly screed, yesterday, sally dearest, but getting it off my chest was a great relief. and at that it wasn't a complete confession. there was another reason for a strategic retreat. the other reason was rodney harrison. yes, the house of harrison has capitulated, handsomely, lavishly, mater and pater as well, but i'm very sure that i can never be theirs. just as i feel that michael daragh is too good for me, so do i feel that rodney harrison is not quite good enough! i mean by that not quite concerned enough with drying the world's tears. with--as g.b.s. says--"a character that needs looking after as much as my own," i feel i should have some one a little less philistine than the cheerful rodney. at any rate, i needed perspective on the whole situation, and who knows but i shall meet my nice new fate on this romantic pilgrimage? (sounds more like eighteen than twenty-eight, doesn't it?) but, seriously, i've been so constantly with michael daragh and rodney in these four years that i know every dip and spur, every line and leaf of their mental scenery; fresh fields and pastures new are what i need. and "one meets so many delightful people in traveling--" as witness the good budders and their niece, miss vail ('sh ... they say she's a _writer_!) something, which is to say, some_body_, may turn up at any moment. yours, micawber-ing, j. p.s. i trust you won't expect to glean any useful information or statistics about mexico from these chronicles? the budders are deep in histories and guidebooks but i know not whether the _chichimecs_ were people or pottery and i hope i never shall! p.s. ii. cousin dudley, having just returned from the smoker, reports chatting with a most interesting young civil engineer---- _december th._ we are now so late, sally dear, that we have lost all social standing; we slink into sidings and wait in shame for prompt and proper trains to bustle by. but i don't mind. at this rate i shall be able to converse rippingly in spanish by the time we reach guadalajara. cousin dudley knows a professor person there who will help us to plan our trip. spanish is deliciously easy. it seems rather silly to make it a regular study in our schools. i adore the stations, especially at night,--black velvet darkness studded with lanterns and torches and little leaping fires; old blind minstrels whining their ballads; the mournful voices of the sweetmeat venders chanting--"_dulce de morelia!_"--"_cajeta de celaya!_" these candies, by the way, are the most---- _december th._ alas, _muy_ sally _mia_, when i meant to add a few paragraphs to this letter diary every day! i was interrupted just there by cousin dudley who came in with his civil engineer, and there hasn't seemed to be any spare time since. (how is that for a demonstration of mr. burroughs' well-known theory about folding your hands and waiting and having your own come to you?) he is an _extremely_ civil engineer and very easy to look at. he has close-cropped, bronzy brown hair and gentian-blue eyes and his skin is burned to a glowing copper luster. he is just idling about, slaying time during a vacation too brief to warrant his going home to virginia, and he shows strong symptoms of willingness to act as guide, philosopher and friend to wandering touri. we are actually going to reach guadalajara tomorrow! some one must be giving us a tow. _adiós, muy amiga mía!_ juana. p.s. the c.e. is going to hear my spanish lesson now. p.s. ii. isn't netzahualcoyotl a cunning word? _guadalajara, december th._ querida sarita, we sight-saw all morning in this lovely, languid, ladylike city, and this afternoon we called on cousin dudley's friend, professor morales and his family. they were expecting us and as our _coche_ drew up at the curb, the door flew open and _el profesor_ flew out, seized cousin ada's hand, held it high, and led her into the house, minuet fashion. the _señora_, a mountainous lady with a rather striking mustache and the bosom of her black gown sprinkled with a snow fall of powder which couldn't find even standing room on her face, conducted cousin dudley in the same manner, and i fell to the lot of a beautiful youth. the _sala_ was crazy with what-nots and knick-knacks and bamboo furniture and running over with people--plump, furrily powdered _señoritas_ with young mustaches, cherubs with gazelle eyes and weak-coffee-colored skin, and the oldest woman ever seen out of a pyramid. there was an agonizing time getting us all introduced and a still more agonizing time of stage wait afterward. then cousin dudley (i thirsted for his gore) said chirpily, "my niece has learned to speak spanish, you know." my dear, it made the tower of babel seem like "going into the silence." everybody in that room talked to me at once. in my frantic boast and foolish word about the easiness of spanish it had never occurred to me that people would talk to _me_! if the fiends had only held their tongues and let _me_ ask _them_ to have the kindness to do me the favor to show me which way was the cathedral, or whether it was the silk handkerchief of the rich frenchman which the young lady's old sick father required, all would have been well, but instead--a madhouse! then came rescue. the sweetest, softest pussy willow of a girl with a delicious accent said, "so deed i also feel, in the conevent, when they all at once spik _inglés_!" she was in pearl gray, no powder, no mustache, slim as a reed. her gentle name is maria de guadalupe rosalia merced castello, but they call her "lupe" ("loopie," sally, not loop!) she is a penniless orphan, just visiting her kin at present, but lives with an uncle in guanajuato (where delves my c.e. at his mine) and she is in disgrace because of an undesirable love affair, so the _señora_ told cousin ada. they are taking us to the _plaza_ to-night, and meanwhile we sup. delightedly, jane. p.s. . p.m. the _plaza_ is still the parlor in guadalajara and it's enchanting! the staid background of the chaperones in _coches_, the slow procession of youths and maidens, two and two, boys in one line, girls in another, the eager, forward looks, the whisper at passing, the note slipped from hand to hand, the backward glances, all classes, and over all, through all, the pleading, pulsing call of the music. sarah, never did you make melody like that, decent new englander that you are! it's so poignantly searching-sweet, so _sin verguenza_ (without shame!) _el profesor_ had them play _la golondrina_, their national anthem, really, which means merely the swallow, to start with, but everything else a hungry heart can pack into it. lupe and i walked together and she was pouring out her dewy young confidences before we'd been twice round the circle. montagues and capulets! the rich uncle who has reared her is the bitterest enemy of her emilo's papa who is a general of revolutionary tendencies. "me," she said with a shrug, "i can never marry! _vestiré los santos!_" (which means, "i shall dress the saints!" old maids having unlimited time for church work!) _buenas noches_, j. _december th._ dearest sally, the loveliest idea came and sat on my chest in the pearly dawn! i'm going to take maría de guadalupe rosalía merced castello with me on this tour as spanish teacher! she accepted with tears of joy and the morales family bore up bravely. they will be frankly glad of a few nights' sleep,--lupe's gallants come nightly to "make a serenade,"--not a lone guitar but the tenor from the opera house and a piano trundled through the streets. the more costly the musical ingredients, the greater the swain's devotion! to-day we went with various members of the morales clan to visit the _hospicio_ (see the budders for dates and data!). i only remember a girl of twelve who sat by herself in the playground, the small, cameo, clear face with its sorrowing eyes, the pathetic arrogance in the lift of the chin, her withdrawal from the other noisy little orphans. i knew she must have a story, and when i asked the pretty sister in charge, she burst into eager narrative. twelve years ago, approximately, a young physician was called at night to the _peon_ quarter, and to his amazement found that his patient was a lady, a girl whose patrician manner was proof against all her terror and suffering. she utterly refused to look at her child and threatened to smother it if he left it within her reach. he took it to the _hospicio_ to be cared for temporarily, and a few days later, going as usual to attend the young mother, he found her vanished. there was a lavish fee left for him, and a note, bidding him insolently to banish the whole matter from his memory. the neighbors knew only that they had heard a _coche_ in the dead of night. the child, whom they named in their mournful fashion dolores tristeza--sorrows and sadness--was always the doctor's protegée. one day he came in great excitement to tell the pretty sister the sequel. he had been summoned the night before to the bedside of a dying man,--one of the great names of the city. the family was grouped about the father and among the weeping daughters he espied his mysterious patient! afterward, when he was leaving, she looked him squarely in the eye and said, "you are a newcomer in guadalajara? you must be, for _i have never seen you before_!" he told no one but the sister at the _hospicio_ and not even to her did he divulge the name, but two days later, in a lonely suburb of the city, he was shot and killed. sarah, doesn't that make your scalp creep? dolores tristeza! "sorrows and sadness!" i dashed out and bought her a gorgeous doll and she gave me a gracious smile but she was not at all overcome. she clearly feels her quality. loads of people have wanted to adopt her but she would never go with them. and to-morrow we are off to querétaro to drop a silent tear on maximilian's dressy little tomb, the budders, lupe, the c.e. and i. we are gathering as we roll! _adíos, querida mia!_ j. _queretaro._ i've paid proper tribute to that poor pawn of empire who lived so poorly and who died so well, but the real zest of this journey is lupe! fresh every hour! her mental processes are delicious. i was lamenting her frank delight in bull-fights and she said, "oh, the firs' time i see horse keel,' i am ver' seek. _now_ they keel four, seven, eleven horse,' i like ver' moach!" when i tried to make her realize the enormity of her taste, she turned on me like a flash--"but you american girl, you go see you' brawther get keel' in football game!" "pussy willow," i said, "it's not a parallel case. our brothers are free agents,--they adore doing it. they're toiling and sweating and praying for the chance--perhaps for years,--and they're heroes, and thousands are making the welkin ring with their names!" she shrugged. "oh--_eef_ you care more for some ol' horse than you' _brawther_----" the c.e. (although he could dispense with her society very cheerfully) helps me to understand her, and through her, mexico, this sad, bad, pitiful, charming, lovable, hateful land! lupe's emilio is by way of being a poet, it seems, and he has sent her a little song, which we have translated, and i put it into rhyme, and the c.e.--who has a very decorative voice indeed--hums it to a lonesome little tune distantly related to la golondrina. here it is: "thro' the uncolored years before i knew you my days were just a string of wooden beads; i told them dully off, a weary number ... the silly cares, the foolish little needs. "but now and evermore, because i've known you, they've turned to precious pearls and limpid jade, clear amethysts as deep as seas eternal, and heart's-blood rubies that will never fade. "you never knew, and now you never will know; some joys are given; mine were only lent. you see, i do not reckon years or distance; somewhere i know you _are_; i am content. "i do not need your pity or your presence to bridge the widening gulf of now and then; it is enough for me to know my jewels can never turn to wooden beads again." of course, to be tiresomely exact, he's _always_ known her, and she is entirely aware of his devotion, and he can reckon the time and distance quite easily with the aid of a time-table, but, as the c.e. says, "it listens well." off to la ciudad de mexico in the morning! _con todo mi corazon_, jane. p.s. i might remark in passing that it's a perfectly good _corazon_ again, sane and sound and whole, and summons only dimly a memory of new york.... _mexico city._ sarah, my dear, i've given up trying to date my letters. i've lost count of time. we've been here for many golden days and silver nights, in a land of warm eyes and soft words, where _peons_ take off their _sombreros_ and step aside to let my grace pass, and murillo beggar boys are named--"florentino buenaventura, awaiting your commands!" we sight-see so ardently that lazy little lupe says she is "tired until her bones!" and when she surrenders, we go on alone, the c.e. and i. (oh, yes, the budders are still with us, but they are keener on facts than fancies, and we deign but seldom to go with them and improve our minds.) yesterday, however, we consented to see diaz' model prison. my dear, after seeing how the people live at large, one is convinced that here the wages of sin are sanitation and education. i should think ex-convicts would be hugely in demand for all sorts of positions. in the parlor we were fascinated with a display of the skulls of prisoners who had been executed there. i saw one small, round, innocent-looking one which couldn't possibly have ever contained a harsh thought, i was sure, and i indignantly read the tag to see what he had been martyred for. sarah, the busy boy had done twenty-one ladies to death! we listen to melting music in the alameda, we ride in the fashion parade in the calle san francisco, we drive out along the beautiful paseo de la reforma and drink chocolate in the shadow of the castle of chapultepec--chocolate made with cinnamon and so rich and sweet it almost bends the spoon to stir it. miss vail remembers with difficulty that she is the heir of all the ages in the foremost files of time, a self-supporting young business woman who beats bright thoughts from a typewriter four earnest hours per diem ... or that she was.... _hoy_--to-day, is very satisfying; i forget _ayer_--yesterday; _mañana_--to-morrow, may never come! juana. _christmas eve, cuernavaca._ _felisces pascuas_, sally dear! you in the snow and i in fairyland! it's a comic opera christmas here, but a very fetching one,--the pretty processions of singing children through the streets, the gay, grotesque _piñatis_--huge paper dolls filled with _dulces_, the childish and merry little people, the color, the music, the smile and the sob of it all! i wish i could have little dolores tristeza with me. i sent her a box of delights. my pussy willow girl is star-eyed over a telegram and my much more than civil engineer has told me what he wants for christmas. if he had told me on fifth avenue or at home, on wetherby ridge, i should have said at once that i was sorry, and i liked him immensely, and so on, but--but here, in cuernavaca, in the borda gardens, beside the crumbling pinky palace, where the ghosts of maximilian and carlotta walk at the full of the moon, when he told me that all his days were wooden beads before i came, and--i don't know, sally! i don't know! new york seems very far away ... rodney harrison and my st. michael seem palely unreal.... can it be possible, in these gay little weeks, that, as lupe would say, "i have arrive'" to love this boy? distractedly, jane. chapter xvi _orizaba._ my dear sally, in the market place to-day i found such a bored old bear dancing for a bored crowd. i've never seen anything quite so tired and patient as his eyes. his little old master was half asleep but he whacked his tambourine and whined his mournful song without a pause. i left lupe and the c.e. and went out and patted the bear and asked the man (i am as handy as that with my spanish!) how much he earned in a day. less than fifteen cents in our money! well, i asked him if i could buy the bear a week's vacation if i paid him three weeks' earnings in advance. he accepted thankfully and i believe he will keep his word, being just as bored as the bear. the old beast came down on his four feet with a gusty sigh and they padded peacefully away. the crowd thought me mildly mad and the c.e. was a little annoyed with me. he said he would gladly have attended to it for me if i had asked him. i answered him very impertinently--something lupe had taught me--"_cuando tu vas, ya yo vengo!_" which means in crude english, "by the time you get started i'll be on the way back!" i purr with pleasure when i think of the bear! jane. p.s. one hopes it isn't a habit with him ... being a little annoyed.... _cordoba._ sally, dear, this isn't a comic opera country at all, but a land of grim melodrama; stark tragedy. we're here in the prettiest city, on the edge of the _tierra caliente_, but it's been a horrid day. it started wrong. an unsavory but beautiful cherub of eight or so, smoking a cigarette, tried to sell me a baby lizard. you remember how i've always loved lizards, but i couldn't take it on a day's sight-seeing so i gave him a copper and refused. he said in liquid spanish, "so, your grace will not buy my little lizard? very well! behold!"--and before my horrified eyes he held it to his cigarette and burned it to death before i could jump out of the machine and get to him. i suppose i'm tired out with all this rushing about, for i just went to pieces over it, and when lupe said sympathetically, "oh, deed you _want_ it?" it made me turn on her. i made the rest go on the drive without me and i sat down in the plaza alone to think things over. there was a little old fountain with a gurgling drip, and i rested in the ragged shade of the banana trees and heard two hours tinkled from the crumbling, creamy-colored cathedral, and came gradually to the point of understanding that the boy was just as much an object of pity as the lizard. i knew that michael daragh would say--there--that's the first time, even to myself---- well, i sat there, cooled and calmed, and presently i heard something and looked up to see two soldiers on horseback bringing a prisoner. his arms were bound behind him, and great, rough ropes ran from their saddles to his neck and the skin was rubbed raw. the horses were steaming; they must have come fast. another soldier went on to report or something and told them to wait there, and they were halted right by me. the man's mouth was open and his swollen tongue hanging out and he was panting just like a dog. he gasped, "_agua! por dios--agua!_" but his guards just laughed and shouted to the _pulquería_ across the street, and a boy came out and brought them drinks. their backs were toward me, and i got up without making a sound and crept to the fountain and filled the big iron cup to the brim and held it till he'd drained every drop, and then let him have a little more, and then i dipped my handkerchief in the water and put it in his mouth. and just at that very moment--of course!--the guards turned round and saw me, _and_ the budders and the c.e. and lupe drove up! my dear sarah, they very nearly arrested _me_! the man is, they claim, a dangerous revolutionist, and i was giving aid to him. lupe was shaking like a leaf and the c.e. was white as paper, but between them they got me off. i don't care! i'd do it again! it seems the whole country is simmering and seething in revolution; old diaz' throne is tottering under him. lupe was tearful over a wailing letter from her emilio, begging her to return, and the c.e. is recalled to his mine, and the budders are a little nervous and anxious to hurry northward, so we're off for guanajuato to-morrow, but i'm not very keen about it. i'm not very keen about anything. drearily, j. _two hours later._ p.s. we took a little _paseo_ in the moonlight and things looked brighter in the dark! the only reason the c.e. gets a little annoyed is that he cannot bear to see me in distress or danger. he was very nice about promising to help me smooth the path for _romeo_ and _juliet_. we pass through guadalajara and i'll run in to see dolores tristeza. j. _on the train to guanajuato._ sally, she came running to meet me and flung herself into my arms! the sister says she's never done that to any one before, and she told me the child had talked of me constantly. they're going to let me take her out for a whole day when we come back. she called "_hasta la vista!_"--and threw me a kiss. she has quite wiped out the lizard and the _insurrecto_. _later._ this is the most fascinating place yet! i'm glad the c.e. lives here, rather than in the cloying prettiness of the _tierra caliente_. it's great fun, arriving at a new place after dark. the town is high in the hills above the station and we came up in a mule car, rattling through the twisting, narrow streets. i sat near the driver, only his soft, bright eyes showing between his high-wrapped _serape_ and his low-drawn _sombrero_, and he told me that his mules were named constantino and the pine tree, faithful animals both of whom he tenderly loved. the few pedestrians scuttled into doorways or flattened themselves against the walls as we caromed past, and from time to time he blew a deafening blast on a crumpled horn. we stepped from the car straight into the office of the hotel, and then the c.e. and i set out with lupe to escort her to her uncle's house, but at the first dark turning she gave a smothered little scream and melted into the arms of a dusky cavalier. emilio, when he could spare the time to be introduced, proved something of a landscape,--large for a mexican, very much the patrician with his slim hands and feet and correct castilian manner. guanajuato is rather old-fashioned and he wears the high class, native costume, and when lupe is at home here, she always wears a _reboso_ instead of a hat. he is the son of so many revolutions, it must make him dizzy to remember them, but i like him and i mean to help him win his pearl maiden. he discreetly left us before we reached lupe's house and delivered her over to a very impressive blue-beardish sort of person who was very gracious to us and asked me to visit lupe. i shall,--it fits in perfectly with my plans! i go there to-morrow. meanwhile, i go to sleep! drowsily, jane. _at señor don diego's palacio._ sally, _mía_, how you'd adore this house! the floors are of dull-red tiles and they are massaged three times a day, and the whole thing is medieval in flavor,--a flock of velvet-voiced, dove-eyed servants who adore lupe and are pledged to her cause. old cristina, who was her mother's nurse, is to be our stoutest ally. every night for an hour emilio stands under her balcony "playing the bear." lupe, her face shrouded in her _reboso_, leans over and whispers. i hover in the background like _juliet's_ nurse. afterward the c.e., having ridden in from his mine, comes for me, and we sally forth in the night like the caliph and walk slowly up and down the street of sad children, where the music comes daintily to us, filtered through the trees. sometimes "emily," as the c.e. wickedly calls him, joins us, to talk of his two loves,--lupe, and mexico. sally, never laugh again at the mexican revolutions,--they're not funny, only pitiful. my chief task now is to infuse a quality of hope and--_ginger_--into these little lovers. sometimes their attitude of _dios no lo quiso_--heaven wills otherwise--makes me want to shake them, but slowly and surely i'm rousing them to action. to-day we visited the prison here ... not the show model of mexico city. this one is a hold-over from the dark ages. young and old, gentle and simple, murderers and thieving children--all herded in together. in the huge court, before pillars with chains, a _peon_ was mopping up some dark stains.... ugh! this is the broken heart of mexico where tears and blood are brewing. jane. _one momentous morning!_ all our little plans are perfected, sally! we have to act quickly for lupe's tio diego is more irate than usual, and "emily's" papa languishes in prison, and there is a plot on foot to rescue him and make him governor or something. the budders find the situation singularly lacking in thrill, and feel they would enjoy the safe and uneventful streets of san francisco, and we start north day after to-morrow night. they are interested in my pretty _novios_ and will timidly help us. it is all very simple. in the afternoon lupe and i will stroll to the little church where she was baptized and where the gentle old priest is a friend of "emily's" family. emilio and the c.e. will be waiting. two of us are expeditiously wed. lupe and i stroll back alone, halting to take a cup of chocolate with cinnamon in the _dulcería_; dine sedately with tio diego. then i, reminding him that i am about to return to the states with my relatives, take farewell of him, thanking him (feeling a good deal of the viper that bites the hand that feeds it) for his hospitality. lupe and i then repair to her rooms for a last chat. presently emilio and the c.e. arrive beneath the balcony. i emerge, join the c.e., and go briskly with him through the dusk to the street car and thence to the station where the budders are waiting and leave for silao on the nine-o'clock train. only, as the intelligent reader will have gathered, it will be lupe who melts into the distance in my frock and cloak, with my thickest chiffon veil over her face, and emilio who strides at her side in the c.e.'s suit and overcoat and hat and the big, dark goggles he's been diligently wearing lately, and a scarf about his neck against the menace of the night air, while the c.e. in actuality, in _caballero_ costume, gazes adoringly up at me on lupe's _juliet_ balcony! rather neat, what? we hold the pose, the c.e. and i, until we hear the heartening whistle of the train, when he slips away to change his clothes and i, escorted by old cristina, go back to the hotel and follow the budders to guadalajara in the morning. i don't see how it can possibly fail. emilio's family owns large _ranchos_ up in durango, where the elopers will be quite safe in a mountain fastness, and they will arrive there by craft, not buying through tickets, doubling now and then. this is much more fun than eloping myself! excitedly, jane. p.s. speaking of which, the c.e. thinks it high time his case came up for hearing, and i've promised to give it serious consideration as soon as e. and l. are on their train. he had a quaint idea that the old priest might as well make it a double wedding! _the next night._ only think, sally dear, this time to-morrow night it will all be accomplished! i've never been so thrilled in all my days. and there's another reason for it beside my pussy willow maid's romance! (no, not that! not yet, at any rate!) it was this evening, early, when she and i were walking, and they were playing _la golondrina_. lupe was silent, deep in her own rosy thoughts. we passed the entrance to the "street of sad children" and the name and the mournful magic of the music conjured up dolores tristeza for me, and the thought that i should soon see her again, but only to say good-by. then, quite suddenly and serenely, with no bothering doubts or "if's," i knew. i knew the thing i am going to do. i'm going to take her, to have her and keep her always. i'm twenty-eight years old, sound body and sane mind, with a steadily fattening income; i defy them to say i'm not the fittest adopter they ever saw. i know she'll want to come with me, and i know i couldn't leave mexico heart-whole without her. just as i arrived at this satisfying conclusion i glanced up; we were passing a little _pulquería_ whose name--painted gorgeously--was "the orphan's tear!" wasn't that fitting? i can't wait to see her and tell her! jane. _the afternoon._ sally dearest, we are just home from the wedding and i wish you could see lupe's dewy-eyed joy. i ache with tenderness for her. i know now why mothers always weep at weddings--i very nearly did myself, and i know i shall in ten years or so, when i see my dolores tristeza, standing like that, star-eyed, quivering-lipped. when she slips away in the dusk to-night i shall put a period to my thought of maría de guadalupe rosalía merced castello. i want to keep this fragrant memory of her. "yet, ah, that spring should vanish with the rose! that youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!" i refuse to fancy my pussy-willow girl, my pearl maiden, in ten years, with a mustache and no corsets and eight weak-coffee-colored babies! _adíos, lupe mía!_ go with god! everything is in readiness. the dear old budders, trembling with excitement, will be waiting at the train. as for me--as for my own little affair--i'm pushing that away, until my _novios_ are safe. i'm pushing away that moment on the balcony, when we hear the train whistle. sally, i don't _know_! this lovely, lazy, ardent land works moon magic on staid professional women! mistily, jane. _guadalajara, two days later._ sally dearest, it was mean to make you wait for the next thrilling installment of my mexican best-seller, but this is the first moment when i've thought i could put down, coherently and cohesively, what happened. happened is a palely inadequate word;--burst,--exploded--erupted, would be better! it worked like a charm. they got away. i leaned from lupe's balcony in the fragrant dusk and listened to their footfalls dying away. the c.e., shrouded to his eyes, looked up and whispered that "emily's" _charro_ trousers had nearly ruined everything at the last moment; he had needed vaseline and a shoehorn and a special supplication to st. james to get them on. we giggled like sixteen-year-olds. the c.e. said-- "lettice, lettice, let down your golden hair, that i may climb by a golden stair!" i was so pleased with him for remembering his fairy-tales. i was so pleased with him and so fond of him and so happy over my _novios_ that i couldn't keep my beautiful plan a secret any longer. i told him what i had decided about dolores tristeza. my dear! i wish you could have heard him! he was another person entirely. he said it was the maddest, wildest, most sickly sentimental, impractical thing he'd ever heard! he raved on and on, always coming back to the point of her clouded parentage. i told him he was perfectly mid-victorian,--that any one living in the present century knows that there are no illegitimate _children_--just illegitimate fathers and mothers! but it never budged him. he was, for the first time, a most uncivil engineer. "besides," i said, "beauty and wit is the love child's portion!" it must have been funny, really, raging at each other in whispers. he began to burble about heredity and i told him i was planning an environment that would bleach out the heredity of the piper family, and he said that it couldn't be done, and i said that he was a pagan-suckled-in-a-creed-outworn, and just then the train whistled--the signal for what was to have been our melting moment, and we were both so mad we were fairly jibbering! and at that very instant old cristina came running to tell us to fly at once, as don diego had decided to have emilio arrested! before we could spread a wing, a little guard of opera bouffe soldiers was rounding the corner. i just whispered--"stick! they'd stop them at silao!" when they were upon him. he was a brick, i must admit. he just hitched the _serape_ higher and pulled the _sombrero_ lower and trudged away in somber silence. it seemed the only decent and sporting thing for me to stick, too, so i flung on lupe's cape and covered my face with a _mantilla_ and fled after them. the c.e. was furious and tried his frantic best to make me go back, but i wouldn't and i whispered to him that i'd never forgive him as long as i lived if he told and spoiled everything. my dear, they took us to that horrible prison ... with the bloodstains on the floor! the man at the desk was nearly asleep. he scribbled something in his dream book and produced a key three feet long at least, unlocked a door, pushed us in, and clanged it shut behind us. we were in the main court with the murderers and the newsboys and the sodden drunkards.... a guard with a gun showed us two cells opening off the court. we crouched on stools in the back of one of them and the c.e. said between his teeth, "keep that thing over your face and keep _still_!" then i stopped admiring myself and realized what i had done and where i was ... a gringo woman in a guanajuato prison at night.... but every hour that i stayed there saw my _novios_ nearer to safety, and the budders wouldn't know and wouldn't worry. sally, i'm glad i had a firm vermont scriptural upbringing! i can always find something, ready to my hand,--a staff to lean on. i thought of a funny one i've always loved--one of the proverbs, i think---- "_the name of the lord is a strong tower; the righteous runneth into it and is safe._" i wasn't very sure i was "a righteous" but i tried valiantly to remember all the worthy actions i had done, and i don't mind telling you they rather piled up,--from lupe to the bored old bear. i runneth-ed into my tower and felt a good deal safer, i make no doubt, than my poor c.e. there was a nameless age of black silence, and then there was a crowded hour of glorious life. when i heard the shouts and then the shots i tried to remember sydney carton and the french aristocrats taking snuff on the steps of the guillotine, and i tried to think of something handsome and dressy in the way of a farewell speech, in case it might ever be reported in the states. the c.e. was splendid, only, when the great doors clanged open and the mob streamed in calling wildly for emilio hernandez, he very naturally failed to hold up his hand and say "present." we both thought that his hour had struck and you may imagine my horror and remorse. well, they began a cell-to-cell canvass, but when they flashed the lantern on us they shouted with joyful triumph. they were not executioners but rescuers! they were revolutionists, come to save emilio and his papa, the general. that gentleman arrived on the run, panting, demanding his son. alarums and excursions! explanations. i think the bitterest moment of the whole hideous time for the poor c.e. was when "emily's" papa kissed him! sally, i'm running down like a mechanical toy,--i can hardly write another word. i was escorted to my hotel and thence to a dawn train for guadalajara. the meek c.e. renewed his suit; he said i could adopt the whole _hospicio_ if i wanted to, but i said "_adios_" and i think in his head, if not his heart, he was rather relieved. poor, dear, extremely civil engineer! his tastes are simple and his wants are few,--just a limp, lovely lady in the background of his life, waiting prettily for him to come home and tell her what to think. that man doesn't want a help-meet; he wants a _harîm_. they are unwinding several thousand miles of red tape, but at the end, like the pot of gold and the rainbow, i shall find my dolores tristeza, and there will be one pair of mournful eyes the less in this land of smiles and sobs. _adíos_, poor, pretty, passionate, shrugging mexico! go with god! i'm coming _home_, sally _mía_! j. p.s. the c.e.'s days before he knew me were just a string of wooden beads; afterward, they were a string of fire-crackers! p.s. ii. michael daragh is going to be frightfully pleased with me for wiping the orphan's tear; but he'll make me see that there's just as much poetry and more punch in wiping the orphan's nose! chapter xvii once, long ago, coming home from her self-imposed exile to the lean, clean island in maine, jane had dreaded, a little, her re-meeting with michael daragh, but on the trip home from mexico and california she had no such feeling. doubts were over and done with forever. the flight had been for the purpose of getting perspective; perspective made her grave irishman, her stern st. michael, loom up and up until he filled her horizon. her heart had been allowed to drift with the tide in the lyrical interlude in the lovely, lazy land she had come from, but--save perhaps for certain misty moments--it had insisted on swimming stoutly upstream. "i am going back to michael daragh," she told herself gladly and unashamed, and the rhythm of the train, hurrying across the continent, repeated it in a joyful, endless litany--"going--back--to--michael--daragh!" jane leaned back in her quiet compartment (tangible evidence of solid success) and watched the desert miles and the prairie miles sliding away beside her, and warmed her heart and soul with the thought of michael's face when he should first see her again. now, when the swift gladness leapt up in his eyes and the color ran up in his thin cheeks and his whole face glowed from within with its stained-glass-window look, she would not turn away from him, but to him,--gladly, royally, lavishly, with all that she had and all that she was. she wired mrs. hills from chicago the day but not the hour of her return, but sent no word to michael daragh. that would savor of a command, a summons, and she was too happily humble for that. he would know from the boarding-house keeper that she was near, and he would be waiting for her. like a timid tourist, she was hatted and veiled and gloved long before they entered the grimy outskirts of the city, and sat, hot-cheeked, breathing fast, on the edge of her seat, far more thrilled and shaken than she had been, four years and more ago, when she made her exodus from the village to the wide world. the narrow strip of mirror between the windows framed her radiant face; now indeed was she _anointed with the oil of joy above her fellows_. between a slight delay of the train, and the snail's pace of the taxicab through the traffic, it would be quite six o'clock before she reached mrs. hetty hills' house in washington square; he would be absolutely certain to be home. everything took on an especial beauty and significance,--the crowded streets, the shop windows, the lights, the people,--her heart went out to all of them--rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief; they were michael's and they would be hers. he should have that oil of joy for his work, for his high, selfless purposes. it was hard to wait even an instant to see him, to have him ask, and to answer, but it was wonderful to wait, in faith and utter confidence. the sense of haste and impatience fell away; it must happen as it would, serenely, naturally. she did not mind that it took her many seconds to find the exact amount and then a lavish tip for her driver, and she noted with satisfaction that the faithful mabel had seen her from an upper window and would spread the glad tidings. mrs. hetty hills, a little stouter and grayer and more prosperous than she had been four years earlier, stood in the doorway. "well, now, i _am_ glad!" she declared. "i'm free to say i thought it was a risk, your traipsing round mexico with all those revolutions and epidemics and things! my, but you look fine, child! i believe my soul it's done you a world of good! 'praise to the face is open disgrace,' but you don't look a day over eighteen and i'd swear it on a stack of bibles!" "_nice_ mrs. hills," said her star boarder, hugging her heartily. "how are you? and how is everybody?" "well, i'm pretty good now," said the ex-villager, earnestly, "but you can tell your folks i was miserable enough a week ago yesterday. i guess if i was the give-up kind i'd have been flat on my back. i don't know when i've ever had such a spell. my throat ached and i could hardly drag one foot after another, and even my eyeballs----" "but you're fine now, aren't you? i'm so glad! i'm sure you'd been overdoing. and how is--how are all the others?" "oh ... about the same. mrs. ramsey doesn't get out to her concerts any more, on account of her leg, and that makes her bluer'n a whetstone, but otherwise i guess we're all pretty much of a muchness. everybody misses--land t' goodness," she caught herself up, "i guess there _is_ one piece of news! i guess there _is_ one change, sure enough!" "what?" asked jane, sitting down suddenly on one of the stiff hall chairs. "why, mr. daragh! he's gone home to ireland!" ("you've got to say something! you've got to make a remark!") jane told herself, fiercely, but it seemed a fearful pause before she heard her voice and it sounded thin and queer. "oh, is that so? has he?" "yes, went off like a shot! got a cable from some of his folks. all he said was he was called home. awful close-mouthed for an irishman. all the irish _i_ ever knew before--i think he gave mabel a note to put in your room. want i should send her up for it?" asked the landlady eagerly. "no, thanks," said jane, very creditably. "there isn't any hurry. and how is emma ellis, mrs. hills?" she sat chatting for ten minutes by her wrist watch and then took her leisurely way upstairs and then she chatted another five with mabel before she attacked the mile of mail upon the desk in her sitting room. it was a brief little note; illness and imminent death in his family--he had time for this line only--and he wanted god to save her kindly and he was her friend, michael daragh. it was the sort of little note, she told herself, that a thoughtful man would write with the good mabel in the back of his mind. she felt a sense of daze and dizziness and she sat with her hat and cloak on until the dinner gong rent the air, waiting much as michael daragh had waited, long ago, when he had listened for the sound of the motor, bearing her uptown with rodney harrison, and then had torn up the narrow strip of paper which bore her foolish little postscript. she took herself resolutely in hand and went briskly down to dinner, and regaled mrs. hills and the music students and the teachers and bank clerks and elderly, concert-going ladies (one of whom went no more) with the gay but expurgated text of her conquest of mexico. there was talk of michael daragh, and one of the younger music students ventured, pinkly, the theory that mr. daragh had been called home to inherit a title. "yes," said jane with quick sympathy, "i shouldn't wonder in the least! he's always seemed a belted earl sort of person, for all his other-worldly ways, hasn't he?" it was a relief to talk of him lightly and easily like this. "or a squire, at any rate! something picturesque,--something story bookish!" "oh," giggled the music student, delighted at her backing, "won't it be thrilling to get a letter with a crest and be told that he'll never be back again?" "lord lovel, he stood at his castle gate, a-combing his milk-white steed,----" chanted jane, merrily. "i can quite picture him, can't you? only the milk-white steed will be immediately hitched to a delivery wagon of his worldly goods, for distribution to the poor. yes, that is without doubt what has happened! i can see adoring yokels pulling their forelocks to him! he'll fit beautifully into that background!" thus her tongue, running ripplingly on, while her heart, suddenly released from its numb depression, wired her blithe reassurance. "he's coming back,--coming back to _me_--coming back _soon_!" the high mood stayed with her, even though the days and weeks slipped by without word from him. she was entirely happy and confident, but she found herself too restless to settle down to her work. she had a sense of excited waiting for something beautiful to happen, and a warm and kindly yearning to make every one else as happy as herself. she went often to hope house and sparred with emma ellis; neither of them had heard from the irishman, and while jane was secretly able to interpret this with comfort to herself, the other was not. miss ellis leaned romantically toward the theory of the younger music student; mr. daragh had probably gone home to inherit property and assume responsibilities; she had always known there was nothing ordinary about mr. daragh; she had always felt that he was a great person, stooping to this life of abnegation. "but i think," said jane flippantly, "he's much more likely to have been a sin-eater!" "a--_what_?" "a sin-eater. i'm sure they're still being worn in ireland. a sin-eater is a man who has had a great sorrow or committed a great crime----" "miss _vail_!" "--and lives in a damp and dismal cave across a slimy moor and whenever any one dies unshriven, he is sent for, and he comes after dark, his face shrouded, and prays and moans all night beside the corpse, eating all he possibly can of the food which has been placed about it, and what he can't consume on the spot he takes away before dawn, in a sack, and that is his larder, you see, until the next sudden death! and, of course, the idea is that he has taken the sins of the departed upon his own soul, and that when he has done it long enough and meekly enough he will be permitted to die, himself, and other people's sins will have miraculously cleansed him of his own!" "i never heard anything so--so revolting," said the superintendent in her most smothered voice. "oh, do you find it so? to me it seems very quaint and charming." she was ashamed of her small-boy impishness but for sheer high spirits she could not seem to stop. "but perhaps," she allowed it grudgingly, "he didn't commit a crime; perhaps he was merely crossed in love, or--likeliest of all--assumed the burden of another's misdeed! a wild young brother, or the heir! that's it,--the heir! and michael, with proper younger-son humility, realized that he didn't count, and took the blame and fled to the states, and now the heir has died, first doing the decent thing in the way of death-bed remorse and confession. and, of course, there's a girl in it somewhere, and i'm sure she has waited for michael all these years instead of marrying the heir, aren't you?" but for the most part her mood was one of amazing gentleness and serenity, with that insistent desire for being good enough and worthy enough for the glory about to descend upon her. she made little pilgrimages to all the people they had helped together,--to ethel and jerry and billiken in rochester, snugly prosperous and happy, with a little jerry, now, whose ears flanged exactly as his father's did; to chicago, to confer with little miss marjorie and the roderick frosts about the making of the old house where roderick iv was born into a maternity home, and to gladden the good little stranger's friend with a fat check for her work, and to puncture mrs. mussel's gloom with substantial gifts and the bright and bonny refurnishing of the christian room for girls such as edna miles pretended to be; to catch up with the girl who had taken her "crowded hour" to success, always on tour now, in one of her playlets, and married to the brother of "brother" ("brother" himself having given up and gone to make the long fight on the desert). she went, fur-bundled and red-cheeked, to spend a week-end with deacon gillespie and "angerleek" at three meadows, and found one of the daughters at home, and the old man told her that two of the sons were coming for their summer vacations. angelique was animated with timid cheer; _he'd_ been different, gentler, since danny.... jane went back to new york with june in her heart. was not this a part of her life with michael since he had sent her to that lean, clean island to snare back her soul? this was part of the harvest they had sown together, for everything she had done since coming to know him had been shared with him. there came a moment, of course, when her sense of sanctification broke like a bubble. "i feel like the elsie books," she said, grinning her boy's grin at herself. "i'd better go home and let mrs. wetherby put me in my place!" but even in her vermont village she found balm. they might hold, with mrs. hills, that "praise to the face is open disgrace," and be chary of effusions, but jane vail was the brightest jewel in their crown, and it was only the deafest and dimmest old ladies who asked her if she was still going on with her literary work. mrs. wetherby, although she would never forgive jane to her dying day, was clearly thankful to have martin all to herself. she fed him to repletion and washed and ironed his silk shirts with her own hands, and she loved to say at meetings of the ladies' aid or the tuesday club, "well, marty says his mother's _his_ girl!" martin himself was heavily cheerful; he could see that edward r. hunter was pretty much tied down. it would not be very long, now, before there was no "asst." in front of the "cashier" on his door at the bank. the hunters had now what the humorist, edward r., called "almost three children," and they were building on a new nursery which would be, without doubt, a hot, pink one. they had a little way of saying, "what have you been writing lately, janey?" which conveyed, pleasantly but unmistakably, that people with their full and busy lives could not be expected to keep up with all the lighter current literature. sarah farraday, her earnest, blonde face a little lined and sharpened, had more piano pupils than she could possibly manage; two of her older girls were taking the beginners for her, and there was a recital almost every month in the burlapped studio where once the chubby driving horses had been housed. and in the old, elm-shaded house where the middle-aged maid still held sway, and where aunt lydia vail had lived and died in her plump and pleasant creed, jane and sarah spent the night together, and this time there was no sprightly talk of michael daragh or rodney harrison and no pungent comparisons of them and their feelings for her; she was not talking now, the nimble-tongued miss vail, but the friend of her youth looked long at her glowing face, her deeply joyful eyes, and wondered, and sighed a little, and went back to talk of her most brilliant pupils and the worrying way her mother had of taking hard colds and keeping them.... jane came away from her village with an entirely clear conscience; no one needed her there. she was her own woman, without let or hindrance, with a shining sense of good work and good works she could wait for the joy which was coming as certainly as the morning. then she came in late, one evening, to find michael daragh at the dinner table, a little browned and warmed from good sea air, and emma ellis was there--mrs. hills having telephoned and asked her to come to dinner and welcome home the wanderer--and at once the old life, the old routine, the old world, seemed to open and swallow him completely. lying wide-eyed in the dark, hours later, jane told herself that even in the midst of the watching boarders his look and word for her had been filled with meaning; that it was inevitable that he should take emma ellis home to hope house; that there had been no opportunity to ask her to wait up for him; that she had done the only possible thing in taking a bright and cheery leave of mrs. hills and coming up to her rooms. she had waited an hour in her sitting room--michael daragh had often dropped in for a chat before she went to mexico--but when at last she heard his feet upon the stairs, they had carried him steadily on and up to his own floor. and the next day and the day after that she told herself that it was perfectly natural for hope house and agnes chatterton and kindred calls to fill his every hour. she was waiting happily and surely, and a special delivery letter from rodney harrison hardly registered on her consciousness when mabel brought it up to her one afternoon. it was a brief letter, turgid, almost fierce in its tone. rodney harrison was not going to be put off any longer, it appeared. he would meet jane at the theater that evening (where she must go to pass upon the performance of a new character-man in her second gay little play) and then she was going to supper with him, and to drive in his new speedster, and to make up her mind--no, not that, he'd made it up for her, once and for all--but to settle this matter definitely and right. she read it with an indulgent smile and put it down on her desk. good old rodney ... good old man-she-met-on-the-boat.... her telephone rang at her elbow. she had had a soft little sleigh bell substituted for the harsh, commercial clang and even the most utilitarian call took on a tone of revelry, but now it had an especially gay and lilting sound, she thought. michael daragh's voice over the wire lacked its usual quality of serenity; he sounded unsure of himself; almost--shy, and jane's grip on the receiver grew taut and her cheeks flamed. "it's the way i'm asking you something now i've never dared ask you before, jane vail," purled the brogue, "and i'm wondering, dare i?" "i--i'm wondering, too," said jane. "'tis nothing at all you might be thinking it is! ever since i'm back i've been screwing up my courage--but 'tis the boldest and brazenest thing my like would ever be daring to ask the likes of you!" she had never heard him talk so like a stage irishman before; she had never known him so moved. "whiles i'm thinking you'll say me 'yes,' and whiles i'm thinking you'll say me 'no' and whiles i'm destroyed entirely with the doubt! i'll be there inside the hour, or a half-hour itself, and let you be merciful, jane vail!" "i will be waiting," she said, "and i will be merciful." "god love you!" he cried and hung up abruptly. she rose from her chair and stood in the middle of her clever orange and black room, icy hands clamped tightly to her burning cheeks. so! journeys' end! she flew into the other room and with unsteady fingers divested herself of her severely smart business dress and flung a creamy cloud over her head. she justified this costume vigorously to herself. it was five o'clock--almost evening--and she wanted him to see her thus, he who had hardly ever seen her in other than the bread-and-butter garb of every day, but when she looked in the glass she shook her head. if he had at last dared to ask her to leave her sunny fields for his shadowed paths, was this the vision to reassure him? she put on a mellow velvet of deepest brown, cunningly cut, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that it made her look like a young queen in an old frieze, but not, it was to be admitted, like a durable help-meet for a settlement worker. her windows were wide to the tentative advances of spring and now she heard a ringing tread upon the pavement below, and with breathless haste she pulled off her regal raiment and flung herself into the primmest and plainest of her work frocks--a stern little brown serge with puritan collar and cuffs, and this time she nodded approval at her reflection. here was, indeed, a creature for human nature's daily food! she heard his feet upon the stairs, his knuckles on the door of her sitting room, but she waited for a last long look. when she looked into that mirror again, she would see the glorified, glad face of michael daragh's love. chapter xviii the big irishman was pulling burdened breaths and haste had flushed his lean cheeks, and they faced each other for an instant in silence before he caught her hands in a hard clutch. "i will be swift," he said, "the way the courage won't be oozing out of me!" "yes, michael daragh!" she stood up straight and proud before him, waiting for his word. she had waited long for it, turning her back alike on prosperous, opulent love and busy and purposeful spinsterhood, knowing that happiness for her was the grave, young saint whose chief concern would be always for the world's woe. richly dowered though she was in body and brain, fit for a man's whole devotion, she would be content to share him with the submerged, with the besmirched and befouled of the earth. and at last he was speaking. "many's the bold boon i've begged, but never the like of this," he said, his gray eyes holding hers, "but _never_ the like of this! would you--_could_ you--be dining with a dope fiend?" it seemed a long time to jane before she worked her hands free of his clasp and heard her voice, "i--don't believe i understand----" "why would you, indeed?" he cried, penitently. "let you sit down till i'm telling you." she seated herself in her straight desk chair, and--"dining with a dope fiend," she heard herself saying. "it sounds rather like a line from a comic song, doesn't it?" "a lad he is, just," said daragh, earnestly. "it got hold of him after a sickness in the smooth devil's way it has. six months, now, i'm toiling with him. times i have him on his feet, times he's destroyed again. 'twas a terrible pity i had to be leaving him the while i was home in ireland. well, i found him doing rare and fine, god love him, back at his drawing again in the scrap of a studio i found for him, but a pitiful tangle of nerves and fancies. what he needs now is a friend--his own sort--some one that speaks his own tongue. he thinks the decent world will have none of him,--a weak, pitiful thing isn't worth the saving. fair perished with the lonesomeness, he is. 'i used to know women,' he was telling me, 'pretty women, clever ones; i miss them--the sound of their voices and the look of their white hands and their making tea, and the light, gay talk we'd be having!' then he sat, limp, with the grit gone out of him. 'not one of them would come near me, now,' he said. 'holding their skirts away from me, passing by on the other side.' and then--may the devil fly away with my tongue, jane vail--i heard myself saying, 'there's one won't be doing that, lad! there's one, the best and fairest and cleverest of them all, the wonder-worker of the world,' i said, 'will be putting on her gayest gear and be coming here to make tea-talk with you, the way you'll think the month of june itself is happened in your studio!'" he stopped, looking down at her with anxious eyes. jane took her own time about looking at him, and when she did it was almost as if she had never seen him before. he was still wearing his winter suit, this soft spring weather, and it wanted pressing and his boots were far from new. he stooped a little as he stood there, waiting for her verdict, as if even the broadest shoulders wearied finally of other people's loads, and the line of his zealot's jaw was sharper than ever. she felt nothing but scorn for him. he had birth, breeding, abilities; why must he wrap himself in monkish sackcloth, in monkish celibacy? rage rose in her, rage and ridicule for herself. so, this was the man for whom she had dressed herself three times, cunningly and provocatively? this was the man to whom she had come running with her heart held out in her hands,--her sane, sound, hitherto unassailable heart, twenty-eight years old,--when he required of her merely a service such as he might ask of any of his settlement workers,--money from this one, work from that one, charm and cheer from her, jane vail. worry throve in his eyes. "i'm doubting i had the right to ask you. is it too much, indeed?" jane rose, lifting her shoulders ever so slightly. "the right? why, surely. you're asking me for an hour or so of my time just as you would ask me for a check. i am to lift up the light of my countenance on this young gentleman, then, and convince him that he is still socially desirable?" "i'll be praising you all the long days of my life if you will," he said humbly, continuing to stand. "sit down, then, while i put on my hat," she said carelessly, quite as she would have spoken to a messenger, and moved toward her bedroom door. "please"--he took one step after her--"it's riot but your little brown gown would charm the birds off the bush,--and it's not that i'd be mentioning it or asking it for myself, but----" "no," said jane, and her voice was as bright and dry as her eyes, "one could hardly fancy you asking anything for yourself." "i would not, indeed," he said, grateful for the exoneration, "but i'm wondering ... wouldn't you seem grander to the lad in a--a gayer frock, perhaps?" "very possibly i would," said jane, reasonably. "but i shall have to keep you waiting a little longer then." she went into the other room and shut the door slowly and softly to demonstrate the perfect control of her nerves, and proceeded to make her fourth toilet for the hour. she took her time and did her best, which was very good indeed when she put her mind to it, and she hummed a snatch of song all the while, just loud enough to carry to the study, but every time she met her shamed and furious eyes in the glass her face crisped into hotter flame and she stopped singing. she kept him waiting for twenty-five minutes, but his eyes silently acquitted her of having wasted her time. they set off at once, jane agreeing pleasantly that it would be better to walk. michael daragh had never seen her more alert and alive to the things about her. nothing escaped her darting glance,--the lyrical, first grass in the square, the stolid and patient tiredness of an italian crone on a bench, the pictorial quality of a hurdy-gurdy man, and yet, for all her chattiness, the smart young person beside him seemed leagues upon leagues away from him. he supposed, miserably, that she was aghast at him for this preposterous demand upon her, but he was not penitent; he would have done it again. his people's needs were to be met with anything he would buy, borrow, or beg for them, and this radiant creature's beauty and light were only given to her in trust, after all, to be dispensed and diffused. "you've the step of a gypsy boy," he said presently, "for all the foolish shoes you will be wearing. we're here now. 'tis here he has his little hole of a studio." it was a decent enough place for working and living and jane had no doubt whatever that daragh paid the rent. their host was discovered bending over a chafing dish which gave forth an arresting aroma. he was a sallow youth with quick hands and too-bright eyes and he spoke in nervous jerks. "how-do-you-do? how-do-you-do? awfully good of you. daragh says you are interested in drawings--just look round, will you? i'll have this mess ready in a minute. daragh said he had to go up to town early, so we'll have a combination supper tea." he flew to test the coffee, sputtering in a percolator. jane, slipping out of her wrap, moved slowly and graciously about the little room, well and pleasantly aware of michael's anxious eyes upon her. his wretched friend should have all the charm and cheer which he had begged for him, but he himself should sit hungry at the feast. she picked up a bold sketch in strong color and held it off with a very real exclamation of interest. "this is _good_, mr. randal! this thing of the old woman and pushcart! i like it a lot. and the bakeshop! it's good stuff, all of it. what are you doing with it?" "nothing," said the young man, sullenly, his thin fingers beginning to pluck at his face. "i've just started again. i've been ... ill. i suppose daragh's told you--about me?" "yes," said jane, easily, "he's told me everything, i think, but what i'm interested in now is--what are you going to do with this stuff?" "i don't know," he said, slackly. "it depends on how i feel. some days"--his eyes shifted and fled before her gaze--"well, you know how it is yourself with your own work,--when you're in the mood--when you have an inspiration----" "i don't know anything about that sort of piffle," said his guest, severely. "it's my mood to beat my poet's piano four solid hours a day, and i shouldn't know an inspiration if i met one in my mush bowl!" he produced a nervous laugh. "ah,--but you have your market! you're _there_! there's the urge--the spur----" she looked from the crisp and living lines of his pictures to his dead, young flesh, to his fingers, locked together and straining, to keep them from their telltale plucking. "look here," she said, "why shouldn't we do something together?" "we--togeth--" he sat down limply on the end of his bed-couch, staring, and she heard michael's quickened breath behind her. "yes! let's try a calendar of new york. i've always had one in the attic of my mind. twelve pictures, you know, with bits of verse, of prose,--sketches like these of yours here. there are several which would do just as they stand. this sort of thing, you know, but balanced--grand street pushcarts and a group of girls going into lucy-gertrude's on fifth avenue." "i get you," he cried, jumping to his feet. "colonel's lady and judy o'grady----" "but no propaganda!" "no, no,--cut the sob sister stuff,--just the pattern of it all, the mosaic----" "yes,--done objectively!" "right! gad,--that sounds like a corking idea! when can we start? have you the text or--good lord--my eats!" he dashed to the noisy chafing-dish, a faint color creeping up into the unpleasant whiteness of his skin. "everything's done! where will you sit, miss vail? give her this tray, will you, daragh--_and_ the napkin, man! can she reach the sandwiches? oh, i'm forgetting my perfectly good salad! well, how is it? i'm not much of a cheffonier, but----" "it's melt-in-the-mouth," said miss vail, warmly. "i'm going to have twice of everything!" she drew him out; she led him on; she kept the color in his face and his fingers quiet. by every pretty means in her power she made it clear that she was having an uncommonly good time, that he was distinctly her sort of person. michael daragh sat back with deep wonder in his eyes. in all her exquisite plumage she had alighted in this dull place, filling it with freshness. and an onlooker would have gathered that the young artist and the beautiful lady who wrote were the best of merry chums, the silent man in the background a civilly tolerated outsider. after a while something of this seemed to strike young randal. "look here, daragh, you haven't to start uptown yet! why don't you contribute something to the gayety of nations? haven't you any parlor tricks?" then he caught up his own work and his grin faded. "tricks ... yes, that's what he can do, miss vail. conjuring tricks. he can turn a skulking alley rat into something faintly resembling a man--but"--his courage and brightness fell from him like a masker's domino on the stroke of twelve and the fingers rose to his face, picking and plucking--"he can't keep it from turning back again." "i can, indeed, lad," said the irishman, stoutly. "i don't know, daragh ... i don't know." he leaned back on the couch, spineless with nervous exhaustion, and jane felt a sick distaste and horror enveloping her. "'tis a true word, laddie," said michael. "you don't know; none of us know--and we don't have to know, praises be, beyond the next hour, beyond the next step on the path." he rose and crossed slowly to the young man and pushed him gently down until he was resting at full length on the couch. "easy, now! let you lie there at your ease. miss vail knows how you haven't the whole of your strength in you yet, and you painting and drawing the day long!" young randal muttered something brokenly and tried to rise, but the big irishman held him firmly. "easy, i'm telling you!" the boy relaxed, stretching out to his lank length, one arm crooked childishly over his eyes, and michael daragh sat down beside him, his long legs folded under him, on the floor. "'tis the true word, surely," he said. "we don't know, indeed. and--glory be--there's many the time that the thing you've braced yourself so fine and strong to stand doesn't happen at all, and you never have to stand it. that was the way of it with maggie kinsella at home," he said. jane, seeing his intention, stepped to the door and snapped off the overhead light, and tilted the shade on the lamp until randal's couch was in shadow. "i'm so ashamed ... with her here ..." it was a muffled whisper from under the shrouding arm,--"so rotten weak...." "this maggie kinsella makes the finest lace for miles about," said michael, unhearing, unheeding. "rare tales she would be telling me and i no higher than the sill of the window there, and i'd thought to find her long dead and buried surely, the way she was always as old as the abbey itself. but no--there she was still in her bit of a cottage, the time i was just home, the oldest old woman i ever saw out of a mummy's wrappings and like a witch indeed with the poor, pockmarked face she has." the figure on the couch was relaxing more and more now, and the irishman sank his voice to a purling murmur of brogue. jane found a low chair and propped her elbow on the arm of it and leaned her cheek on her hand and closed her eyes. she did not want to look at young randal and she found that she could not look at michael daragh. she was glad to be in a corner of the little room where the faint light of the lamp did not penetrate; she wished it might have been complete darkness to cover her. she was so unutterably tired ... never in her life had she been so tired. and michael daragh, her best friend of four good years, her--what should she say?--dream lover? yes, that was sufficiently cheap and sentimental and maudlin for the sort of thing she had indulged in,--her dream lover for two blissful months, seemed as much of a stranger to her now, as strange and as unpleasantly distasteful as the young artist and dope fiend on the sagging bed-couch. when the boy fell asleep, she would creep away, and _away_! chapter xix meanwhile, the irishman's voice went steadily on. "well, i told her there were great tales going the world over about her lace making and her getting famous and proud through the length of the land and i mind well the cackle of a laugh she gave. 'the loveliest lace, is it? now, isn't that the great wonder surely? the wizenedy, wrinkled old hag with the god-help-you face makes the loveliest lace--' then she stopped short off and clapped a claw over her mouth and the scar on her pockmarked face was a pitiful thing to see. "'the curse of the crows on my tongue,' she said. 'is himself out there in the sun the way he'd be hearing me? no? glory be to god then, he's off to the crossroads, to be picking up a copper maybe and the people going by to the fair.' "i asked her why she didn't want her husband to be hearing her make mock of her face, and she said, 'have you the hunger on you for a tale, still, man grown that you are? well, then, let you sit down, lad, and listen till i'm telling you the whole of it. time was when i had a face on me would keep a man from his sleep, and 'tis no lie i'm telling you. tall and fine i was, hair like a blackbird's wing, skin like new milk with the flush of the dawn on it, eyes like a still pool in the deep of a wood. larry kinsella was ever the great lad for making verses up out of his own head. "roses in snow," is the silly name he would be calling me.' then she rocked herself to and fro and crooned in the cracked old voice she had-- "'faith and hope and charity, a man has need of three! i've the faith and hope in you, you've charity for me! "'with your lips and cheeks the rose, that is blooming in the snow, yourself is all the miracle a man would need to know!' "'the proud, brazen hussy i was, god be good to us! tossing my head, stealing the other girls' lads the time we'd be footing it to the tune of the kerry dance at the crossroads in the full of the moon! father quinn--may the angels spread his bed smooth--was always telling me to take heed of my soul which would last me forever, and have done with the sinful pride in the skin and the hair which would wither like grass. but i went my ways with a scandalous come-hither in my eye, leaning over a still pool till i'd see my bold face smiling back at me, and larry kinsella stealing behind to whisper his verses in my ear. "'then came the sickness, the plague that shadowed five counties the way you'd see a black cloud sailing down the sky of a june day. nary a village but paid its toll in death and doom. one of the first i was, and one of the worst. wirra, the weeks i lay on the sill of death's door,--the gray days, the black nights. "'came the time when i heard father quinn's voice and he sitting beside me, telling me slow and easy, the way you'd be talking to a child itself, that larry kinsella was mending and calling for me. well, i rose up, destroyed with the weakness though i was, to be on the way to him, but there in the bit of a glass on my wall i saw my face ... my face ... mary, be good to us ... _my face_! back i fell in the black pit of despair, praying for death itself. but it would not come to my bidding. in the black of the night, in the gray of the dawn, the dreams that tormented me! larry's voice, wheedling and soft in my ear-- "'with your lips and cheeks the rose, that is blooming in the snow----' "'and always father quinn, wasted and worn with care for the living and prayer for the dead, bidding me rise up on my two feet and go to the lad i loved. love, was it? god forgive me, the way i misnamed it then. "'well, then, in the dusk of one day i went with him, me leaning for weakness on his tired arm. out of every house peered a face, but there was no lad begging a smile of me and no green envy at all in the glance of the girls. when we were well past the whole of them i went down on my two knees in the dirt of the road, the way i'd be praying at a shrine itself, for there was a white moon rising in the soul of me and i began to see clear. "mary, mother," i said, "god forbid the likes of me to be driving a bargain with yourself, but give me the one thing only and i'll never pester your ear again all the days of my life. here in the dust i make a heap of all my sins and vanities,--the toss of my head and the tilt of my chin, the love-looks of the lads and the black hate of the girls, and i'll burn them for a sacrifice the way the heathen would be doing and go joyful on my way with the ashes in my mouth! leave the children to run from me, me, the one-time wonder of the weeping west; leave the girls to make mock of my face; only mary, mother, for the sake of the joy he had in me, let larry kinsella only of all the world be seeing me still with the eyes of love, and see me fair!" "'then was a glad cry sounding and the pinched face of father quinn shining like an altar and it lighted up for easter itself. "glory be to god," he cried out in a great voice. "now let you make haste to your lad, for i heard the rustle of wings on that prayer will carry it high!" "'when larry kinsella heard the sound of my foot on his step he leapt up. wirra ... down all the years i can hear the wild joy of him still---- "core of my heart, have you come? alannah!--_with your lips and cheeks the rose_----" "'i opened my mouth to cry shame on him, mocking my face, but then the peace of god came down on me like a deep rain on a parched field, and i knew what way it would be with the two of us all the long days of this world. larry kinsella was blind.'" michael had been speaking more and more slowly and softly and he did not move for many moments after he had finished his tale. then he stealthily rose and bent over young randal, and tiptoed away. "asleep," his lips barely formed the word, and he motioned jane to follow him. she caught up her wrap and crept after him. "i wonder," daragh paused in the outer hall, "would i better cover him up?" jane nodded. "wait, then! i'll be soon back!" when he came out again he was smiling. "fine and fast asleep he is. he'll never open an eye for hours! i'll look in on him again, on my way home to-night. you were the wonder of the world to him, jane vail. but"--he halted on the sidewalk and peered contritely at her through the soft spring twilight,--"you are cruel weary!" "i am ... tired," said jane. his voice gathered alarm. "i've never seen you the like of this. shall i be finding a cab to rush you home?" pride (where was her decent pride?) rallied in her, and took the place of the earlier, racking rage. "i am not going home. i am going uptown--to the theater. i've a new man in the character part." suddenly she knew what she was going to do. "i am going to meet rodney harrison there, and we are going to have supper, and to drive!" her voice grew decisive again. that was it. rodney harrison. the man-she-met-on-the-boat. he would be waiting for her, and he wanted her, and she intended to want him. she visualized his special delivery letter, lying on her desk. rodney was quite justified. they would "settle the matter once and for all, definitely and right." she would marry rodney harrison, and they would live like sane human beings, comfortably, logically, merrily, and there would be no dope fiends with plucking fingers and no fallen sisters and self-righteous settlement workers and no drab days and drab ways in their scheme of things. "well, then," michael was still staring at her, unhappily, "will it be the bus, or a taxi? myself must go in the subway to another poor lad who is waiting in ninety-first street, but----" "i may as well take the subway, too." (he was not to suppose or surmise that it bothered or burdened her to be with him.) "it will make me too early, but there's a lot to talk over with them all. i've rather neglected things lately." (mooning in her candy-motto paradise!) "i'm doubting the upper air is better for you, the way you're so white and weary," michael shook his head, but they went down from the mild spring weather into the glare and blare of the world beneath. it was the hour of the last mad homeward rush of the workers. they found seats, but at the next station the packing and jamming began, and when they left the third stop the car was a solid, cohesive mass of steaming humanity. talk was mercifully impossible. only once michael spoke, when he got up to give his place to a thin girl in a soiled middy blouse. "you could be getting out at the next, you know, to fill your lungs with decent air, and go on in the bus----" she shook her head and smiled very reasonably. she fixed her eyes on a vehement advertisement in shrieking colors and tried to see how many small words she could make out of the large one. "l-i-n-e, line, and l-i-s-t, list"--(she would go into the leading lady's dressing room and do her hair and put some color in her cheeks before she saw rodney. good old rodney! he had been faithful, as faithful and patient as marty wetherby!)--"i-n, in, and r-i-"--the car was plunged into swift darkness and the train shrieked and jolted to a dead stop. the girl to whom michael had given his seat jumped up and began to emit short, gasping screams. "there's no harm at all," said daragh, pushing her back into her seat. "the lights will be on again in two flips of a dead lamb's tail!" the crowd took it good-naturedly enough. there were whistles and catcalls from one end of the car and a noisy imitation of a kiss. girls giggled nervously. a man grew querulous: "where are we? that's all i want to know. where are we? if we're near a station, we can get out and walk. where _are_ we?" the minutes dragged. men hurried by in the outer darkness with lanterns, dim and ghoulish figures. some one's foot was trodden on and a surly scuffle ensued. "cut that out!" said a sharp voice. "you don't want to start nothin' here!" then the first man began again. "where _are_ we? that's what i want to know!" a woman whimpered that she was going to faint. "can't!" called a gruff voice, facetiously. "there ain't room!" but it was immediately evident that she had carried out her program for there was a shrill cry, "oh, for god's sake! get her up! get her up! get her _up_! i'm--i'm _standing_ on her!" people began to sway and mutter, to push and surge. jane felt herself lifted and swung to her feet on the seat where she had been sitting, and the irishman's big body was spread like a shield before her. his hands were clamped upon the thin shoulders of the girl in the middy blouse, but he twisted his head to speak to jane. "it will be all right in a wink," he said. "yes," she answered. the first man began to shout, "open this door! want us to die like rats in a trap! open this _door_!" there was a sound of splintering glass and the acrid smell of smoke. "fire!" squealed the girl in michael's hold, fighting to free herself. "steady!" he soothed. "let you be still now, till----" "fire! fire! fire!" it ran from solo shrieks into a frantic chorus. the middy blouse girl bit and clawed herself out of the irishman's hands and he turned and faced jane, his grasp on the rail above them, covering her with his body. "lay hold of me," he commanded, and she locked her arms about his neck. the smoke-laden air was filled now with the sound of smashing windows, with labored breathing and moans and gasping sobs, with the dull impact of blows, with the grinding, rasping contact of tightly packed bodies. from time to time michael called out to them to have patience, to have courage, to wait, and other voices echoed his words, but they were drowned out in the red sea of panic. slowly, for all its insane haste, the crowd, that portion of it still on its feet, began to work its way through the shattered windows and doors into the black passage outside. the pressure against jane and michael was greatly lessened and she spoke with her lips close to his ear. "are we just to wait here until help comes?" "we are just to wait here." presently she spoke again. "i am not afraid, m.d." "i know you are not." he added a swift line in gaelic. when there was a cleared space about them, they sat down again on the seat, hand in hand, like good children. the air was growing difficult. "we must just wait until they come for us, mustn't we?" she was coughing a little. "we must just wait." there was a shuddering groan from the floor, just at their feet, and he bent with his pocket flash. it was the gaunt girl in the middy blouse.... "keep fast hold of my coat," said daragh. he bent and lifted the girl on to the opposite seat. "there must be others. i must look." "let me hold the flash," said jane. "that will give you both hands free. i won't let go of you." they traversed the black length of the car, doing the grim little they could do where there was anything to be done, and then they went back to their corner. jane's teeth were chattering. "but i'm not afraid, m.d.," she said. "it's just--the ghoulishness of it! the abysmal savagery--i can't _bear_ it!" "many there were as cool as ourselves," he said, "swept on by the panic and couldn't help themselves. it was the wild few only that brought the curse. and let you remember this--for every one that pushed and fought and trampled there are twenty up there now, above ground, wondering what way they'll help us the soonest, working for us, risking, daring----" "yes, i know it," said jane obediently. she leaned back in her corner. it was true that she was not afraid. she felt very peaceful and very gentle. the red rage was gone and the gray depression, and the scorn and the bitterness, and rodney harrison was gone. she began to talk, easily and interestedly. "you know, one looks back on this sort of thing, after it's all over, as educational. one doesn't enjoy _having_ an experience like this, but _having_ had it makes for growth, shouldn't you say?" his grasp on her hand tightened but he did not answer. "well, michael daragh, i've crowded about every sensation into my life except--death. this is really not so bad as being in that mexican prison was! for one thing, you're here"--she curled her fingers more tightly into his--"and there i had only my extremely civil engineer. i did my best to fall in love with him, m.d., but i couldn't seem to manage it." she stopped to cough. "the air is getting pretty awful, isn't it? but i don't believe it will be much longer, now, do you?" "i do not," he said. "i'm rather proud of us, aren't you, michael daragh?--of course, i expect i shouldn't be so--so nathan hale and casabianca and--and lady jane grey--if i didn't know that we'll soon be up in the air again, safe--_breathing_ ..." she coughed again, but her voice went on, husky, gallant. "if we could have looked an hour ahead an hour ago, you and i, dripping pity on that boy, feeling so utterly secure ourselves--'_why should the spirit of mortal be proud?_' m.d., i got a silver thimble for learning that by heart when i was eight. rollicking nursery rhyme, wasn't it? but i adored it, especially the parts i didn't understand. '_from the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud_'--you know, for years i thought it meant one of those fascinating places with swinging half-doors and rows and rows of feet visible from the outside, into which one's nurse would never let one peer, and i thought 'shroud' was a sort of cracker to be eaten with the beer! wasn't that funny? i remember thinking----" but now the big irishman stopped her with a groan which shook him from head to heel. "core of my heart," he said, "will you hush your pretending? god forgive me for a heedless fool has dragged you down to a black death this night!" "what," said jane interestedly, "what was it you called me?" he caught her up to him, fiercely, furiously, and she could feel him trembling, that tall tower of strength, like a terrified child. "core of my heart," he said again, and now his wild kisses separated his wild words--"_acushla ... mavourneen ... solis na suile_ ..." and the tide of fear which had been rising in her turned and slipped away into a sea of rose and silver bliss, and with it went forever the hot shame of the afternoon and the cold misery of the evening. it seemed to her that she could not breathe at all now, what with the acrid air and the power of his arms about her, but it did not matter. "i that loved you from the first moment my eyes were resting on the wonder of your face and heard the harps sounding in your voice, i have brought you death!" "no, michael daragh," she said hoarsely, breathlessly, "you have brought me life!" his voice was scorched and dry with smoke, and she had to strain her ears to hear his lyric lovemaking. "journeys' end"--she thought again as she had thought that afternoon. sarah farraday would say that she was making phrases, trying to be clever, even in this great and terrible moment,--to be thinking that she had taken the subway to the heights.... presently she put a reproving hand over his lips. "oh, michael daragh! i expect i don't know god as well as you do, but i know him better than that! _of course_ we'll be saved! _don't_ keep saying you wouldn't tell me this if we weren't dying! nothing could happen to us ... _now_ ... what do you suppose makes me so sleepy?... do you mind if i just sleep a--f--few minutes? i'm pretty--t--tired...." he gathered her up wholly into his arms. "no, no! don't go to sleep! don't be leaving me till you must!" she cuddled down cozily like a drowsy baby. "m.d. ... did you ever play----" "what, acushla?" "babes in the woods? that's what we are, aren't we?" and she tried to sing, huskily, gasping---- "'and when they were dead, the robins so red brought straw ... berry ... blos ... soms and over them----'" "core of my heart," he cried out, "don't be leaving me!" "michael daragh, dearest," she said quite clearly and steadily, "i love you better than all the world--and i've loved the world a lot!" her lips groped to find his and then she was limp in his clasp. * * * * * waves; _waves_; waves! little, lulling ones, singing her to sleep; great, shining ones, splashing and crashing, lifting and flinging her; voices, tiresome, insistent, calling her, calling her, calling her in from play---- * * * * * "there, now, god love her, she'll do!" said michael daragh. "no, praises be, we'll not need the ambulance! i've a machine here will take us round the park till she's drunk her fill of clean air again.... no, thank you kindly, i can take her myself.... if you'll open the door, just----" out in the sharp night wind, memory picked its way back, hesitating, through the chaos. "let you rest easy, now," said the irishman's voice, steady, cheerful, reassuring. "don't be talking yet, the way you've no breath in you at all. drink deep of the good air, just, till--what? well, then, 'twas an accident in the subway, and you fainted and i carried you out, and we came up a manhole." barren words these, naked of charm ... bleak ... bare. she beheld herself, her bright spring plumage smirched and draggled, all her pinions trailing. about the man, too, there was something lacking, something failing, something unendurably missing and gone. "your arms ..." she said, fretfully. speech was still a burden. she lifted his arms and laid them about her, but they fell slackly away. "we are back in the world again, jane vail," he said. "you in yours and i in mine, and 'tis a far cry between the two. 'twas the black hole of death loosed my tongue, but now----" "michael daragh"--she stopped speaking and gave herself over to the task of tugging his arm about her and holding it there with both her grimy hands--"michael daragh, we d--died together very splendidly--b--but we're going to l--live together just as well!" chapter xx (telegram) new york, n.y. -- . miss sarah farraday, valley view, vermont. engaged. jane vail. (telegram) new york, n.y. -- . miss sarah farraday, valley view, vermont. michael daragh, of course, you goose. jane vail. _new york, april twelfth._ sally darling, thanks for your two wires, though the first one--"so happy, but who is it?" was a bit feeble-minded, you must admit. could you imagine me marrying any one in the wide world _but_ michael daragh? haven't i always intended to (no matter what i may have babbled of a man-i-met-on-the-boat, or of an extremely civil engineer!) from the first instant i set my wishful eye on his zealot's brow and his fighter's jaw and heard the burbling brogue that might be eaten with a spoon? it's taken me four years and a subway accident, but i consider the time wholly well spent. i'm snugly and securely engaged to marry michael daragh and he's entirely resigned to it. in fact, one might even go so far as to say, without undue exaggeration, that he is pleased! (i'll wager you dashed right down to the woman's exchange and got towels! aren't you glad v. is such a nice, easy letter to embroider?) that subway affair was ghastly, useful as it did prove to me. we thought surely our hour had struck, but we behaved with early christian martyr fortitude and much more sprightly cheer, and when michael daragh thought the end had come he staged a love scene which made all the love scenes i ever wrote and all the love scenes i ever read sound like time-tables or statistics! months of misunderstanding were explained away in minutes; he honestly believed me to be secretly engaged to rodney harrison (there i see the fine italian hand of emma ellis, poor thing, oh, _poor_ thing--to want michael daragh and not to have him!) and he still more honestly believed that i lived and moved and had my brilliant being in a world too far removed from his shabby and cumbered one, and that he was only my more or less valued but humble friend--oh, miles of that sort of piffle! well, when we were safe in the upper air again, he basely tried to repudiate me,--handsome speeches about not shadowing my bright life and all that--very fetching as literature but not at all satisfying to a young woman who had just achieved a betrothal after long and earnest endeavor! i foiled him! you can't think how brazen i was. i was still a bit hazy with smoke and exhaustion, and i honestly believe if he hadn't given in i'd have screamed for a policeman! but once he gave up the fruitless struggle, he began to have a very good time indeed. i will even go so far as to state that he hugs his chains. yours in "a fine, dizzy, muddle-headed joy," jane. _new york. april eighteenth._ sally machree, (see how irish she is already!) the first towel has come and makes me feel such a housekeeper! you're a lamb, but you'll finish life with a tin cup and a "pity the blind" sign if you go on making "stitches as fine as a fairy's first tooth." we are to be married (see how calmly and steadily she sets down that astounding word?) in june, and domesticity has descended upon me. i read only women's magazines, household departments only, i read recipes and memorize them, i haunt linen shops and furniture stores. but, oh, i need a mother and a sister or two, and you'll simply have to come down to me for a month. can't you? of course you can. your mother will feed the piano. i must have you. i've found a house in west ninth street, near the blessed old square, close enough to the brevoort when the kitchen is bolsheviking. it is deliciously old with high ceilings and haughty chandeliers and austere marble mantels, and all sorts of inconveniences which i picturesquely adore, but which will leave the noble army of labor quite cold. i shall make the drawing-room very english, part of my precious rosewood and mahogany sent down from valley view (though i shall keep that house largely as it is) and cunning kensington curtains and little pots of ivy, and "set-pieces" of bead work, and that dear, dim portrait of great-grandmother vail in cap and ringlets. the dining room will be sober, too, but there's a nook just off it which i shall use for a breakfast room, looking out into the prim, prunella scrap of garden, and that i will make giddy-gay with chintz and minton. there'll be a remote workroom for me, far upstairs, and a friendly brown study where michael daragh's lame dogs may come to be helped over their stiles. sarah, i'm as domestic as a setting hen! i foresee i shall be a living version of mr. solomon's lady of the proverb--_working willingly with my hands, rising while it is yet night_. (m.d. keeps fearfully early hours)--_my candle going not out by night_ (candles will be perfect in that house!). my husband shall, indeed, _be known in the gates_, but he won't _sitteth_ there, for home will be far too attractive. nine to one, as always, i'll ply my trade, but before and after office hours i'll be _looketh_-ing _well to the ways of my household_ and _eateth_-ing not the bread of idleness (except at tea!). _many daughters have done virtuously_ but i shall excel them all. i admit it. jane. p.s. michael daragh is beamish with bliss. he's done himself out in purple and fine linen and yet manages, miraculously, not to look in the least like other men, and he doesn't even stoop any more. sally, you know when he was in ireland we all--especially emma ellis and the romantic music students--conjectured as to what he was when he was at home, and cast him for many fetching rôles, from a sacrificial younger son to a sin-eater, and always a belted earl at the very least. he has told me all about himself now, naturally, and it would be a blow to emma e. and the little music makers, so i mercifully mean never to let them know. he hasn't any immediate family, and was brought up by an uncle who had a large and prosperous wholesale grocery business in cork! (could anything be less lyrical, i ask you?) he wanted m.d. to go into the business after he had finished college, and m.d., quite naturally, being m.d., wouldn't and they quarreled, and m.d. came over here with just his small income from his father's small estate, and went into settlement work. he was called home to the uncle's death-bed, but the uncle, contrary to the best literary precedents, hadn't softened to any extent worth mentioning, and died as crabbed as he had lived, greatly annoyed, no doubt, to realize that his demise released certain decent little incomes from the main family estate to the stubborn nephew, but immensely pleased with himself for making his fortune over to outsiders. so, my other-worldly spouse will have a comfortable income after all, but he may divide it with dope-fiends and fallen sisters and their ilk to his heart's content since my royalties, like snowballs, gather as they roll! sally, you must come down and stay with me. "please, pretty please!" jane. _new york city, may twentieth._ dearest sally, i'm distressed beyond words that your mother is still so wretched, and i see, of course, that you cannot leave her yet. but she must hurry and be well enough to let you come for the wedding,--middle or end of june. a rather startling thing has happened. i have _a letter from profesor_ morales in guadalajara, saying that--after all the tangling up of the red tape in the various revolutionary merry-go-rounds--things are in order at last, and little dolores tristeza starts me-ward as soon as a suitable traveling companion can be found. i must admit i'm a little aghast. six months ago, i yearned to have her as a prop for my spinsterhood, but that dark age is about to be folded by. of course i must stand by what i've said, and i want to, but i've answered _señor_ morales, explaining my approaching marriage and that i would send for dolores in the early fall (perhaps michael daragh and i can go and get her!) and inclosing a fat check for her maintenance in the meantime. but isn't it rather a comedy situation? a big little daughter suddenly bestowed upon a busy bride-elect! but she is an angel, and i'll adore having her, just as soon as i get used to the idea again. love and warmest wishes to your mother, and i'm sending her some books. devotedly, jane. _new york city, may twenty-seventh._ old dear, so glad your mother is even a wee bit better! house and clothes are coming on famously but i'm rather rebellious at not having more of m. d.'s time. my life work will be to drag him down from his pinnacle of selflessness! his chief concern just now is for his brilliant young dope fiend, and i really shouldn't begrudge m.d. to him, for if we hadn't had supper with him that night, and gone uptown in the subway, who knows if i'd ever have won my elusive swain? randal is doing fairly well, as regards the drug, and making some corking sketches for our joint calendar, but he needs a world of cheering and chumminess and countenance. but one would like a little less of him, a little more of one's lover. rather crossly, j. _friday morning._ sally, dear, another letter has come from mexico, and dolores tristeza is on her way! a highly proper geologist was returning to new york, and they dared not miss so excellent an opportunity of sending her. and she'll be here day after to-morrow! i find myself rather gasping! i must telephone the steamship office, and i'll close this later. _next evening._ she will arrive on the _pearl of peru_ at about three p.m. to-morrow, and m.d. is going with me to meet her. he is dear about it all, and so am i, now that i've got my breath! i'm remembering what a dewy-eyed little dove of a thing she is. a few days of happy holiday for her, and then the mildest and gayest school i can find, one where they have no stuffy rules about not letting the pupils come home for week-ends. the _profesor_ explained that the _hospicio_ had fallen on evil days during the revolution and the children are now cared for in private families. the three different households which had been sheltering dolores had been obliged from various circumstances to give her up, and señor morales regretted the limitations of his own establishment. poor, pitiful little creature ... little "sorrows and sadness!" i must pledge myself to make her over into joys and gladness--_alegrías y felicidad_, if i remember my spanish at all. i'm ashamed of those mean moments at first when i didn't want her! penitently, jane. p.s. i mean to have her call me aunt jane, which will be "_tia juana_." isn't that charming? i really don't care to be called "mother" just now by a twelve-year-old daughter. it's--a bit un-bridal. _sunday night._ my dear sarah, i wasn't up to writing you yesterday--i'm not really able to, now, but i'll try to tap you out a few feeble lines.... oh, yes, she came. she's here! as some of my vaude-villains would say--i'll say she is! m.d. and i met the steamer, the _pearl of peru_. gentle, innocent-sounding name, isn't it? sounds as if it might fitly convoy the dewy-eyed dove of my dreams.... it took a long time to dock and all the passengers were at the rail. i looked in vain for my daughter-to-be, but i was particularly struck by a sad, broken-looking, elderly man whose eager eyes raked the wharf. he turned to ask a question of a large girl beside him, a creature clad in strident hues, furrily powdered, bearing a caged parrot in one hand, a shivering, hairless, mexican dog under her arm, a cigarette in her mouth. her gaze became riveted upon me. she emitted a piercing shriek of joy. "_madre virgen de mi alma!_" then, in order that all persons present on shipboard and on the wharf might have the benefit of her remark, she translated it--"virgin mother of my soul!"--and every one at once laid by all other preoccupations and gave himself whole-heartedly to looking and listening. i have never seen a more radiant expression of joy and release than that which overspread the countenance of the geologist at sight of me, and even at that instant i began to understand his emotion. it seemed an hour before the gangplank was put down. dolores tristeza held the parrot up so that she might see me. "behold the virgin mother of my soul!" "shut your ugly mouth!" shrieked the sweet bird, happily in spanish. "see, little mother mine," called dolores, shaking the cage, "santa catalina, the parrot of a thousand pretty talents! and here"--she held up the hairless, squirming canine--"behold little josé-maría, joy of my orphan heart!" i got as close to her as possible and besought her to moderate her transports until she had landed, and i was amazed and aghast and horrified at the size of her. "but, how you've grown, dolores!" i stammered. she chuckled gleefully. "they lied to thee at the _hospicio, madrecita_. i was not twelve years but past fourteen! they desired, naturally, to keep me with them in the juvenile department. thus am i loved wherever i go! dost thou not burn to fold me to thy breast?" what i burned to do at that instant was to turn the _pearl of peru_ about and send her speeding swiftly back across the foam. "so, now i am more than fourteen years and a half, large of my age, beautiful as all may see, of a wisdom to astonish you. in one year more, thou shalt find me a husband. many _novios_ have i had already! four serenades were made to me the night before i left guadalajara, and on the boat--" she turned to the elderly gentleman with a complacent and pitying smile. "but"--she took account for the first time of michael daragh--"_quién es el hombrón?_" (who is the big man?) "_tu novio?_" i admitted that he was my betrothed. "_no es tu esposo?_" she quivered with tentative rage. i assured her that he was not yet my husband. "very well, then," she said in english, "we shall see. only, i warn thee, if when thy children come, thou lovest them more than me, i will burn out their eyes with red-hot curling irons!" (her english is heavily accented but perfectly--horribly--understandable.) a merciful providence let down the gangplank and she flung herself, her shrieking, cursing parrot, her shivering dog, into my arms. santa catalina's seed and water cups were emptied on my frock; josé-maría set his little dagger teeth in my sleeve; a fierce scent assailed my nostrils; a shower of powder frosted my shoulder. i freed myself to speak to the geologist who seemed eager to be on his way. "i am very grateful to you," i said, mendaciously. "i hope it has not been too much trouble." "i got her here, didn't i?" he said with an air of weary pride. he looked so haggard that my heart smote me. "_señor_ morales should not have burdened you. you look ill and----" "i was a well, strong man when i left vera cruz," he said darkly. "i wish you luck, miss vail." he took one step and halted. "do you believe in corporal punishment?" "mercy, no! it's a relic of barbarism. no one does, now!" "you will," he said, earnestly, "you will! corporal punishment?--my god,--_capital_!" "farewell, old camel," dolores called, kindly, after his retreating figure. "go with god!" "michael daragh," i whispered, when we at last were packed into the taxi, "couldn't we stop at some school on the way home and leave her?" "not in those clothes, woman dear,--not with those animals." "_cuidado, hombrón!_" said my dewy-eyed dove. "if you seek to turn from me the heart of my virgin mother (she pronounces it veergeen mawther), i will not let her marry with you, and you will be old sour face _soltero_, and she will dress the saints! but," she went on indulgently, "if you are good to me, i am good to you! see,--i kiss up to god!"--and she wafted a heavily scented kiss toward the ceiling of the taxicab. desperately, jane. chapter xxi _wednesday._ well, sally, mia, life looks a bit more rosy! i've separated dolores from her cigarette, from her furry coat of powder, from her athletic perfume, from her circus clothes, and to-day, in spite of her incredible size (the inches and pounds she has acquired in six months!) the years have fallen from her. in a slim, brown tricotine with a wide, untrimmed hat of silky brown straw her loveliness has come back, and with it my enthusiasm. she is docile in the main, when not too violently opposed, and i feed my fancy on the joy and pride i shall have in her, when she has finished school, in five years. she starts on monday, a splendid, firm, well-disciplined school where they have sensible rules about not letting the pupils come home for weekends. the head-mistress was charmed with dolores and dolores has "kissed up to god" her resolve to be good. i'm honestly ashamed of my panic over first impressions. she's really an angel. jane. _thursday._ she's really a demon. j. _new york city, june th._ dearest sally, it's weeks since i've written you, but i'm a broken woman, old before my time. i may not look quite so forlorn as the geologist did, but i feel it. did i write something about the rosy but dim and distant date when dolores would be "through school?" well, it's come. she's through school. and school, i might mention in passing, is through with her,--five of them, from miss trenchard's spartan smartness to the gentle spanish convent. she's a demon-baby. she's a cross between carmen and mary maclane. of course the wedding has had to be postponed. michael daragh is angelic about it, and he hasn't been able to help me with dolores as much as he would like because he's been engulfed with a new settlement house, and his dope fiend has been wobbling again, but our calendar is finished and accepted now, and a really nice girl is being really nice to him--liking him, trusting him, and m.d. is at peace about him. dolores came definitely home from the convent to-day with a clever note from the mother superior ... they feel that the child needs more space ... freedom.... good heavens, so do i! _ay de mi_, that i ever saw mexico! and yet, the demon-baby loves me, and i love her, but i also love michael daragh and would like exceedingly to marry him. my house is ready, my clothes are finished, and so--nearly--am i. but i cannot go off on a honeymoon unless i leave her in safety. sarah, now that your mother is so improved, wouldn't you like to take a boarder? you could chain her to the baby-grand.... distractedly, the virgin mother of her soul. p.s. a friend, knowing of my plight, has just telephoned about a very fine new thought school which will be glad to receive my ward. well, they'll have some entirely new thoughts in that school which they've never had before! j. _july sixth._ sally darling, i jibber with joy! the best and most beautiful of all my leading men was sent by a kind providence to take tea with me to-day and talk over the new play idea, and while he was here dolores tristeza arrived in state and a taxi from the n.t. school, along with her trunk and her temper and her temperament and santa catalina and josé-maría. utterly ignoring him, she launched upon a monologue of her fancied wrongs, dramatizing every incident, impersonating every one from the principal to the taxi driver. i'd seen her through so many of these mad scenes that it left me quite cold, but not so my actor-man. when she had finished, spitting (dryly but venomously) upon all schools, and flung herself out of the room, he sprang to his feet. "good gad, jane vail,--don't you know what you've got here? a young nazimova! an infant kalich! schools--nonsense! teach her the a.b.c.'s--but don't touch that accent--and turn her loose on the stage!" sarah, he's right. it's the thing, the only thing, to do with her. i took her to see nazimova to-night, and she sat star-eyed and hardly breathing. when we came home i told her my new ideal for her and she wept with joy. she swears by the green tail of santa catalina and kisses up to god that she will never be wicked again, and she believes it, and so do i, for i've touched her imagination at last. i've been trying to keep a bird of paradise in a chicken coop! i'll put her with the right people for training, and have her with me a great deal, and not try to muss up her poor little mind with mathematics. she is lying sleepless and bright-eyed in her bed, and i must go in to her now, to soothe her off to the poppy fields with happy plans and prophesies. _when_ are you coming? jane. _july eighth._ my dear, i float on a sea of rosy bliss. randal's girl has almost promised to marry him, and he's a new man, and dolores is a lamb, dreaming of the time she may begin her study for the stage, in the early fall. we are to be married on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, and take the night boat for boston and thence to maine, to three meadows. it was m.d. who sent me there by scolding me into realization of my grubbiness four years ago; i want to have my honeymoon there. the deacon and "angerleek" have a little house which they rent, and they are making it ready for us. i'm afraid every one at home will think me quite mad to be married here instead of in my dear old house, but sally, after all, my wedding belongs to this world, not to that. i shall be married here at mrs. hills' in her big old double parlors, the ugliness conquered with flowers, and i shall wear my traveling things--as the village paper would say--"the bride, attired in a modish going-away gown"--i know you'll wail for all the trimmings, sally dear,--the veil and the train and all the rest, but that sort of thing belongs to eighteen, not twenty-eight. i'm beyond the age of opera bouffe weddings,--i don't vision myself coming down a white-ribboned aisle with wobbly knees, covered with orange blossoms and gooseflesh! but--oh, sally, the truth is that i would be married in a mackintosh or a bathing suit, i'm so dizzily, dazedly happy! dolores tristeza, good as an angel out of a frieze, agrees to stay docilely with emma ellis at hope house while we are away. she calls her "_ella de la barba_" with reference to the small but determined little fringe on poor e.e.'s chin and i tremble--no, i don't! i'm not afraid of anything now. everything is and will be perfect. if only you can come, best of friends! happily, jane. _the day!_ my dearest sally, "i must be making haste, i have no time to waste-- this is--this is my wedding morning!" but my haste is done. i am radiantly ready now, and there are seven still and shining hours ahead. my trunk is packed with jolly island clothes; my bag stands ready to close; my sitting room is running over with gifts, little and large, proud and pitiful,--from marty wetherby's opulent clock and rodney harrison's gorgeous silver service to "angerleek's" preserves and the hand-painted mustard pot from ethel and jerry and billiken, and a virtuously ugly dusting cap from mrs. mussel. if only you were here, sally dearest! but i know your mother needs you, and it must be a blessed thing to have a mother to need you! sally, i'm feeling very proud and very humble, very---- _later._ just as i wrote that, michael daragh came, white, tight-lipped, more than ever like the botticelli st. michael; he was the "captain-general of the hosts of heaven." all he needed was a sword. "woman, dear," he said, "i've the sad, terrible news will be breaking your heart." "have you decided not to marry me?" i asked, facetiously, but i didn't feel in the least humorous. "'tis my lad," he said, "randal. she's thrown him over, that girl. destroyed he is with grief and shame, bound again for the black pit." i tried to comfort him. i said i was sure the boy was too firmly on his feet to slip now, but he knew better, or worse, and he said he dared not leave him for an hour, and then, sarah, i began to see what it meant, and it turned me to iron and ice. "you mean," i said, "you want to postpone our marriage?" "never that, acushla, but--couldn't we be taking him with us? 'tis the wild thing to be asking you, but after all, woman dear, we've the whole of our lives ahead, and for him it means all the world! say we'll be taking him!" now, sarah farraday, i ask you, as a reasonable human being, what you think of that? _to take a dope fiend with us on our honeymoon!_ i seemed to see the future in one blinding flash--always our own rights, our own happiness, relentlessly pushed aside. i'm glad i can't remember all i said, but i shall remember the look on his face as long as i live. but i was right--i was right. he belongs in a painted picture, st. michael, not in a warm, vital, human world. so, it isn't my wedding morning after all. j. _three p.m._ i'm putting a special delivery stamp on this, sally dear, so you'll get it before the other one. i relented in sackcloth and ashes and shame, of course, and telephoned to tell him so, but i couldn't get him because he was on his way here to tell me _he_ would yield, that he wouldn't ask me to take randal with us. then we had another moving scene, reversed this time, i pleading penitently to take him. m.d. said he had had a good talk with the poor lad, and he had sworn to brace up alone. i shall always be glad i yielded, but i know now _just_ how abraham felt when he found the ram caught in the bushes! and i'll always be glad that for once m.d. chose happiness for himself. very shakily, but gratefully, jane. _midnight, on the boston boat._ my dear, do you remember a silly song of our childhood with a refrain like this-- "i'm not blessed with surplus wealth, bump tiddy ump bump, bump tiddy ump bump,-- off on a honeymoon all by myself, bump tiddy ump bump bay!" well, my dear sarah, that is exactly the sort of wedding journey which has fallen to me. we were married. yes, i'm very clear about that. dolores, my dewy-eyed dove, stood with me, and randal, ghastly and trembling, by michael daragh. the solemn old minister knotted us securely. michael kissed me. (i'm very clear about that, too.) suddenly, like a cyclone, like a typhoon, dolores tristeza cast herself upon me. "virgin mawther of my soul," she howled, "do not leave me! i keel myself! _ella de la barba_ ees nawthing to me! do not leave me to die with these so ugly strangers! _no tengo más amiga que tu!_" (thou art my only friend!) she was working up into a frenzy which made all her earlier efforts sound like lullabies with the soft pedal on, and she was shaking herself into convulsions and crying real tears. "behold," she sobbed, "_las lágrimas de la huérfanita_!" (the tears of the little orphan!) i counted ten. then i turned to my new husband. "michael daragh," i said, meekly, "will you take randal with you and let me take dolores with me?" i wish you could have seen people's faces as we went off in a groaning taxi, ourselves, our luggage, randal, white and protesting, dolores, tearful but triumphant, josé-maría, snapping and snarling, santa catalina, strongly urging every one to shut his ugly mouth for the love of all the saints. sally, you've read a hundred stories, haven't you, which went like this--the ceremony, the good wishes, the rice, the old shoes, then--"he jerked down the curtain of the cab window,"--"alone at last," he murmured, "my _wife_!" "he folded her in his arms." i think michael daragh's feeling was that we were not _entirely_ alone, and that it was a rather large order to fold in his arms a swearing parrot, a shivering, hairless dog, a robust mexican orphan, a bride and a dope fiend, for he made not the first gesture of the above ritual. it is after midnight. dolores is asleep here in my stateroom, a smile of seraphic peace on her face, but in the room next door i hear the steady murmur of m.d.'s voice reading to poor randal, who cannot sleep, who has tried to jump overboard. michael dares not leave him for an instant, even to tell me good-night. sally, it _is_ really funny, but i have to keep assuring and reminding myself that it is. jane. _morning, at three meadows._ sally, my dear, once again i crept up a river of mother-of-pearl in the gauzy dawn to this island sanctuary. the deacon met us, amazed at our number, and led us to the silver gray house just beyond theirs on a little, lifting hill, where "angerleek" will "do for us." morning brought counsel. while my husband (carelessly said--just like that!) while my husband looked after luggage i talked to randal, sane again, haggard, abased. "my dear boy," i said, "_you_ aren't going to be in the way at all! you'll look after yourself and be company for michael when he wants good man-talk. it's this demon-child. if--_do_ you suppose you could look after her for me!" he wrung my hand. "count on me! if there's anything i can do, to atone, to square myself--i'll be her nurse, her governess, her jailer!" then to a meek _huérfanita_, feeding her menagerie, i made oration. "daughter of my soul, thou knowest thy presence is a joy of purest ray serene, but this randal creature, tagging ever at the heels of my spouse----" "star of my heart," she said, grinding her teeth, "he is a pig and the son of a pig! have no fear, _madrecita_, i will herd him, like cattle, away from thy sight." she kissed up to god. jane. _the silver gray house, on the lifting hill, three meadows._ i have ceased to reckon time by calendars, sally dearest, but i think we have been here, michael daragh and i, seven or ten days. oh, yes, the others are still here,--at least, they are on the island, but we never see them. they come and go like brownies, like elves, like the "little people" of michael's land, bringing our meals and our mail, vanishing silently.... they stand between us and the village and the deacon and the world. they are our shields and barriers; our sure defense; our shock absorbers. i shouldn't _think_ of ever going on a honeymoon without them. we have signed them up for all our anniversary excursions, and between whiles we'll loan them to friends for wedding trips and rent them to a select public,--there'll be miles of waiting list as soon as they are known! make your reservations early! whole islands and oceans of love, old dear! devotedly, jane vail daragh. (_mrs. michael daragh!!!_) p.s. sally, dearest, remember what i said, the night before i left wetherby ridge for the first time?--that i wasn't really "going away" from you all, but only "going on?" i lost my way for a while, sally; i was content with just "getting on," but he found me and herded me sternly back to the highroad, and now, always and forevermore, no credit to the likes of me, but because i've espoused the captain-general of the hosts of heaven, i'll be going on--and _on_--with michael daragh. and, oh, my dear, but indeed--as he said of me long ago--i have been _anointed with the oil of joy above my fellows_! j. v. d. the time of roses by mrs. l. t. meade author of "a bunch of cherries," "daddy's girl," "bad little hannah," "a world of girls," "a school favorite," etc. "it was the time of roses; we plucked them as we passed." chicago m. a. donohue & company [illustration] contents chapter page i. home at last ii. the little mummy's arrangements iii. a startling meeting iv. an evil genius v. maurice trevor vi. mrs. aylmer's strategy vii. the chains begin to fret viii. bertha's quandary ix. a tempting offer x. the little mummy's curiosity xi. florence's good angel xii. alone in london xiii. a weary wait xiv. a blunt question xv. edith franks xvi. on the brink of an abyss xvii. nearer and nearer xviii. a vestige of hope xix. in the balance xx. rose view xxi. an awkward position xxii. the story accepted xxiii. bertha's joy xxiv. trevor asks bertha's advice xxv. trevor's resolve xxvi. at aylmer's court xxvii. bertha's secret xxviii. a smiling world xxix. almost betrayed xxx. the telegram xxxi. bertha writes the essay xxxii. trevor and florence xxxiii. a tete-a-tete xxxiv. maurice rebels xxxv. the essay arouses criticism xxxvi. a letter from home xxxvii. trevor proposes to florence xxxviii. at the reception xxxix. an admirable arrangement xl. is it "yes" or "no"? xli. the little mummy in london xlii. bertha keys defeated xliii. mrs. aylmer's will xliv. bertha changes her tone xlv. "all the roses are dead" xlvi. a denouement xlvii. finis the time of roses. chapter i. home at last. it was on a summer's evening early in the month of august that the little mummy was once again seen on the platform at dawlish. she looked now very much like she did when we saw her of yore--slightly broadened, it is true, by the added years, but she still wore somewhat rusty widow's black, and her face still had that half-anxious, half-comical expression, which made people turn to look at her with something between a smile and a sigh. she was commonplace and plain, and yet in one sense she was neither commonplace nor plain. she had a character, and that character had developed during the last few years, and rather for the better. there were very few passengers on the platform, and the little woman paced up and down, thinking to herself. "she is coming home at last. i don't know whether i am glad or sorry. i wonder what sort of girl miss sharston is. she has been very kind to florence; but it was rash of florence to invite her. still, i suppose we shall be able to manage all right." just then the signal announcing the approaching train was lowered, and a moment or two later the said train drew up at the platform and one or two passengers alighted. amongst these was a tall, well-set-up, dark-eyed girl, and accompanying her was another girl, who was not so tall and was very slender, with an ethereal sort of face, and large, speaking grey eyes. the tall girl rushed up to where the little mummy was standing. "here i am, mummy," she said, "and this is kitty, and we are both tired and hungry, and glad to see you again. is there any sort of trap for our luggage, or can the porter take it and shall we walk to the cottage?" "the cottage is just as small as ever it was, florence," replied the little mummy. "oh, i am so glad to see you, miss sharston." here she shook hands with kitty sharston. "we like things small," said kitty; "we want to have a real charming time in the country. it is very good of you to consent to take me in, mrs. aylmer." a porter now appeared. florence bustled off to see to the luggage, and mrs. aylmer and kitty slowly left the station. florence ran after them in a moment or two. "well," she said, "here we are! both of us have done with school for ever and a day. we are grown-up girls ready to take our place in the world, and to give you a right good time, mummy; isn't that so, kitty?" "yes," said kitty, in that gentle voice which always had a pathetic ring in it. then she added after a moment's pause: "but i don't know that i am glad to have left school; i must confess that i enjoyed the last few years at cherry court school immensely." "don't talk to me of cherry court school," said the widow, with a little shudder. she glanced round in an inquiring way at florence, who coloured faintly and then said, in a stout voice: "i have repented of that old sin long ago, and i do not in the least mind having cherry court school alluded to. i have had a right good time, and it was a very lucky thing for me i did not win that scholarship, for if i had i should have been eating the bread of dependence now, whereas--" here she drew herself up, uttered a quick sigh, and looked ahead of her. her face was not handsome, but it was bright and taking. she was a head and shoulders taller than the little mummy, who gazed at her with something of her old expression of mingled affection and fear. florence had quite double the strength of the little mummy, and this astute personage was aware of the fact. they reached the tiny house, where sukey was standing on the steps, looking not a day older than she had done six years ago. she dropped a curtsey when she saw florence, but florence ran up and wrung her hand. "how do you do, sukey?" she said. "i am very glad to come home, and this is my great friend miss sharston." sukey stared up at kitty; then she glanced at mrs. aylmer and slowly shook her head. "it's a very, _very_ small house," she said, "and how we are to fit you two young ladies in is more than i can tell." "never mind, sukey," said mrs. aylmer; "i have it all arranged; don't you go and put your finger into the pie and spoil things, you silly, stupid old thing." here mrs. aylmer shook her hand with a playful gesture at sukey, and then the entire party found themselves in the house. florence had not been home for two or three years. kitty had never seen the cottage at dawlish before. certainly the one sitting-room was very tiny. "how it has dwindled!" said florence, looking round her. "good gracious! why, the ceiling nearly reaches my head, and as for the walls"--she stretched out her long arms playfully--"i can almost touch from wall to wall; but never mind, it's home; it's your house, mummy, and you are good to take us girls in and look after us for a whole delightful fortnight." "there is a very nice supper waiting for you," said mrs. aylmer, "and quite in the old style--crabs and a water-cress salad. i thought you would appreciate that; we so often had crabs for supper when--when you were here last, flo. you remember them, don't you?" "nothing could be more appetising," replied florence. "would you like to come upstairs now, kitty?" mrs. aylmer had given up her wee bed-room to the two girls. where she was to sleep was a mystery known only to herself; but, as she seemed quite cheerful and happy over it, florence advised kitty not to investigate matters too closely. "it's the mummy's way," she said; "she likes managing; she quite adores the thought of having us both with her in this little dull house. can you put up with it, kitty?" "the place is quite lovely," replied kitty, "and i would put up with anything after the news i told you this morning." "oh, that your father is really coming back: that you have not to go to india after all: that you are going to live here and take a beautiful house and be real mistress of a home," said florence. "i don't know anything about the beautiful house, nor being mistress of a home," replied kitty; "but i am going to be with father wherever he is, and that," she added, "will be home to me." "of course," answered florence, in a somewhat wistful tone. "but what are you going to do, flo?" "i am going to earn my living," replied florence stoutly. "of course; but how?" "i shall talk things over with you and the mummy. i have left school at last for good. what a blessing it is that i shall not have anything to do with aunt susan! i feel so jolly independent; but i should like to meet her and--" "girls, supper is ready," called out mrs. aylmer's voice from below, and the two ran downstairs. the meal was very merry; the old schoolfellows were glad to be together. mrs. aylmer chatted in very much the way she had chatted six years ago. she could not help constantly alluding to mrs. aylmer the great. "i have not seen her," she said; "but she sends me my money regularly once a quarter--twelve pounds ten shillings. she never misses a day, i will say that for her, and i think i am a very good manager not to be one farthing in debt." "you are perfectly splendid, mother," replied florence. "she has never once asked for you; she said she would not, and she has kept her word," continued mrs. aylmer. "well, mother, does it matter?" replied the daughter. "they say, too," continued the little mummy--and here she heaved a heavy sigh--"that she has adopted a young man as her heir. i have never seen him, but his name is maurice trevor. he is no relation of any sort, and goodness knows why she has adopted him. they say he is a very pushing and a very designing young man, and that he twists poor susan round his little finger. i know she sent him to cambridge and spent an enormous sum on him there--two or three hundred a year at the very least--and now he has returned and lives with her, and is to take the management of her estates. she has been buying a lot of fresh property; but there--i am sick of the subject. you didn't play your cards well, florence; you ought to have been in the position which young mr. trevor occupies." "i am glad i am not," replied florence; "i'm twice the girl for being independent. mother, kitty and i want to go out and have a walk by the seashore." "do, my dear, do; i have a great deal to contrive and manage, and susan's temper is not what it was. oh, don't breathe it too loud. i wouldn't part with her for the world; but really she does rule me. she'll be as cross as two sticks because we sat so long over supper. do go; it is a lovely evening." so the two girls put on their hats and went out. there was a silver moon shining to-night on a silver sea, and the place looked calm and peaceful, as if no storms had ever ruffled those waters: as if no trouble had ever visited those shores. kitty, whose heart was full of song and her face of delight, almost danced as she walked. florence's steps were also full of spring, but they were a little slower than her companion's. "what are you thinking of, flo?" said the younger girl. "all sorts of things," replied florence; "about that man, maurice trevor, for instance. i don't envy him." "nor do i. i wonder he submits to it," said kitty. "but don't let us think of him. he has nothing whatever to do with us." "no more he has," answered florence; "but to eat the bread of dependence: to eat _her_ bread! oh, he must be a horror! i only trust i shall never meet him." kitty now linked her arm inside her companion's. "you must often come and stay with me," she said: "it would be delightful. i will coax and beg of father to have a house where you can come; then you will have two homes, you know, florry: the little mummy's home, as you always call your mother, and my home. you will be equally welcome at both. oh, dear, you are quite my very greatest friend--the greatest friend i have in all the world." "you are wonderfully good to put up with me," said florence; "but there, i have repented of that old sin, and it is not going to darken my life." "there is only one thing i dislike about you, florence," said kitty. she frowned slightly as she spoke. "what is that?" "you always will revert to the old times. just do promise me that you won't speak of them again, at least to me." "i will try not, darling; but you are good to forget." chapter ii. the little mummy's arrangements. those who remember "a bunch of cherries" will recall the fact that florence aylmer left cherry court school under a cloud: that kitty sharston won the prize offered by sir john wallis, and of course stayed on at the school; and that bertha keys, finding her game was up and her wickedness discovered, disappeared--it was hoped by the unhappy girl whom she had injured never to show her face again. in this old world of ours, however, bad people do not always receive their punishment, and it came to pass that bertha keys, although she had failed in the case of cherry court school, did manage to feather her nest and to secure a very comfortable post for herself. so daring an adventuress was this young woman that she absolutely made up her mind to lay siege to no less a person than mrs. aylmer the great. it was easy for her to do this. mrs. aylmer had not noticed her on that auspicious occasion when all the girls of the school were collected in sir john wallis's fine old house. the part that bertha had played in the affair, which had lowered her niece in her eyes for ever, was very slightly impressed on her memory. there was a pupil teacher who had not behaved right, but what the name of that pupil teacher was had never sunk into the good lady's memory. she was terribly disappointed about her niece florence, although she pretended not to care, and a month or two afterwards she advertised in a local paper for a companion. the person who answered this advertisement was bertha keys. she managed to satisfy the good lady with regard to testimonials, taking care never to breathe the name of cherry court school. she secured the post, and from that moment ruled mrs. aylmer, although mrs. aylmer supposed that she ruled her. florence found a friend in sir john wallis, who put her on the foundation of an excellent school which he knew of. she was well educated, and now at the age of twenty was prepared to fight the battle of life. florence had received a present of twenty pounds from sir john wallis on leaving school, and with this slender provision she meant to fight the world and find her own niche. kitty sharston had fulfilled all her early promise of beauty and grace. her father was now returning to england, and she was to go and live with him. mrs. aylmer the less was just as determined and just as peculiar as in the days of old. she always spoke out what she thought, and the next morning at breakfast, as the two girls with rosy faces and bright eyes sat round the very tiny board, she expounded her views. "florence," she said, "i am nothing if i am not frank." "we know that, mummy," replied her daughter, with a twinkle in her bright dark eyes; "what is up now?" "only this: i have been thinking things in the night." "oh, do satisfy my curiosity, mrs. aylmer," exclaimed kitty; "where did you sleep last night? you don't know how uncomfortable florry and i were, fearing we had taken your bed." "which you did, my dear. if it was a subject of fear, your fears were realised," responded the little widow. "oh, but this is quite dreadful: ought we to stay on here, florry, or, at least, ought i to stay on?" "how much, florry, are you going to pay me per week?" now exclaimed mrs. aylmer. "i wish i could take you, my dear, darling child, for nothing; but the fact is, i cannot, and if i could sukey would not allow it. sukey says that a greater stint she will not bear, and twelve pounds ten a quarter cannot be made to go farther than we two poor women make it go, florence. do you think you could rise to the sum of fifteen shillings a week if i give you meat every day?" "of course, mummy, of course." "and i must and will pay a pound a week," said kitty; "why, it is cheap--so cheap that father will be more than astonished, and the place is so lovely, and i am enjoying it greatly. can you put me up and give me what food i require for a pound a week, mrs. aylmer?" "it will be riches," said mrs. aylmer, with tears in her eyes. "the fact is, i can feed you both comfortably for ten shillings a piece, and the rest will be clear profit: fifteen shillings over for clear profit. why, i won't know myself. i might be able to buy some new clothes; for i declare, my dears, i am shabby, having turned and turned and contrived and contrived until my clothes are past wearing. your aunt has not sent me a box of her cast-offs for over a year, and i think it is extremely unkind of her." "but you have not told me yet where you slept last night, dear mrs. aylmer," said kitty. "well, dear, if you must know, i slept here in this room. i slept on the dining-table. i borrowed some extra pillows from a neighbour, or, rather, sukey borrowed them for me, for it would never do for my friends to suppose that i have not got abundance of pillows in my own house. i have had quite a luxurious night, my dear girls; so pray don't trouble about me." kitty looked somewhat inclined to cry, but florence burst out laughing. she jumped up, went to her mother, and put her arms round her neck. "you dear little mummy," she said; "you are too comical for anything." "there is no doubt whatever," replied mrs. aylmer, in answer to this caress, "that god almighty makes us each in the most useful shape and form. now, you are big, florence, and could never manage on a table, but a little woman like me--why, it comes in most handy. everything is arranged for the best, and so i always say." here she glanced around her with her black eyes full of merriment, and certainly she looked as happy, notwithstanding her uncomfortable bed, as woman could look. "i thought of sharing the kitchen with sukey," she said; "but she won't stand any disarrangement of her habits, so there was nothing but the table, and if you think that it isn't worth that small discomfort for the sake of having you two bright young things about the house, and the neighbours remarking on you and wondering how i am managing, and i with fifteen shillings a week to the good in my pocket, why, you don't know your mother, florence aylmer." "well, mummy, and what was that thought you said you had in the back of your head?" continued florence. "oh, that," said mrs. aylmer--here she looked at both girls. "i wonder, kitty sharston," she said, "if you can keep a secret?" "try me, mrs. aylmer," replied kitty. "well, i was thinking things over in the night, and it struck me that the very best possible way to punish my sister-in-law, susan aylmer, and have everything that was wrong put right, is for you, florence, to secure the young man, maurice trevor, as your husband." "oh, mother, how can you talk such nonsense?" said florence. "as if i would," she added, jumping to her feet and shaking the crumbs from her dress. "there," said mrs. aylmer, "that's just like you. i have been planning it all. you have but to show the fascinations which all women ought to possess, and you will soon twist him round your little finger." "i could never, never think of it, mother; and i am distressed that you should say it, and more particularly before kitty," was florence's answer. mrs. aylmer laughed. "girls always say that," she remarked, "but in the end they yield to the inevitable. it would be a splendid _coup_; it would serve her right. she would be forced to have you living with her after all. i am told she has made the young man the heir of all she possesses, and--but what is the matter, my dear?" "i really won't listen to another word," cried florence, and she jumped up and ran out of the room. mrs. aylmer's eyes now filled with tears. she looked full at kitty. "i don't know what is the matter with florence," she said. "i had hoped that that dreadful thing which happened years ago had subdued her spirit and tamed her a trifle, but she seems just as obdurate as ever. it was such a beautiful idea, and it came over me in the night, and i thought i would tell florence at once, and we might put our heads together and contrive a means by which the young folks could meet; but if she takes it up in that dreadful spirit, what is to be done?" "but, of course, mrs. aylmer, it would never do," said kitty. "how can you think of such a thing for a single moment?" chapter iii. a startling meeting. kitty went out soon afterwards and joined florence on the beach. they walked up and down, chatting eagerly. for a time nothing whatever was said about mrs. aylmer's queer suggestion; then suddenly florence spoke of it. "there is one thing i ought to say, kitty." "what is that?" asked kitty. "you must never mind the little mummy's oddities. she has lived alone on extremely circumscribed means for many years, and when she gets an idea into her head she broods on it." "you mean, of course, what she said with regard to mr.--mr. trevor," said kitty, flushing as she spoke. "yes, it wasn't nice of her," said florence, with a sigh; "and we won't either of us think of it again. kitty, i have made up my mind not to marry." "why so?" "for a great many reasons. one of them is that i vastly prefer my independence. another is that i do not think a rich nice man is likely to come in my way, and i do not want to have anything to do with a poor man, whether he is nice or nasty. i have seen too much of poverty. i have had it close to me all my days. i mean to do well in the world: to be beholden to no one. in a fortnight's time i am going to london. i am just taking this one fortnight of rest and refreshment: then i go to london. i have in my trunk half a dozen introductions to different people. i mean to use them; i mean to get something to do; i mean to step from the lowest rung of the ladder up to the highest. i mean to be a success: to prove to the world that a girl can fight her own battles, live her own life, secure her reward--be, in short, a success." "why, florence," said her companion, "how well you speak; how excited you look!" "i have not gone through all i have gone through in my life for nothing," was florence's reply. "i will never scheme again, i will never again do anything underhand, and i will not marry the man my mother has singled out for me." she had scarcely said the words before the attention of both girls was arrested by the sound of a merry laugh not ten yards away. they both looked round, and florence's cheeks first of all grew vivid and then turned white. a gracefully-dressed woman, or rather girl, was crossing the sands, accompanied by a young man in a grey suit. the man had broad shoulders, closely-cropped, rather fair hair, a sweeping moustache, and eyes as blue as the sky. he had a nice, open sort of face. he was tall, nearly six feet in height, and held himself as erect as a grenadier. he was bending towards the girl and talking to her, and the girl continued to laugh, and once she glanced with a quick, darting movement in the direction where kitty and florence were sitting. then, touching her companion on the arm, she said: "i am tired; will you take me back to the hotel?" neither kitty nor florence said a word until the pair--the good-looking, well-set-up young man and the girl in her pretty summer dress--disappeared from view. then florence turned to kitty. "it is?" said florence. kitty nodded. "who would have believed it?" continued florence. she started up in her excitement. "i do not think i can quite stand this," she said. "but where has she come from?" said kitty again. "how can i tell? i never want to see her wicked face again." "she looks just as young as she did six years ago," said kitty. then she added impulsively: "i am sorry i have seen her again; i never could bear her face. do you think her eyes were set quite straight in her head, florence?" "i don't know anything about that," answered florence recklessly. "long ago she did me a great deal of harm. there came a time when i almost hated her. whether her eyes are straight or not, her mind at least is crooked. who is that man she is with?" "he is good-looking and looks nice also," said kitty. florence made no reply. the girls paced up and down together; but somehow the edge of the day's enjoyment seemed gone. they went in to their midday meal between twelve and one, and afterwards kitty, who said she felt a little tired, went to lie down. florence, however, was still restless and perturbed; she hated the thought of the vicinity of bertha keys, and yet she had a curious longing to know something about her. "i am not going to fight shy of her or to show her that i am in the least afraid of her," thought florence; "i can make myself much more disagreeable to her and much more dangerous than she can ever make herself to me. i wonder where she is staying?" mrs. aylmer proposed that she and her daughter should spend the afternoon on the sands. "let us visit the shrimp-woman and get some fresh shrimps and perhaps a crab or a lobster for supper," said the little mummy, holding out a bait which would have quite won the day in the old times. but florence had outgrown her taste for these special dainties. "i want to go out alone, mummy," she said; "you and i and kitty can have a walk after tea, but just for the present i must be alone." she pinned on her hat, put on her gloves, and left the cottage. mrs. aylmer stood in the porch and watched her. "a good girl, a fairly good-looking girl too," she said to herself, "but obstinate, obstinate as a mule. even that trouble of long ago has not tamed her. she is the image of her poor dear father; he always was a man with a desperate will of his own." miss aylmer watched florence until she disappeared in the direction of the pier. there was a bench there, and a girl was seated on it. she wore a pink dress of some washing material and a large black shady hat. florence came nearer and nearer. the girl, who was reading a book, dropped it and gazed in her direction. presently florence found herself within less than two hundred yards from the place where the other girl was seated. at this moment the girl flung down her book, uttered a hasty exclamation, and came forward. "is it or is it not florence aylmer?" she said. she held out both her hands, uttering a little cry of apparent pleasure. florence did not notice the outstretched hands. she came up to her. "i have come on purpose," she said; "i knew you were here. what are you doing here?" "why should i tell you what i am doing?" replied bertha. her eyes slightly contracted, she pushed her hair away from her forehead, then she looked full at florence and uttered a laugh. "what is the good of quarrelling?" she said. "we have met. i am in the running; you are out of it. i am up and you are down. my prospects are first-rate, yours----" "what do you mean? how can you tell anything about my prospects? why do you trouble me? why did you come to meet me just now?" "speak the truth," said miss keys; "were you not coming on purpose to see me?" florence was silent for a moment. "i recognised you this morning," she said, "and i was restless to know why you were here." "ah, curiosity, you are eve's own daughter," said bertha keys, with a laugh. "well, now that we have met, we may as well talk the thing out. can you deny that you are down and i am up?" "i neither deny nor affirm your statement," replied florence. "i have never heard of you--i have never mentioned your name since that dreadful day at cherry court six years ago." "six years this autumn--not quite six years yet," replied bertha, correcting her. "yes, i too remember the day," she said thoughtfully. "it seemed a bad day for me, and yet it was a good one. i have feathered my nest. you stepped out of it and i stepped in. do you understand?" "i don't." "you have grown a good deal, florence aylmer," said bertha, looking her all over. "you are what would be called a fine young woman. if you had had the advantages of a refined life, of very good dress, you might, now that you are grown up, command almost any future. as it is"--she shrugged her shoulders. "what is the matter with my dress?" said florence; "you always were queer and rude, bertha, and time has not improved you." "you cannot say that i am badly dressed," said bertha keys, and she glanced at her exquisitely-cut pink zephyr skirt, her pretty blouse, and her neat shoes. florence also eyed her all over. "you are well got up," she said; "but what of that? your face never changes." "thank you for the compliment," replied bertha; "i cannot say that you are well got up, and your face, if it has changed, is not more beautiful than it promised to be." "pray leave my face alone; it belongs to me, not to you," retorted florence, with some spirit. "do you want to know what i am doing now: how i am managing to live?" said bertha. "you can tell me if you please; if you prefer not to say anything, it does not matter in the least." "but it does matter; it matters a good deal," replied bertha. "you did something very silly long ago. you thought to succeed, but you failed. it was not my fault. i did what i could for you. if i was clever then, i am still more clever now. i have a gift of writing, but i need not wear my brain out thinking of curious essays and well-devised stories and clever plots. i am working at my own story, and i think it will come off well." "but what do you mean? where are you?" "we are staying at the 'crown and garter' for the present." "we?" said florence, in a questioning tone. "yes; how stupid you are! have not you guessed! mrs. aylmer, mr. trevor, and i." "you don't mean it?" said florence, springing to her feet. "aunt susan! are you staying with her?" "yes, and i fancy i am indispensable to her. i have lived with her for nearly six years. i manage her affairs; i write her letters; i attend to her business; she consults me about everything. she goes where i like; she does what i want. the nest is comfortable. it was meant for you, but it fits me. now perhaps you know." "and mr.--mr. trevor?" said florence, in a trembling voice. "oh, he fits me too. he is a very good fellow, very nice indeed. he thinks i am quite an angel; he admires my talent, as he calls it. i believe he would be very sad if i were not there; he is much more likely to go than i am. yes, florence, you did well for me when you lost that scholarship. i thought i would tell you." "oh! oh!" said florence, trembling and turning pale; "but if aunt susan knew! if she knew!" "yes, if she knew," said bertha, "but she does not know, and of course you won't tell her." "you think i won't; but--but mummy will." "i don't think so. it would be much worse for yourselves if you did. i can hoodwink her; i can turn her against your mother; i can make her more bitterly opposed to you. now you have to understand. i have long felt that i must come to an understanding with you. you must keep silence. if you speak you will do very little good, but it is possible you may give me an uncomfortable half-hour. now, i don't care to have an uncomfortable half-hour, and, above all things, i don't want mr. trevor set against me." "do you--do you mean to marry him?" said florence abruptly. bertha keys coloured very faintly. "you are impertinent," she said; "i refuse to answer. i am comfortable where i am, and i mean to stay there. if you put mr. trevor against me, if you put mrs. aylmer against me, it will be all the worse for yourself; but if, on the other hand, you respect my secret, i can make things perhaps a shade more comfortable for you." "oh, oh, bertha, no," said poor florence. she covered her face--her cheeks were crimson. "i hate you! i can never be your friend. why did you come here?" "i came on purpose. i have not lost sight of you. you know something about me which i do not want the world to know. you could make things uncomfortable for me. i guessed that you would be coming here about now, and mrs. aylmer, mr. trevor, and i came to the 'crown and garter' at my suggestion. we will leave again the day after to-morrow; but not--not until you have made me a promise." chapter iv. an evil genius. after bertha said the last words, florence was quite silent. bertha turned and looked at her; then, satisfied with what she saw or fancied she saw in her face, she turned aside again, giving a faint sigh as she did so. "it was a narrow shave," she said to herself; "this had to be. if she took it in one way all was lost; but she won't take it in that dreadful way: she will protect me for her own sake. the girl who could stoop to deceit, who could use my assistance to gain her own ends six years ago, is not immaculate now. i can use her in the future; she will be extremely useful in many ways, and my secret is absolutely safe." so bertha leant back against the bench, crossed one prettily-shod foot over the other, and looked out across the summer sea. presently florence spoke in a low tone. "good-bye," she said. she rose as she uttered the words. "why do you say that? sit down again. we have come to no terms." "we cannot come to any," answered florence, in still that low, almost heart-broken voice. then, all of a sudden, without the least warning, she burst into tears. "you bring the past back to me, bertha," she said: "the hateful past." "it is very silly of you indeed to cry," said bertha; "and as to the past, goodness knows it is dead and buried deep enough unless you choose to dig it out of its grave. leave it alone, florence, and come to terms with me. now, for goodness' sake stop crying!" "i won't tell of you just at present," said florence; "that is the only thing i can say now." once more she rose. "you had kitty sharston with you this morning," continued bertha. "she recognised me too, did she not?" "yes, we both recognised you." "i never did anything particular to injure her; i mean, everything came right for her," continued bertha; "she could scarcely interfere. it is you whom i dread. you and your mother between you can do me harm; but, after all, even at your very worst i may not be deprived of my present comfortable home and my delightful future. but i do not choose to run the risk, so you must promise that you won't betray me." "does mother know that mrs. aylmer--that aunt susan is staying at dawlish?" continued florence. "she probably knows it by this time. mrs. aylmer has written her a note asking her to call to see her. she won't see you, so don't imagine it." "i don't want to see her." "before your mother accepts that invitation, i want you to secure her silence; or, stay," continued bertha briskly, "i will see her myself." she thought for a moment over a new idea which had come to her. her lips then broke into smiles. "how stupid of me!" she said. "i never thought of your mother before; she is the very person. i will meet you to-morrow morning here, florence, and then you can tell me what you decide. it will be all the better for you if you are wise: all the worse for you if you are silly. now go home, as i see you are dying to do so." florence turned away from her companion without even bidding her good-bye: her heart was in a tumult. she scarcely knew what to say or what to do. she did not want to injure bertha, and yet she hated to feel that she was in her present position. she disliked her as much as it was possible for her to dislike anyone. "she makes me feel bad," thought the girl; "she brings back the dreadful past. oh, i was a wicked girl; but she helped to make me so. she brings back the dreadful, dreadful past." by the time she had reached her mother's cottage she resolved to tell her exactly what had transpired and to ask her advice. "for the little mummy must also have learned her lesson: the little mummy will tell me what is right to do," thought the girl. but when she entered the house mrs. aylmer was nowhere to be seen. sukey, on the contrary, came forward with an important manner. "well, miss flo," she said, "when you come to the place, that aunt of yours seems also to put in an appearance. your mother has had a note from her. she is staying at the 'crown and garter,' and mrs. aylmer has gone up there to tea. no, you are not invited, miss flo, and sorry i am that you are not." "it doesn't matter, sukey," replied florence. she sighed as she spoke. "have you a bit of a headache, my dear?" asked the old servant. "yes, i think i have," answered the girl. "i'll get you your tea, and the tea for the other pretty young lady too. you can have it in the porch. it's a lovely evening. it don't do for girls to have headaches; but there's nothing to set you right like a cup of tea." sukey bustled off to prepare the simple meal, and presently kitty came downstairs. she was refreshed by her sleep and inclined to be merry with florence. florence, however, felt too anxious to talk much. "what is the matter with you, florry? are you worried about anything?" asked the companion. "oh, i suppose it is about that wretched bertha keys. what can she be doing here?" "you'll be amazed when i tell you that i saw bertha this afternoon," continued florence. "where do you think she is staying? what post do you think she has secured?" "how can i tell?" answered kitty, raising her brows almost with impatience; then she added, before florence could utter a word: "i am afraid i don't greatly care. all you and i want is that she should not come into our lives." "but she has come into my life once more," said poor florence, clasping and unclasping her strong white hands as she spoke. "i believe she is my evil genius. i quite dread her, and she has a power over me, and it has not lessened, although i have not seen her for six years. do you know where she is staying?" "no." "she is living with aunt susan aylmer as her companion." kitty was so much startled by the news that she sprang to her feet. "never!" she cried. "it is the case; she has been with aunt susan for years." "but how did she get the post? from the little i have seen of your aunt, she is one of the most particular, fastidious women in the world." "trust bertha to manage that," replied florence, in a bitter tone; "but anyhow, she is very much afraid of me: she does not want me to see aunt susan, nor tell her what i know." "and what will you do, flo?" "i am undecided at the present moment." "i think you ought to tell her," said kitty gravely. "she won't see me, and i do dread making bertha a greater enemy than she is at present." "all the same, i think you ought to tell her," replied kitty. she looked grave and earnest as she spoke. "if i were you i would," replied florence, with some bitterness; "if i were you i would never do a crooked thing, or think a crooked thought; but i am not made that way. i am different, quite different. she frightens me." "well, don't think any more of her just now. take your tea and let us go out for a walk." chapter v. maurice trevor. florence's head ached sufficiently badly to make her inclined to follow kitty's advice. the girls had just finished their tea when mrs. aylmer, with flushed cheeks, and wearing her very best turned-for-the-twentieth-time dress, entered the little room where they were seated. "well, well, girls," she said: "well, well, where do you think i have been?" "i know, mummy," said florence. "you know!" replied mrs. aylmer. "who told you?" "sukey." "i begged of her not; but really that woman can keep nothing to herself, and she is always agog to be first in the field. your aunt is going to send me a trunk full of old clothes. i dare say some of them may be made to fit you, flo." "i do not think so, mother," answered florence. "where is the use of being proud? she's a very fine figure of a woman still. she wears wonderfully, and she has a most charming secretary: a sort of companion, a delightful girl. she and i walked down together almost to this door. she is in your shoes, my poor florence; but she is really a _very_ nice girl." "i have seen her to-day, mother; i know who she is," said florence gravely; "her name is bertha keys." "bertha keys," replied mrs. aylmer; "bertha keys?" "you know who bertha keys is, mother. she is the girl, the pupil teacher, who behaved so badly at cherry court school six years ago." "oh, we won't mention that affair; it is dead and buried; we are not going to dig it out of its grave," replied mrs. aylmer. florence did not reply. she looked full at her mother. "bertha has been saying something to her," she thought; "she has been trying to influence her. those were almost bertha's own words." she got up hastily. "the fact is, mother, i do not care to talk of it," she said; "the whole thing has upset me very much." "well, darling, i cannot think that it is your affair. it is bitterly disappointing that you should have lost your aunt susan's patronage. how proud i should be of you now if you were really her adopted daughter." "why, no, mother, you would not see me; you forget that part." "to be sure, how stupid i am!" said mrs. aylmer. "well, your aunt was most agreeable to-day: not so stingy either. we had quite a nice little tea; and that young man i told you of, mr. trevor, he came in. he is a charming person, my dear; quite fascinating. i was much taken with him. i longed to ask him to call, but i saw that susan would allow no liberties. he chatted to me all the time, and was so agreeable. i am quite delighted with him." "we are going for a walk now, mother," said florence. "well, dear, do; you both look pale. i want you to get nice and sunburnt, and to have a right good time. yes, i am quite pleased with my visit. there is no use in quarrelling with your relations, and susan, the moment she looked at my poor turned skirt--it is shiny, is it not, miss sharston?--she spoke about that trunk of clothes which is to arrive next week. she turned to the charming miss keys, and asked her to collect them." "and you stood it, mother; you really stood it," said florence, the colour coming and going on her face. "my dear, good girl, beggars cannot be choosers. i have been absolutely at my wits' ends for clothes since susan has been so thoughtless. i not only stood it, but on the way home i gave miss keys a hint as to the sort of things i wanted. i told her to try and smuggle into the trunk one of your aunt's rich black silks. she said she thought she could manage it, as she has at least four or five at the present moment, and never can tell herself how many she has. i told miss keys to let it be four in the future, and send the fifth on to me, and she laughed. she is a very clever, agreeable girl, and said she thought it could be done. i am made. i'll astonish the neighbours this winter." "come out, kitty," said poor florence, turning to her companion. she felt that, fond as she was of the little mummy, she could not endure any more of her society for the present. the moment the girls had departed, mrs. aylmer, who was standing on tiptoe near the window to watch them as they went slowly away in the direction of the beach, turned abruptly, went to the door of the little sitting-room, and locked it. she then put her hand into her pocket. "is it true? have i the evidence of my own senses?" she thought. "i never met a nicer girl than miss keys. of course, she did wrong years ago: but so, for that matter, did my own poor florence. she really can be made of great use. that black silk will be invaluable, and...." here the widow, from the depths of her pocket, brought out four sovereigns. "she says she can give me more by-and-by, and i am to influence florence. of course i will. do i envy the poor child her post? by no means. as florence cannot occupy it, as well she as another. that she is setting her cap at that handsome mr. trevor there is no doubt; but perhaps florence can win him over her head. we will see about that. anyhow, i am not going to injure the poor, dear girl, and i shall tell florence so." mrs. aylmer felt far too excited to sit down. from the depths of poverty she suddenly felt herself raised almost to a pinnacle of wealth, as she estimated it. four golden sovereigns and the faithful promise of one of susan's best silk dresses. "there will be lots of odds and ends besides," thought the little widow. "i am made! i am made! now, if i only could! if i only could!" as she considered the possibility of a very definite line of action, she still continued to stand by the tiny window of the sitting room, and from this vantage-point she saw a young man in a grey tweed suit strolling slowly in the direction of the sea-beach. "mr. trevor!" she said to herself; "mr. maurice trevor, as gentlemanly-looking a young fellow as i have seen for many a day. he reminds me of poor dear florence's father. he had just that downright sort of air, and he was fond of sticking his hands into his pockets too--yes, and he used to whistle, as i see that young fellow is whistling. i am always told that whistling is a good sign: it shows a generous disposition. if i am not greatly mistaken, that young man maurice trevor is generous and open-handed; he'll suit me. now, if i could only introduce them! florence and kitty sharston are on the beach--mr. trevor is going down to the beach. i'll go and take a walk. it is a fine evening, and it will do me good." no sooner had this thought come to mrs. aylmer than she bustled into the kitchen. "well, ma'am," said sukey, in a cross voice, "have you washed up the tea-things yet? we're in a rare mull this afternoon with those two young ladies in the house, and i can't do more than i said i would do. you promised that the tea-things should be your care, ma'am; and are they washed up? that's what i want to know." "oh, my dear good sukey, don't worry about the tea-things now," said mrs. aylmer. "i am in no end of a flurry. a beautiful new black silk dress is promised to me, sukey, and i am made in other ways too. you wash them up, and i'll give you threepence; i will--i promise you." "you can't afford it, ma'am. what's the good of promising what you haven't got?" said the obdurate sukey. "i will; i declare i will, and i'll bring in something nice and tasty for supper. you wash the tea-things, there's a good soul!" mrs. aylmer scarcely waited for sukey's very indignant reply. the next moment she was out of the house. she could walk quickly enough when she chose, and she knew every yard of the ground. soon she was on the beach. mr. trevor was walking slowly in front of her. he was smoking a cigarette, his straw hat was pushed slightly forward over his blue eyes, his hands were still in his pockets, he was looking straight ahead of him, and as he slowly sauntered forward he was thinking. his thoughts were evidently not quite to his taste, for he frowned now and then, and looked over the wide expanse of sands, and occasionally he stood quite still. thus mrs. aylmer found it easy to catch him up. she did so with a little pattering run which was one of her characteristics. "good evening, mr. trevor," she said, in her cheerful tone. he started when she spoke to him, turned to look at her, and then took off his hat. "good evening," he said; "i did not recognise you at first." "no wonder, as you only saw me for the first time to-day. i am taking a stroll; it is very pleasant here in the evenings, is it not?" "very pleasant! it is a charming place," said trevor. mrs. aylmer considered for a moment whether she should proceed on her walk alone, or whether she should try to induce the young man to accompany her. "i am looking for my girls," she said; "they went down on the beach half an hour ago. did you happen to see them, mr. trevor, as you were walking?" "i have only just come out. i have not seen anyone," was his answer. "are you quite sure? i _know_ they were going on the sands, my two girls, my daughter and her friend. i should like to introduce you to my daughter, mr. trevor." "i should be pleased to know her," he answered, still speaking in that vague sort of way which showed that he was thinking of something else. mrs. aylmer held both her hands before her eyes. thus shaded from the evening sun, she was able to look long and steadily across the beach. "i do declare i believe those two are the very girls we are looking for," she cried; "if you will come with me now (and i don't suppose you have anything special to do) i'll introduce you." trevor had, of course, no excuse to make. he was not interested in mrs. aylmer's daughter, nor in mrs. aylmer herself, but as well walk with her as alone. so the two stepped briskly across the sands. "it was the greatest possible pleasure to me to meet you to-day," continued the little widow; "i am so glad that my poor sister-in-law has a bright young fellow like you to look thoroughly after her affairs." "but i don't look after them," he said; "mrs. aylmer has been extremely good to me, but the person who manages her business affairs is that very clever young lady, miss keys." "oh, what a genius she is!" said mrs. aylmer; "a wonderful girl, quite charming." "do you think so?" answered trevor. he looked at the little widow, and the faintest dawn of an amused smile stole into his eyes. "do i think so? i am immensely taken with her," said mrs. aylmer. "she is, i know, the greatest comfort to my dear sister-in-law. how splendidly susan wears, and how considerate she is! i don't know what i should do without her. mr. trevor, i will say it, you are a very lucky person to be such a favourite." "mrs. aylmer has done a great deal for me," said the young man; "she has after a fashion adopted me." "and you are very glad, are you not?" "yes, i am glad," he replied. "is that your daughter?" he continued, as if he wished to turn the conversation. "that is my dear daughter florence." mrs. aylmer spoke excitedly. florence and kitty sharston were seated on the edge of a rock. kitty was poking with her parasol at some sea-anemones which were clinging to the rock just under the water. florence was gazing with a frown between her dark brows at her mother and the man who was by her mother's side. if she could have fled, she would, but mrs. aylmer, who knew florence's ways to perfection, now raised her voice to a shrill scream. "stay where you are, florence; i am coming to sit with you, so is mr. trevor; don't stir until we come up." poor florence's blush was so vivid that it was well it was too far off to be noticed. there was nothing for it, however, but to obey. mrs. aylmer came up in high good humour, and made the necessary introductions. chapter vi. mrs. aylmer's strategy. "now, this is cosy," said the widow, "quite what i call friendly. i love these impromptu little meetings; all the stiffness which generally surrounds a first introduction must vanish when four human creatures find themselves face to face with nature in her grandest aspects. look at those great rolling waves, mr. trevor, and tell me if you ever saw anything finer in its way." "oh, mother, don't be a goose," said florence. try as she would, she could not help laughing. that laugh settled the matter. trevor looked into her dancing eyes, noticed how white her teeth were, and, moving a step nearer, sat down by her side. "do you know this place well?" he asked. "it has been my home for the greater part of my life," was florence's reply. she felt inclined to be rude to mr. trevor. the man who was adopted by aunt susan, who was doubtless the chosen and confidential friend of bertha keys, could surely have no interest for her! but trevor had a gentle and very polite manner. it never occurred to him that this somewhat showy-looking girl could dislike his company. he was good-looking himself, and accustomed to being made much of and petted a good deal by women, and before many minutes had passed, florence, in spite of herself, was chatting gaily with him. she forgot that her mother had manoeuvred in the most open and brazen way to secure this introduction; she forgot everything but the pleasure of talking to a fellow-creature, who seemed to understand her sentiments, and also to approve them. when a young man approves of a girl's ideas, when he likes to look into her face and watch the sparkle of her eyes, she must be one in a thousand if she does not find him agreeable, sympathetic, and all the rest. presently trevor suggested that he and florence should go down on the beach, cross some low-lying rocks, and find a certain pool, which at low water contained the most lovely of sea-anemones to be found anywhere round the coast. "oh, come too, mother; come too, kitty," said florence, as she jumped to her feet. "no, my dear, i am much too tired," said mrs. aylmer. she clutched at kitty's skirt as the young girl was about to rise, and pulled her back, to her own astonishment. "stay by me, miss sharston: i have much to say to you," remarked the widow. accordingly florence and trevor, florence well knowing that kitty had not been allowed to come with her, started on their tour of investigation alone. they found the sea-anemones and chatted about them, and trevor asked florence if she would like to begin to make a collection, and florence began by saying "yes," but finally refused the tempting offer which trevor made to help her in the matter. "i am going to london in a few days," she said. "to london?" he asked; "now, in this broiling weather?" "yes; why not? don't you like london in august?" "i never care for london at any time--in august it is particularly detestable," was his reply. "we are going to stay here for a day or two. i think you know miss keys; she told me that you were an old friend of hers." "she was at the same school with me years ago," said florence, flushing as she spoke. "oh, do look at that beauty in the corner: a kind of dark electric-blue. what a wonderful creature! oh, and that rose-coloured one near it! sea-anemones are like great tropical flowers." meanwhile mrs. aylmer was consulting with kitty. "shall we or shall we not ask him to supper?" she said. "what do you think?" "i am sure i don't know," said kitty. she looked at her companion with those innocent, wide-open grey eyes, which were her greatest charm. "he has quite taken to florence; don't you see for yourself?" "oh, yes; everyone takes to her," replied kitty, with enthusiasm; "she is so nice and honest and downright." mrs. aylmer sighed. "she has had her troubles, poor child; but in the end things may come round in a most wonderful way. do you know, i like him very much?" "like who?" asked kitty. "really, miss sharston, you are a little silly--mr. trevor, mr. maurice trevor, the adopted son of my wealthy sister-in-law, susan aylmer." "oh, yes," said kitty; "i forgot that you were talking about him." "i was asking you, my dear, if you thought we might invite him to join us at supper." "why not?" said kitty. "well, sukey's temper grows worse and worse. we were going to have a very small supper, not what you could put a man down to; but if he were coming you and i might just whip round to the shrimp-shop and get a lobster: lobster with a nice salad is what young men delight in; and we might get a bottle of claret at the grocer's. if you would carry the lobster, i would bring the claret. it is an enormous expense to go to, but if in the end----" "oh, dear," said kitty, rising. she looked at mrs. aylmer, and the colour rose in a delicate wave all over her pretty face. "oh, i would not," she said; "i don't think florence would like it--i am certain she would not. oh, you know her: she will be rude; don't do it, please, please don't." but if there was one person more determined than another to have her own way, it was the little mummy. she had only vaguely considered the possibility of asking mr. trevor to partake of their humble meal when she first spoke of it; now that kitty opposed it she made up her mind that by hook or crook she would convey him to their house. what a victory it would be! susan aylmer, her rich sister-in-law, waiting and wondering why her handsome and fascinating young protégé did not appear: bertha keys finding her meal very dull without him: both these ladies talking about him, and in their hearts of hearts longing for his society: and he all the time in the tiny cottage, partaking of the humble fare of mrs. aylmer the less, with the naughty florence close to his side, and the fascinating kitty not a yard off. oh, it was worth a struggle! mrs. aylmer rose to her feet. a good stiff wind was beginning to blow, and she staggered for a moment as it caught her stout little person. then she raised her voice: "florence!" "yes, mother," said florence, turning. she was a hundred yards away now, and trevor was talking in a more fascinating way than ever about sea-anemones and their beauties. "if mr. trevor would come back to supper with us, we should be much pleased to see him. i will expect you, dear, to bring him in, when you have done your little preambulation. so pleased if you will join us, mr. trevor." all these words were shrieked on the sea-breeze. florence made a reply which did not quite reach her mother's ears. mrs. aylmer shouted once more, and then, seizing kitty's hand, turned in the direction of the little town. "now for the shrimp-woman and the grocer's shop," she said; "we must be as quick as possible. sukey will be in a flurry: but never mind: it is worth the effort." poor kitty had never felt more uncomfortable. really there were times when the little mummy was almost unendurable. a lobster was chosen, quite a nice expensive one; kitty was desired to go to the nearest greengrocer's shop, in order to secure the crispest lettuce and half a pound of tomatoes; the bottle of claret was also bought, and, laden with these spoils, the girl and the elder lady re-entered the tiny cottage. "now then, sukey," called out mrs. aylmer, "brisk is the word. i have caught the most charming young man you ever heard of, and he is coming to supper with us." sukey stared at her mistress. "what folly are you up to now, ma'am?" she asked. "no folly at all, my dear sukey. here's six-pence for you; don't say anything about it. make the salad as only you know how, and trim the lobster. i was considerate, sukey, and i got things that really will not give you trouble. kitty, my dear sweet little girl, help me to arrange the table. it will be supper in a bower--quite romantic. the young man will enjoy it; i am certain he will. dear flo! what it is to have a mother like me to look after her and see that she does not waste her opportunities." "but," said kitty, changing colour as she spoke, "do you really mean----" "i mean that mum's the word at present," was mrs. aylmer's mysterious remark. "help me, kitty sharston, like a good girl, and for goodness sake don't make yourself look too pretty to-night. i don't want him to turn his attention to you, i may as well say so frankly." kitty earnestly longed for the moment when she should leave mrs. aylmer's cottage. the supper was prepared, however; everything was arranged; and then the two ladies stood by the window watching for the return of the truants, as mrs. aylmer was now pleased to call florence and mr. trevor. presently she saw her daughter coming up the somewhat steep path alone. "flo, flo, child, where is he? is he coming?" "oh, no, mother," said florence. "did you give him my invitation?" "i told him he was not to accept it," said florence. "oh, dear me, mother, don't be silly. but, i say, what a nice lobster, and i am so hungry." chapter vii. the chains begin to fret. meanwhile trevor went slowly back to the hotel. he had enjoyed his talk with florence; he liked her brusque way, she did not flatter him, and she was, he considered, a particularly attractive-looking girl. in mrs. aylmer's society he was made a great deal of and fussed over, and when that happens to a young man he always enjoys the sort of girl who snubs him by way of contrast. he thought mrs. aylmer the less one of the most extraordinary women he had ever met; but as he liked florence, and was in the mood for a bit of an adventure, he would gladly have accepted her mother's invitation to supper if she had not tabooed it. "you are not to come," said florence, looking at him with her wide-open frank dark eyes; "mother is the soul of hospitality, but we are very poor: we have nothing proper to give you for supper, and i for one would much rather you did not come." "i do not in the least mind what i eat," he said, in a somewhat pleading tone, and he looked full at florence with his blue eyes. "nevertheless, you are not to come; it is only my mother's way: she always goes on like that with strangers. i never allow people to accept her invitations." after this there was nothing more to be said, and florence and trevor bade each other a very friendly good-bye. when trevor reached the "crown and garter" he found that mrs. aylmer and miss keys were already at dinner. they had both wondered where he was, and bertha keys had been a little anxious and a little uneasy. when he came in, the faces of both ladies brightened. "what makes you so late?" said mrs. aylmer, looking up at him. "i had a bit of an adventure," he said. he drew his chair to the table. "there was a slight chance of my not coming in to supper at all," he continued. "i met that charming little lady who visited you to-day, mrs. aylmer." "what?" said mrs. aylmer, dropping her knife and fork. "i met her again, and she introduced me to her daughter and to another young lady who is staying with them. by the way, they are your relations, so the little lady told me, and she was very hospitable, and invited me to supper, and i should have been very glad to go if the young lady had not told me that i must not accept her mother's invitation." now, these remarks were anything but agreeable to mrs. aylmer, and still less did they suit bertha keys. neither lady said anything, however, at the present moment, but each glanced at the other. after a time, mrs. aylmer stretched out her hand and touched trevor on his sleeve. "i am sorry you have made the acquaintance of miss florence aylmer," she said. "sorry? why?" he asked. "i consider her a remarkably nice girl." "i regret to have to inform you that she is anything but a nice girl. i will tell you about her another time. it is quite contrary to my wishes that you should have anything to do with her: you understand?" trevor flushed. he had a way of looking annoyed at times, and he looked annoyed now. his silken chains sometimes fretted him a great deal. he often wondered whether he had done right in allowing himself to become mrs. aylmer's adopted son. bertha, however, gave him a warning glance, and he said nothing. presently dinner was over, and bertha beckoned to him to join her on the balcony. "shall we go out on the sands?" she said. "i have something i want to say to you." "but mrs. aylmer has something to say to me also--something about that particularly nice girl, miss florence aylmer." "she will not say it to you to-night; she has a headache, and i persuaded her to go early to bed. i quite sympathise with you, too, about florence; she is one of my greatest friends." trevor gave bertha a grateful glance. "i am so glad you like her," he said. "i was never yet mistaken about anyone, and i took to her frank ways. she looks like the sort of girl who will never deceive you." bertha gave a peculiar smile, which vanished almost as soon as it visited her face. "shall we meet, say, in twenty minutes," she said, "just by the pier? i must see mrs. aylmer to bed; but i can join you then." "very well," he answered. bertha left the balcony, and trevor, lighting a cigar, tried to soothe his somewhat ruffled feelings. he had never liked mrs. aylmer less than he did at that moment. "it is horrid when a woman runs down a girl," he said to himself; "such bad form, and, as to this girl, it is impossible mrs. aylmer can know anything against her." presently he looked at his watch, and prepared to keep his appointment with bertha. he liked bertha keys very much; she was always jolly and good-tempered, and she often tried to smooth over matters when there was any little difference between himself and mrs. aylmer. when he reached the pier he found her waiting for him. it was a moonlight night, and the young couple began to pace up and down. "what is it?" he said at last. "have you anything special to say?" "i know you are in a bad humour, and i am not surprised," she said. "listen, miss keys," said trevor. he dropped his cigar, and turned and faced her. "i often feel that i cannot stand this sort of thing much longer: it is like being in chains. i would much rather talk the matter out with mrs. aylmer, tell her i am very much obliged to her for her kind intentions with regard to me, but that i would sooner carve out my own career in life and be indebted to no one." "and how silly that would be!" said bertha. "but what do you want mrs. aylmer to do?" "to let me go. i feel like a captive in her train; it is not manly. i never felt more annoyed than when she spoke to me as she did this evening. it is horrid when a woman abuses a girl--such bad taste." "you know how peculiar she is," said bertha; "but you suit her better than anyone i know. you want her to give you money to allow you to live in town. i am sure i can manage it. i quite understand that you must hate being tied to her apron-strings." "it is detestable," said the young man; "and if it were not for my own mother, who seems so happy about me, and so grateful to mrs. aylmer, i should break with her to-morrow." "i quite sympathise with you," said bertha. "you must have money, and you must go to town. you want to read for the bar: i will see that it is arranged. mrs. aylmer is rich, but not rich enough for you to live all your life in idleness. it would break her heart now if you deserted her: she has gone through much." "what do you mean?" "i cannot tell you." "why does she dislike miss florence aylmer?" "i would rather not say." "but she will tell me herself." "i shall beg of her not to do so." "by the way," said trevor, after a pause, "is this girl mrs. aylmer's niece?" "she is her niece by marriage. mrs. aylmer's husband was florence aylmer's uncle." "then in the name of all that is just," cried trevor impetuously, "why should i have the fortune which is really meant for florence aylmer? oh, this is unendurable," he cried; "i cannot stand it. i will tell mrs. aylmer to-morrow that i am obliged to her, but that i will not occupy a false position." "you will do fearful harm if you make such a remark," said bertha. "something very sad happened a few years ago, something which i cannot tell you, but----" bertha's lips quivered and her face was very pale. "what is it? having told me so much, you must go on." bertha was silent for a moment. "what has miss aylmer done? if there is a frank, open-hearted, nice-looking girl, she is one. i do not care so much for her mother, but miss aylmer herself--i defy anyone to throw a stone at her." "i own that she is a nice girl, a very nice girl; but once, once--well, anyhow, she managed to offend mrs. aylmer. you must not ask me for particulars. i want you to be most careful; that is why i have brought you out here to-night. i want you to be most careful to avoid the subject with mrs. aylmer. florence offended her, and she has resolved never to see her and never to speak to her again. she is annoyed at your having made her acquaintance, and i doubt not we shall leave dawlish to-morrow on that account. be satisfied that florence only did what perhaps another girl equally tempted would have done, but it was----" "it was what? the worst thing you can do is to throw out innuendoes about a girl. what did she do?" "she was not quite straight, if you must know--not quite straight about a prize which was offered in the school where she was being educated." "she told me that you were a teacher in the same school." "did she?" said bertha. her face turned pale, but her companion was not looking at her at that moment. "ah, yes, poor girl: that is how i happen to know all about it. it was hushed up at the time, and of course florence has quite retrieved her character. it was nothing whatever but what a girl tempted as she was would do, but it settled her as far as mrs. aylmer was concerned, and if you do not wish to bring fresh trouble upon the niece you will avoid the subject with her aunt. that is what i wished to say to you." "how can i avoid it? it is quite impossible for me to be long with mrs. aylmer and prevent her speaking about what she has made up her mind to tell me." "i have been thinking of that," said bertha; "the very best thing you can do is to go up to london to-morrow morning." "i go to london to-morrow?" "yes; go away for the present. i will tell her that you have had sudden news of your mother: that she wants to see you; or you can leave her a note to that effect." "but it would not be true." trevor darted a keen glance at his companion. bertha coloured again. "it is difficult to manage with people who are as quixotically straight as you are," she said, after a pause; "i want you to keep away for your own sake. if what i have suggested does not please you, think of something else." "i will tell her that i wish for a change: that is true enough," he answered; "but how will that help me? when i come back, she will tell me the thing you do not wish me to hear about miss aylmer." "oh, i never said i did not wish you to hear it: i think it would be better for your peace of mind not to hear it: that is all. i have said that it was a little shady: that it happened years ago: that florence has quite retrieved her character." trevor stamped his foot impatiently. "i will not go away to-morrow," he said, after a pause. "i should like to see miss florence aylmer again. i will ask her to tell me frankly what occurred some years ago." "you will?" said bertha, and now her face looked frightened. "yes," he answered, looking full into her eyes; "i will. she is perfectly honest. she can excuse herself if necessary. anyhow, she shall have the chance of telling her own story in her own way." chapter viii. bertha's quandary. it was by no means the first time that bertha keys had found herself in a quandary. she was very clever at getting out of these tight corners: of extricating herself from these, to all appearances, impossible situations; but never had she been more absolutely nonplussed than at the present moment. when she and florence had both left cherry court school her prospects had been dark. she had been dismissed without any hope of a character, and had, as it were, to begin the world over again. then chance put mrs. aylmer the great in her way. mrs. aylmer wanted a companion, a clever companion, and bertha was just the girl for the purpose. she obtained the situation, managing to get references through a friend, taking care to avoid the subject of cherry court school, and never alluding to florence aylmer. mrs. aylmer was very sore and angry just then. she disliked florence immensely for having disgraced her; she did not wish the name of florence aylmer to be breathed in her presence; she was looking around anxiously for an heir. with bertha keys she felt soothed, sympathised with, restored to a good deal of her former calm. by slow degrees she told bertha almost all of her history; in particular she consulted with bertha on the subject of an heir. "i must leave my money to someone," she said; "i hate the idea of giving it to charities. charity, in my opinion, begins at home." "that is does, truly," answered bertha, her queer green-grey eyes fixed on her employer's face. "and florence aylmer being completely out of the question," continued mrs. aylmer, "and florence's mother being about the biggest fool that ever breathed, i must look in another direction for my heir." "why not adopt a boy?" said bertha, on one of these occasions. "adopt a boy? a boy?" "well, a young man," said bertha, colouring. "what a very extraordinary idea!" was mrs. aylmer's response. she looked withering things at bertha, and this young lady found herself more or less in disgrace for the next few days. nevertheless, the idea took root. mrs. aylmer, having found girls failures, began to think that all that was desirable might be encompassed in the person of a boy. "it would be nice to have a boy about the house. they were cheerful creatures. as they grew to be men, they were more or less a protection. boys, of course, had none of the small ways of girls. a deceitful boy was a creature almost unknown." so mrs. aylmer thought, and she began to look around for a suitable boy to adopt and leave her money to. no sooner did she seriously contemplate this idea than the opportunity to adopt a very special boy occurred to her. she had an old friend, a great friend, a woman whom as a girl she had really loved. this woman was now a widow: she was a certain mrs. trevor. she had married an army man, who had died gloriously in battle. he had won his v. c. before he departed to a better world. his widow had a small pension, and one son. mrs. trevor happened just about this very time to write to mrs. aylmer. she told her of her great and abiding sorrow, and spoke with the deepest delight and admiration of her boy. "send maurice to spend a week with me," was mrs. aylmer's telegraphic reply to this epistle. in some astonishment, mrs. trevor packed up her boy's things--he was a lad of eighteen at this time--and sent him off to visit mrs. aylmer in her beautiful country place. maurice trevor was frank, innocent, open as the day. he pleased the widow because he did not try to please her in the least. he liked bertha keys because all apparently amiable people suited him, and bertha certainly did look distinctly amiable. soon she got into his confidence, and he talked of his future. he wanted to go into the army, as his father had done before him. bertha suggested that he should tell his desire to mrs. aylmer. this maurice trevor would not think of doing. he spent a week, a fortnight, a month with the widow, and went back to his mother, having secured a great deal more than he bargained for in the course of his visit. mrs. aylmer now wrote to mrs. trevor, said that she liked maurice very much, that she had no heir to leave her money to, and that if maurice really turned out quite to her satisfaction she would make him her future heir. he must live with her during the holidays; he must give up his mother's society, except for a very short time in the year; he must be thoroughly well educated; must, on no account, enter the army; and must have a university education. these terms, generous in themselves, were eagerly accepted by the all but penniless widow. she had some difficulty, however, in persuading young trevor to, as he expressed it, sell his independence. in the end her wishes prevailed. he went to trinity college, cambridge, took honours there, and now at four-and-twenty years of age was to a certain extent his own master, and yet was more tied and fettered than almost any other young man he knew. to tell the truth, he hated his own position. mrs. aylmer was capricious; she considered that he owed her undying gratitude: that he should only do what she wished. he had little or no control of her affairs, bertha keys being the true mistress. at the time when this story opens he felt that he could scarcely stand his silken fetters any longer. * * * * * bertha, as she stood now in the moonlit window of her little room at the "crown and garter," thought over maurice trevor, his future prospects, and his past life. she also thought about florence. "from the way he spoke to-night," thought this astute young woman, "very, very little would make him fall in love with florence. now, that is quite the very last thing to be desired. it would be a sort of revenge on mrs. aylmer, but it cannot be permitted for a single moment. they must not meet again. there are several reasons against that. in the first place, it would not suit my convenience. i mean to inherit mrs. aylmer's property, either as the heiress in my own person or as the wife of maurice trevor. it is true that i am older than he, but i have three times his sense: i can manage him if another girl does not interfere. he must leave here immediately. i must make some excuse. his mother is not quite so quixotic as he is; i must manage things through her. one thing, at least, i am resolved on: he must not hear the story of florence--at least, not through florence herself: he must not meet her again, and mrs. aylmer must not tell him the story of what occurred at cherry court school." bertha thought a very long time. "if he really falls in love with florence, then he must no longer be mrs. aylmer's heir," she said to herself; "but he shall not meet her. i like him: i want him for myself; when the time comes, i will marry him. he shall not marry another woman and inherit all mrs. aylmer's property." bertha stayed up for some time. it was between two and three in the morning when at last she laid her head on her pillow. she had gone through an exciting and even a dangerous day, but that did not prevent her sleeping soundly. early in the morning, however, she rose. she was dressed before seven o'clock, and waited anxiously for eight o'clock, the time when she might send off a telegram. she procured a telegraph form and carefully filled it in. these were the words she wrote:-- "make some excuse to summon maurice to london at once. must go. will explain to you when writing. do not let maurice know that i have telegraphed.--bertha keys." this telegram was addressed to mrs. trevor, rose view, st. martin's terrace, hampstead. punctually as the clock struck eight, bertha was standing at the telegraph-office; it was so early that she knew the line would be more or less clear. she sent off her telegram and returned with a good appetite to breakfast. at about ten o'clock a telegram arrived for trevor. he was eating his breakfast in his usual lazy fashion, and was inwardly wondering if he could see florence again: if he could lead up to the subject of the school where she had suffered disgrace: and if she herself would explain to him that which was making him far more uncomfortable than the occasion warranted. "a telegram for you," said bertha, handing him the little yellow envelope. he opened it, and his face turned pale. "how queer!" he said; "this is from mother; she wants me to come up to-day: says it is urgent. what shall i do, miss keys?" "why, go, of course," said bertha; "here is mrs. aylmer. mrs. aylmer, mr. trevor has had an urgent telegram from his mother. she wants to see him." mrs. aylmer looked annoyed. "i wanted you to come with me this morning, maurice," she said, "on an expedition to warren's cove. i thought you might drive me in a pony carriage." "i can do that," said bertha, in her brisk way. "of course you can, my dear, if maurice feels that he really must go.--when can you be back again?" "i will try and return to-morrow," said trevor; "but, of course, it depends on what really ails mother. from the tone of her telegram i should say she was ill." "and i should say nothing of the kind," answered mrs. aylmer shortly; "she is one of those faddists who are always imagining that they require----" "hush!" said trevor, in a stern voice. "what do you mean by 'hush?'" "i would rather you did not say anything against my mother, please." he spoke with such harshness and such determination that bertha trembled in her shoes, but mrs. aylmer gave him a glance of admiration. "you are a good boy to stand up for her," she said; "yes, go, by all means: only return to me, your second mother, as soon as you can." "thanks," he answered, softening a little; but the gloomy look did not leave his face. "i will walk with you to the station, mr. trevor," said bertha, who thought that he required soothing, and felt that she was quite capable of administering consolation. "thanks," he replied; "i shall ask the station porter to call for my portmanteau." chapter ix. a tempting offer. by the next train bertha saw maurice trevor off to london. when she had done so, she went slowly in the direction of the sands. she had induced mrs. aylmer to put off her drive until the afternoon. bertha was now very anxious to see florence. in all probability florence would be on the beach: she would know that bertha was coming to get the answer which florence had not given her the day before. she walked slowly, holding her parasol up to shade her face from the sun, and thinking her thoughts. "at any rate, maurice trevor is safe for the day," she said to herself; "and before the evening has passed, i shall have florence's promise that she will not betray me to mrs. aylmer. mrs. aylmer is just the sort of person, if florence made the worst of things, to turn against me and take florence back again. then indeed, she would be avenged, and i should be routed. such a state of things cannot be." bertha thought quickly. her thoughts turned to a little account which was weekly swelling in importance, and which stood to her credit in the post office savings bank. she was intensely fond of money, but she knew that the time had come when it might be necessary to sacrifice some of her savings. presently she gave a well-assumed start; said: "hullo, flo, is that you?" and went to meet florence aylmer. florence's face was quite pale, and her eyes were red as if she had been crying. "goodness!" said bertha; "what does this mean? have you had any domestic calamity since i saw you last?" "no, not any except what you are making," replied florence. "i wish you would go away, bertha: i hate to see you again. i wish you would leave me in peace." "well, darling, we return to aylmer's court to-morrow, so you will not be long worried by us. i have just been seeing that nice young fellow, maurice trevor, off to town." "indeed," answered florence. "don't you like him extremely?" continued bertha, giving her companion a quick glance. "i scarcely know him," replied florence. "but you do just know him. how did you become acquainted with him?" "my mother introduced him." "ah! just like the little widow," said bertha, in a thoughtful voice. "well, flo, you and i have a good deal to say to each other. let us walk to the other end of the sands, where we shall be alone." florence hesitated. for a moment she looked as if she were going to refuse; then she said, in an almost sulky tone: "very well." they turned in that direction and walked slowly. at last they reached the spot where mrs. aylmer had discovered kitty and florence the day before. "it was here i first saw him," thought florence aylmer to herself. "what a true, good expression he had in his blue eyes. how upright he looked! how different from bertha! oh, what a miserable wretched girl i am! why do i not tell bertha that i do not fear her? why should i put myself in her power?" at last they reached the rocks. "it is nice here, and quite romantic," said bertha; "we can come to our little arrangement. you have made up your mind, of course, florence, that you will not speak to mrs. aylmer of what you know about me?" "i do not see why i should keep your secret for you," said florence; "i do not particularly want to injure you, much as you injured me in the past; but at the same time why should i make a promise about it? the time may come when it will be to my benefit to tell mrs. aylmer what i know." "at the present moment she would not speak to you. she hates you as she hates no one else in the world. your very name is as a red rag to her. if i want to rouse her worst passions, i have but to allude to you. even if you told her, she would not believe a word against me." "i am not so sure of that. mrs. aylmer may be forced to listen to me, and if you rouse my evil feelings i may tell her just to spite you, bertha." "but you will not," said bertha. "you want money badly. you would like to be independent." "that is quite true." "you have had a fairly good education and you want to earn your own living?" "i mean to earn it." "but you will require a little money until you do. now, look here, florence: i don't want to injure you. i know i did long ago; i did it for my own benefit. i was cast penniless on the world, and i was forced to invent all kinds of subterfuges to make my way. i pity girls who are placed as i was placed. i have now managed to get into a comfortable nest. as i said before, i am in your nest. it suits me, and i do not mean to go out of it; but i pity you, and i should like to help you. will you borrow a little money from me?" "borrow money from you? no, no," said florence; but she trembled as she said the words. "i can quite conveniently lend you fifty pounds," continued bertha, gazing as she spoke across the summer sea. "it is not much, but it is something. with fifty pounds in your pocket you can go, say to london or to any other large town and advertise what you are worth. you have, i presume, something to sell: some knowledge, for instance, which you can impart to others; or perhaps you have a talent for writing. don't you remember our wonderful essay?" "don't!" said florence; "don't!" she covered her face with her hands; the crimson colour had flooded her face. bertha gave a queer smile. "now, i could earn money by writing essays," she said; "very smart essays they would be, and i could earn money by writing stories. suppose, suppose i write stories still, and send them to you, and you publish them as your own--how would that do? why should you not? i like writing stories, and i do not want money, and you could polish them up if you liked and sell them as your own. that is an excellent idea. will you do it? i am quite agreeable. i will furnish you with a short story, say, once a fortnight, or once a month. will you take one with you and try to sell it as your own? i can do it in the evenings, and you shall have it. don't you think that i am paying you well, now, to keep silence? i am offering you an honourable livelihood, and in the meantime there is the fifty pounds: you may as well have it; it will keep you until the money for the stories comes in, and you can pay me back when you like. i dare not appear before the world as a writer, for mrs. aylmer is hard to please, and she would not like me to write or to do anything but devote my time to her; but there are hours at night when she goes to bed which i can devote to your service. now, what do you say? it seems to me to be a very good offer." "it is a tempting offer, certainly," said florence; "but i never thought of writing. i have no particular taste for it." "well, think it over," said bertha, rising as she spoke, "and in the meantime i will send you the money this evening." "oh, i cannot take it; please don't." "i will send it to you," said bertha, in a gay voice; "it is quite arranged. good-bye, dear; i wish you success. when you are a great writer we can cast up accounts and see on which side the balance lies. you quite understand? i have a gift in that way which i think can be turned to account. you will agree to do what i wish, will you not, florence?" "it is all horrible! i do not know what to say," answered florence. "i see in your eyes that you mean to accept; you cannot help yourself. you cannot possibly starve, and you will find when you go to london that the posts of teachers and secretaries are overfull; but the writer of clever short stories can always find a market for his or her wares." florence rose to her feet. "i don't like it," she said; "i am thoroughly miserable. i wish there were some other way; but there is not." "well, try for yourself before you think of the story part; but, anyhow, you must take the fifty pounds--you really must." bertha rose, touched florence lightly on her cheek, and before the other girl could say a word turned and left her. she walked across the beach now with a dancing step. "i have scored a point," she said to herself; "florence won't dare to tell. she is as certain to accept that fifty pounds as she is to eat her breakfast to-morrow morning. after all, i am very generous to her; but i see my way, i think, to win maurice trevor. i see my way to prevent these two becoming friends, and at the worst, if maurice does meet florence again, and does fall in love with her, i shall take good care that he is not mrs. aylmer's heir. it is but to alter her will and heigh presto! the riches are mine!" chapter x. the little mummy's curiosity. florence did not return to the cottage until past the usual dinner hour. when she did so, her mother, who appeared to be very much excited, met her in the porch. "there has come a little parcel for you," she said, "from the 'crown and garter hotel.' i wish you would open it; i am quite curious: it is sealed. the messenger did not want to leave it when i told him that you were out. he said it had been given him by miss keys to bring to you, and that he was to give it into your hands. i wonder what it can be?" "oh, it is nothing of importance," said florence, turning quite pale. "give it to me, please, mother." "nothing of importance, indeed!" said the little widow, tossing her head; "it seemed to me very much of importance. the messenger was quite fussed when he found you were not here: he said perhaps he had better take it back, but i assured him that i did not lose things when they were addressed to my only daughter, and that he might safely trust me to put the parcel into your hands. he was one of the waiters from the hotel--a very stylish-looking person indeed. what riches and what luck follow some people! why should miss keys have everything and my poor girl be left out in the cold?" "oh, mother, i would not change with bertha keys for anything," said florence; "but give me the parcel, please." "here it is; you'll open it and assuage my curiosity." "it is only a letter from bertha; i quite know what it contains," said florence. she got red first and then pale. her mother's bright beady eyes were fixed on her face. "well, but can't you open it and tell me about it? you know how curiosity does eat into me: i can't sleep, i can't enjoy my food when there's a secret surrounding me. what's in the letter, flo? if you are too tired to read it just now, i will open it for you." "no, thank you, mother; i know what it contains: it is a message from miss keys. i met her on the sands this morning and--and she said she would write." with a wild fluttering at her heart, florence popped the sealed packet into her pocket and sat down near the door. "i am thoroughly tired," she said, "and my head aches." mrs. aylmer appeared to be annoyed and disappointed. "i do declare," she exclaimed, "i don't think any of the girls of the present day have health worth mentioning. there's kitty: she's been fretting and fuming because you went out without her; she's a nice, refined sort of little thing, but she has a headache, and now after preparing the very nicest little dinner out of the scraps which that young man ought to have eaten last night, you never came in to partake. i had lobster salad of the most recherché description, and you were not present, while kitty could scarcely eat because of her headache, so i had to do justice to the mayonnaise myself; and now you come in looking washed out and wretched. i do declare," she concluded, "things are more comfortable for me when sukey and i are alone." "well, mother, i shall be leaving you shortly. i shall probably be going to london to-morrow or next day." "so soon, after arranging to spend the holidays with me?" "i have changed my mind about that now," said florence restlessly; "i must work and begin to earn money." "i have not a penny to give you to start with, you understand that." "i have a little money," said florence, and her face coloured and then turned pale: "i think i can manage." "i wonder how," thought the widow. she glanced at florence, but did not speak: a shrewd expression came into her eyes and she pursed up her lips. "i will go and coax sukey to make a cup of coffee for you," she said: "there is nothing like really strong coffee as a cure for a headache, and you can have some bread-and-butter. i am sorry to say i can afford nothing else for your dinner to-day." "oh, coffee and bread-and-butter will do splendidly," said florence. her mother left the room. a moment later kitty came down. "flo," she said, "i have just received a letter from father; he will reach southampton to-morrow and i am to go and meet him there. won't you come too?" "oh, may i go with you?" said florence, sensibly brightening. "may you? of course you may; it will be so splendid to see him again, and you must constantly stay with me--constantly, flo dear. oh, i am so happy, so happy!" chapter xi. florence's good angel. "what is the matter, flo?" said kitty. the two girls were in their tiny bed-room. they were to leave dawlish the next morning, as kitty had persuaded florence to go with her to southampton in order that they might both be present when colonel sharston once more set foot on his native land. kitty was very much excited, but she was too gentle and noble a girl, too absolutely unselfish, not to notice that her companion was distrait and anxious. no one could be much more worried than poor florence was that evening. all during the long day which had followed she had kept saying to herself: "shall i or shall i not? shall i take that fifty pounds from bertha and put myself in her power for ever, or shall i return her the money, fight my way to fortune with the weapons which god has given me, and not descend to her temptations?" one moment florence had almost made up her mind to choose the right path, but the next instant the thought of the struggle which lay before her and the terrible adventures which any girl must meet who fights the world without money rose to weaken her resolve. it would be so easy to accept that fifty pounds, and bertha would scarcely dare to ask her to repay it. she would at least have plenty of time to collect the money bit by bit, and so return it to bertha; but florence knew well that if once she took that money she would lower herself forever in the moral scale. "i should sink again to that sort of awful thing i was just before my great temptation at cherry court school," she thought. "i have managed to rise above that level now, and am i going to sink again?" so she wavered all day long, the pendulum of her mind now swinging to one side, now to another. the result was that she felt quite worn out when night came. "what is it?" said kitty. "what is worrying you?" "oh, never mind," answered florence. the tears rose to her eyes, she pressed her hands for a moment to her face, then she said abruptly: "don't ask me." "i will ask you. i have seen all day that you are wretched; you must tell me what has gone wrong with you." "i am tempted, that is all," said florence. "then do not yield to the temptation," was kitty's answer; "if it is something you would rather not say to me----" "no, kitty, i must not tell you, but i am tempted strongly," answered florence. "the only thing to do, however hard the temptation, is not to yield to it," said kitty. florence looked for a moment at her companion. kitty, too, had known what it was to want for money. kitty had been poor. it is true that, since the day she took the prize which florence through deceit had lost, her kind friend, sir john wallis, had never ceased to shower small benefits upon her. she was not only his pet, but almost his idol. in his heart of hearts he felt that he would like to adopt her, but he did not dare even to suggest such a thing, knowing how passionately she was attached to her father. now colonel sharston was returning to england, having been appointed to an excellent home post, and kitty's money troubles were quite at an end. "she will want for nothing in the future," thought florence to herself as she looked at the graceful figure and bright beautiful face of the young girl who was standing a short distance away. "she will want for nothing: she will never know the real heartache of those who have to earn their daily bread. how can she understand?" "why are you looking at me like that, flo?" said kitty. "oh, i don't know; i don't know. i--sometimes i envy you. you have rich and powerful friends." "then it is money: i thought as much," said kitty. "listen to me, florence. i am sure i can guess what is troubling you. that dreadful bertha wants to bribe you to be silent: she has offered you money." florence's face turned quite pale. "give it back to her; you shall, you must! i know father will help you when he comes back. i will speak to him. you must not yield, flo; you must not." florence stood irresolute. "it is not too late," said kitty. "we are both leaving here early in the morning. has she sent you any money now?" "yes," said florence. her voice scarcely rose to a whisper. the word trembled on her lips. "then we will return it to her. you must not take it." "it is too late: i have taken it." "it is not too late. what is the time? it is only half-past ten. i am quite certain that miss keys is not in bed yet. come, flo, put on your hat; your mother won't mind. we will take the latchkey and let ourselves in. we will go to the hotel and return the money." "oh, i dare not." "then i dare," said kitty. "you have told me nothing, remember; but i will not let you sink or yield to this temptation." florence colored crimson. "you have a great power over me," she said; "i feel as if you were my good angel, and bertha were my bad." "then for heaven's sake, florence, yield to the entreaties of your good angel. come, come; the hotel won't be shut up. where is the money?" "in my pocket." "then come immediately." florence was inspired by kitty, whose voice was strong, and her face brave and bright, as befitted one who lived for the right and rejected the wrong. "i am glad," she said to herself; "i did not ask her counsel: she has forced it upon me. she is my good angel." a moment later the two girls left the cottage. they walked quickly in the direction of the big hotel. there were lights in many rooms, servants walking about, and the hall-door was open. they walked up the steps, and kitty entered the hall. florence followed her, pale and trembling. "can i see miss keys?" asked kitty of the hall porter. "i will enquire if miss keys is up still," replied the man. "what name shall i say?" "miss sharston. i want to see her for a moment about something important." "will you come in, miss?" "no; perhaps she would see me here. say also that miss florence aylmer is with me." the man withdrew. a moment later, bertha, in her evening dress, looking pretty and excited, ran downstairs. "what is it? what's the matter?" she said. "is that you, florence? kitty, what is the matter?" "we don't want to stay; we don't want you to tell mrs. aylmer, and we don't want to get you into trouble of any sort," said kitty, speaking rapidly and drawing bertha aside as she spoke. "but we want to give you this back, and to let you know that what you suggested was impossible--quite impossible." as she spoke, she thrust the little packet which contained the fifty pounds into bertha's hand, and then took florence's. "come, flo; i think that is all," she said. bertha was too stunned to say a word. before she had recovered from her astonishment, the two girls had walked down the steps and gone out into the night. "what does this mean?" said bertha to herself. "i don't like it at all, but, thank goodness, we are leaving here to-morrow. i don't suppose florence will really tell on me. i must discover some other way to get her into my power." she went slowly back to the sitting-room. mrs. aylmer looked up discontentedly. "who called to see you? i didn't know you had any friends in the town, bertha?" she said. "nor have i, but a couple of young girls who are staying here called to return me a little packet which i had dropped on the beach to-day and lost. they found it; my name was on it, and they brought it back to me." "oh, indeed; i thought i heard the waiter say that miss florence aylmer had called." "you were mistaken, mrs. aylmer," replied bertha, in her calm voice. she fixed her grey-green eyes on the widow's face, and took up the book which she had been reading. "shall we go on with this, or shall we have a game of two-handed patience?" she said quietly. "i will go to bed," said mrs. aylmer; "i am tired and cross. after all, my life is very dull. you didn't manage to amuse me to-day, bertha; you were not like your old self; and then i miss maurice. he has become almost indispensable to me. i hope he will return to-morrow." "we shall probably find him before us at aylmer's court." "i shall send him a telegram the first thing to-morrow to ask him to hurry home," said mrs. aylmer. "he is such a pleasant, bright fellow that life is insupportable without him. you used to be much more amusing than you are now, bertha. is anything the matter?" "nothing, my dear friend," said bertha. she looked full at mrs. aylmer, and tears rose slowly to her eyes. now, no one could possess a more pathetic face than bertha when she pleased. mrs. aylmer was not a good-natured woman, she was not kind-hearted, she was not in any sense of the word amiable, but she had certain sentiments, and bertha managed to arouse them. when she saw tears in her young companion's eyes now, she laid her hand on her arm. "what is it, dear? i should be sorry to be cross with you. you are a very good girl and suit me admirably." "it was just the fear that i was not quite suiting you that was troubling me," replied bertha. "say that again, kind, dear benefactress, and you will make me the happiest girl in the world." "no one ever suited me so well. you are surely not jealous of my affection for dear maurice?" "oh, no; i love him myself," said bertha. mrs. aylmer looked grave. she rose slowly. "ring for my maid, will you, bertha? i shall go to bed; i am tired," said the great lady. the maid appeared a moment later, and the two left the room together. as mrs. aylmer slowly undressed, she thought of bertha's last words: "i love him myself." "nonsense," said mrs. aylmer to herself; "she is ten years his senior if she's a day; nevertheless, i must be careful. she is a clever woman; i should be sorry to have to do without her, but i often wonder what her past was. i made very few enquiries with regard to her history. i wanted someone to be with me at the time, and she took my fancy." downstairs bertha slowly unfastened the little parcel and looked at the five ten-pound notes which were rolled up within. "after all, it's just as well that i should have this money by me as that i should give it to florence aylmer," she said to herself. "i must think of some other way to tempt her, and the money will be useful. i shall put it back into the post-office and wait awhile. she is certain to go to london, and equally certain to fail. i can tempt her with some of my stories. i will manage to get her address. yes, clever as you think yourself, florence, you will be in my power, and before many weeks are over." chapter xii. alone in london. florence and kitty left dawlish the next day and went to southampton. there they met colonel sharston, and florence had the great bliss of seeing kitty's intense happiness with her father. they stayed at a hotel at southampton for the best part of a week, and then the three went to london. kitty and her father were going to switzerland for a month's holiday. they begged of florence to go with them, but nothing would induce her to accept the invitation. "i know well that colonel sharston even now is far from rich," she said to herself. "i will not let kitty feel that i have put myself upon her." so very firmly she declined the invitation, and one short week after she had bidden her mother good bye at dawlish she found herself alone in london. she had seen kitty and colonel sharston off by the night train to dover, and left the great railway-station slowly and sadly. "now i have to fight the battle. shall i fail or shall i succeed?" she said to herself. she had taken a bed-room in a large house which was let out in small rooms. it was one of the first houses that had been let out in flats for women in london, and florence considered herself very fortunate in being able to take up her quarters there. there was a large restaurant downstairs, where the girls who lived in the house could have their meals provided at low prices. florence's bed-room was fairly neat, but very small and sparsely furnished. it was an attic room, of course, for she could only afford the cheapest apartment. she had exactly twenty pounds wherewith to support herself until fortune's ball rolled her way. she felt confident enough. she had been well educated; she had taken certain diplomas which ought to enable her to get a good situation as a teacher; but if there was one thing which poor florence disliked it was the thought of imparting knowledge to others. if she could obtain a secretaryship or any other post she would certainly not devote her life to teaching. "it behooves me to be sensible now," she thought; "i must look around me and see what is the best thing to do." that evening, after the departure of kitty and her father, she retired to her bed-room. she had bought a little tea, sugar, bread, and butter, and she made herself a small meal. the prices at the restaurant were very moderate, but florence made a calculation that she could live for a little less by buying her own food. "i will dine at the restaurant," she thought, "and make my own breakfast and get my own supper. i must make this twenty pounds go as far as possible, as i do not mean to take the first thing that offers. i am determined to get a secretaryship if i can." that evening she wrote a long letter to her mother, and another to sir john wallis. she told sir john that she was preparing to fight the battle in london, and gave him her address. "i am determined," she said in the letter, "not to eat the bread of dependence. i am firmly resolved to fight my own way, and the money you have given me is, i consider, a stepping-stone to my fortunes." she wrote frankly and gratefully, and when sir john read the letter he determined to keep her in mind, but not to give her any further help for the present. "she has a good deal of character," he said to himself, "although she did fall so terribly six years ago." mrs. aylmer the less also received a long letter from florence. it was written in a very different vein from the one she had sent to sir john. mrs. aylmer delighted in small news, and florence tried to satisfy her to her heart's content. she told her about kitty's dresses and kitty's handsome bonnets and all the different things she was taking for her foreign tour. she described her own life with the sharstons during the few days she had spent with them at a london hotel, and finally she spoke of her little attic up in the clouds, and how economical she meant to be, and how far she would make her money go, and how confident she was that in the future she could help her mother; and finally she sent the little mummy her warmest love, and folded up the letter and put it into its envelope and posted it. that letter brought great delight to mrs. aylmer. it was indeed what she considered a red-letter day to her when it arrived, for by parcel post that very same day there came a large packet for her from bertha keys, sent straight from aylmer's court. this packet contained a wardrobe which set the little widow's ears tingling, and flushed her cheeks, brightened her eyes, and caused her heart, as she expressed it, to bound with joy. "oh, sukey, come and look; come and look!" she cried, and sukey ran from the kitchen and held up her hands and uttered sundry ejaculations as she helped her mistress to turn over the tempting array of garments. "there's the silk dress. what a dear girl!" cried mrs. aylmer. "isn't it a perfectly splendid dress, sukey? we must get it cut down, of course; and the extra breadths will do to renovate it when it gets a little shabby. i shall give a tea-party, i really will, sukey, when this dress is made as good as new. i am quite certain that i can spare you my old black silk, which you know, sukey, has been turned four times." "thank you, ma'am," said sukey, in her downright voice. "and what news is there from miss florence, please, ma'am?" "oh, there is a letter. i have just had time to read it. it is a very nice, pleasant letter; but really florence is the sort of girl who does not know where her bread is buttered. if she had been anybody else she would have made up to that young man instead of sending him away when i invited him in to supper. florence is a great trial to me in many ways, sukey." "if i was you, ma'am, i'd be thankful to have such a good, nice, downright young lady like miss florence, that i would," said sukey. "but don't keep me any longer now, please, ma'am. i'll go and make you a cup of cocoa: it's quite as much as you want for your dinner to-day. you're so new-fangled with your bits of clothes." "that i am," said mrs. aylmer the less, as sukey hurried out of the room. amongst the clothes, lying by itself, was a thick envelope. mrs. aylmer tore it open. there tumbled out of it two golden sovereigns. "dear, dear!" thought the widow; "my sister-in-law susan must be changing her mind to send me all these lovely clothes and this money; but stay: the writing is not in susan's hand--it is doubtless the hand of that charming young creature, miss keys." bertha's letter ran as follows:-- "dear mrs. aylmer-- "i have collected a few things which i think may prove useful, in especial the silk dress which you seemed so much to covet. i also send two sovereigns, as i think you will like to have the funds to pay the dressmaker for cutting it down to your figure. please use the sovereigns in any way you think best. "i have a little request to make of you, dear mrs. aylmer. i am not likely to come to dawlish again, but i am much interested in your dear daughter florence, and would be greatly obliged if you would favor me with her address in london. will you send it to me by return of post, and will you put it into the addressed envelope which i enclose, as i do not want my benefactress mrs. aylmer to know anything about this matter? if i can help you at any time pray command me. "yours sincerely, "bertha keys." mrs. aylmer was so excited by this letter, and by the fact that she possessed two sovereigns more money than she had done when she awoke that morning, that she could scarcely drink the cocoa when sukey appeared with it. "sukey," she exclaimed to that worthy woman, "it never rains but it pours. we _will_ have a tea-party: such a tea-party it shall be; done in style, i can assure you. all the neighbours who have ever shown any kindness to me shall be invited, and we will have the most recherché little set-out. i will go to crook's, in the high street, and order the cakes and the pastry and the sandwiches, and we will hire enough cups and saucers and tea-spoons and all the other things which will be necessary." "you had better begin by hiring an increased apartment, ma'am," said sukey, in a dubious voice. "i don't say nothing against this parlour, but it ain't to say large. how will you crowd in all the visitors?" "it is fashionable to have a crowded room," said mrs. aylmer, pausing for a moment to consider this difficulty. "people can stand and sit on the stairs; they always do in crushes. this is to be a crush and--" "how will you pay for it, ma'am?" "i tell you i have money. what do you say to these?" as mrs. aylmer spoke, she held a sovereign between the finger and thumb of each hand. sukey opened her eyes. "is it your sister-in-law, ma'am," she said, "that is changing her mind?" "no, it is not; i wish it were. i can tell you no more, you curious old body; but when both our silk dresses are made to fit us we will have the party." sukey went softly out of the room. "there's something brewing that i don't quite like," she said to herself. "i wish miss florence was at home! i wish the missus hadn't those queer mean ways! but there, when all's said and done, i have learned to be fond of her: only she's a very queer sort." that evening mrs. aylmer wrote to bertha keys thanking her effusively for the parcel, telling her that she felt that she owed her lovely silk dress to her, and further thanking her for the sovereigns. the letter ran as follows:-- "i am not proud, my dear; and a little extra money comes in extremely handy. i mean to give a party and to show my neighbours that i am as good as any of them. it will be a return for many little kindnesses on their part, and will ensure me a comfortable winter. i shall have so many invitations to tea when they see me in that silk dress, and eat the excellent cakes, muffins, and crumpets, etc., which i shall provide for them, that they won't dare to cut me in the future. "if you want dear florence's address, here it is-- , prince's mansions, westminster. she has taken a room in a sort of common lodging-house, and i understand from the way she has written to me that she is in one of the attics. it seems a sad pity that the dear child should pinch herself as she does, and if you, miss keys, could add to your other virtues that of effecting a reconciliation between florence and her aunt by marriage, you would indeed fill my cup of gratitude to the brim. "yours sincerely, "mabel aylmer." "p.s.--if by any chance that most charming young man, mr. maurice trevor, should be coming to dawlish, i shall always be pleased to give him a welcome. you might mention to him where florence is staying in london. he seemed to have taken quite a fancy to her, but mum's the word, my dear. mothers will have dreams, you know." chapter xiii. a weary wait. florence settled down in her attic, and made herself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. with all her faults, and she had plenty, florence had a straightforward sort of nature. she was alive to temptation, and when occasion rose, as has been already seen, could and did yield to it. but just now she was most anxious to eat the bread of independence, not to sink under the sway of bertha keys, to fight her own battle, and to receive her own well-earned reward. she made her little attic look as neat and cheery as she could; she was extremely saving with regard to her food, and set to work at once trying to obtain employment. now, florence honestly hated the idea of teaching. she was a fairly clever girl, but no more. she had certain aptitudes and certain talents, but they did not lie in the teacher's direction. for instance, she was no musician, and her knowledge of foreign languages was extremely small; she could read french fairly well, but could not speak it; she had only a smattering of german, and was not an artist. her special forte was english history and literature, and she also had a fair idea of some of the sciences. with only these weapons in hand, and the sum of twenty pounds in her pocket, she was about to fight the world. she herself knew well, none better, that her weapons were small and her chance of success not particularly brilliant. with a good heart, however, she started out from her lodging on the morning after her arrival in town. she went to a registry-office in the strand and entered her name there. from this office she went to two or three in the west end, and, having put down her name in each office and answered the questions of the clerk who took her subscription, returned home. she had been assured in four different quarters that it was only a matter of time; that as soon as ever the schools began she would get employment. "there is no difficulty," one and all said to her. "you want to get a teacher's post; you are quite sure to succeed. there will be plenty of people requiring assistance of all sorts at the schools when the holidays are over." "what shall i do in the meantime?" said florence, who knew that several weeks of the holidays had yet to run. "in the meantime," said all these people, "there is nothing to do but wait." florence wondered if she had really left her mother too soon. "it would have been cheaper to stay on with the little mummy," she said to herself; "but, under the circumstances, i could not stay. i dared not leave myself in bertha's power. august is nearly through, and the schools will open again about the th of september. by then i shall surely hear of something. oh, it is hateful to teach; but there is no help for it." accordingly florence returned home in as fair spirits as was to be expected. she wrote and told her mother what she had done, and resolved to spend her time studying at the british museum. there were not many people yet in london, and she felt strange and lonely. a great longing for her old school life visited her. she wondered where her schoolfellows had gone, and what they were doing, and if they were also as hard pressed as she was. her money seemed to her to be already melting away in a remarkably rapid manner. she wanted new boots and a neat new serge dress, and thought she might as well get these necessary articles of apparel now, while she was waiting for a situation, as later; but, although she bought boots at the very cheapest place she could find, her funds melted still further, and before september was half through she had spent between five and six pounds of her small stock of money. "this will never do," she said to herself; "i shall get so frightened that i shall become nervous. what am i to do? how am i to eke out the money till i get a post as teacher?" it was already time for different mistresses at schools to be applying to her for her valuable services; but, although she listened with a beating heart as she heard the postman run up the stairs and deposit letters in the different hall doors of the various flats, very seldom indeed did the good man come up as far as her attic, and then it was a letter from her mother. she decided to go again to the offices where she had entered her name, and enquire if there were any post likely to suit her which she could apply for. she was now received in a totally different spirit. "it is extremely unlikely, miss," said one and all of the clerks who had been so specious on the occasion of her first visit, "that we can get you anything to do. you are not a governess, you know, in the ordinary sense. you cannot teach music, nor languages, nor drawing. what can you expect, madam?" "but you told me," began poor florence, "you told me when i paid my fee on the previous occasion of calling that you could get me a post without the slightest difficulty." "we will do our utmost, of course, madam; but, with your want of experience, we can make no definite promise. we certainly made none in the past," and the clerk whom florence was interrogating gave her a severe glance, which was meant as a dismissal. "if you cannot get me anything to do as a teacher, is there nothing else you can think of to suit me? secretaries are sometimes employed, are they not?" "secretaryships are not in our line," said the clerk; "at least, not for ladies. people prefer men for the post--clever men who understand shorthand. you, of course, know nothing of that accomplishment?" "certainly not! girls never learn shorthand," said florence. she left one office after the other, feeling sadder and sadder. "what is to be done?" she said to herself, almost in tones of despair. chapter xiv. a blunt question. florence was returning slowly home by way of trafalgar square when she heard a voice in her ear. she turned quickly, and was much astonished to see the bright face and keen blue eyes of maurice trevor. "i thought it must be you," exclaimed the young man. "i am glad to see you. you passed me in a hurry just now, and never noticed me, so i took the liberty of following you. how do you do? i didn't know you were in town." "i have been in town for over a fortnight," replied florence. she found herself colouring, then turning pale. "is anything the matter? you don't look well." "i am tired, that is all." "may i walk part of the way home with you? it is nice to meet an old friend." "just as you please," replied florence. "where do you live?" "i am in a house in westminster-- , prince's mansion, it is called. it is a curious sort of place, and let out in rooms to girls like myself. there is a restaurant downstairs. it is a nice, convenient place, and it is not dear. i think myself very lucky to have a room there." "i suppose you are," assented trevor, "but it sounds extraordinary. do you like living alone in london?" "i have no choice," replied florence. "i was sorry not to have seen you again before we left dawlish. we had a good deal in common, had we not? that was a pleasant afternoon that we spent together looking at the sea-anemones." "very pleasant," she answered. "and how is your mother, miss aylmer, and that nice young friend--i forget her name." "mother is quite well. i heard from her a few days ago; and kitty sharston is abroad." "kitty sharston: that is a pretty name." "and kitty is so pretty herself," continued florence, forgetting her anxieties, and beginning to talk in a natural way. "she is one of the nicest girls i have ever met. her father has just returned from india, and he and she are enjoying a holiday together. but now, may i ask you some questions? why are you not with mrs. aylmer and bertha keys?" "i have not been at aylmer's court for some days. my mother has not been quite well, and i have been paying her a visit. but do tell me more about yourself. are you going to live altogether in london?" "i hope so." "what a pity i didn't know it before! mother would so like to know you, miss aylmer. i have told her something about you. won't you come and see her some day? she would call on you, but she is quite an old lady, and perhaps you will not stand on ceremony." "of course not. i should be delighted to see your mother," said florence, brightening up wonderfully. "i have been very lonely," she added. "when i go home to-night i will tell mother that i have met you, and she will write to you. will you spend sunday with us?" "shall you be at home?" "yes; i am not going back to aylmer's court until tuesday. i will ask mother to invite you. i could meet you and bring you to hampstead. we have a cottage in a terrace close to the heath; you will enjoy the air on hampstead heath. it is nearly as good as being in the country." "i am sure it must be lovely. i am glad i met you," said poor florence. "you look better now," he answered, "but please give me your address over again." as trevor spoke, he took a small, gold-mounted note-book from his pocket, and when florence gave him the address he entered it in a neat hand. "thank you," he said, putting the note-book back into his waistcoat pocket. "you will be sure to receive your invitation. you look more rested now, but you still have quite a fagged look." "how can you tell? how do you know?" "i have often watched that sort of look on people's faces. i take a great interest in--oh! so many things, that i could talk to you about if we had time. i am very sorry for londoners. i should not care to live in london all my life." "nor should i; but, all the same, i expect i shall have to. perhaps i ought to tell you, mr. trevor, quite frankly that i am a very poor girl, and have to earn my own living--that is why i am staying in a place like prince's mansions. i have an attic in no. , a tiny room up in the roof, and i am looking out for employment." "what sort of employment? what do you want to do?" asked trevor. "i suppose i shall have to teach, but i should like to be a secretary." "a secretary--that is rather a wide remark. what sort of secretary?" "oh, i don't know; but anything is better than teaching. it is just because a secretaryship sounds vague that i think i should like it." trevor was thinking to himself. after a moment he spoke. "do you mind my asking you a very blunt question?" florence gave him a puzzled glance. "what sort of a question? what do you mean?" "are you not mrs. aylmer's niece?" "your mrs. aylmer's niece?" "yes." "i am her niece by marriage. her husband was my father's brother." "i understand; but how is it she never asks you to aylmer's court nor takes any notice of you?" "i am afraid i cannot tell you." "cannot? does that mean that you will not?" "i will not, then." trevor flushed slightly. they had now nearly reached westminster. "here is a tea-shop," he said; "will you come in and have tea with me?" florence hesitated. "thank you. i may as well," she said then slowly. they entered a pretty shop with little round tables covered with white cloths. that sort of shop was a novelty at that time. trevor and florence secured a table to themselves. florence was very hungry, but she restrained her appetite, fearing that he would notice. she longed to ask for another bun and a pat of butter. "oh, dear," she was saying to herself, as she drank her tea and ate her thin bread-and-butter, "i could demolish half the things in the shop. it is perfectly dreadful, and this tea must take the place of another meal. i must take the benefit of his hospitality." a few moments later trevor had bidden her good-bye. "my mother will be sure to write to you," he said. she would not let him walk with her as far as her lodgings, but shook hands with him with some pleasure in her face. "i am so glad i met you," she repeated, and he echoed the sentiment. as soon as he got home that day he went straight to his mother. "you are better, are you not?" he said to her. mrs. trevor was a middle-aged woman, who was more or less of an invalid. she was devoted to her son maurice, and, although she delighted in feeling that he was provided for for life owing to mrs. aylmer's generosity, she missed him morning, noon, and night. "ah, darling, it is good to see you back again," she said; "but you look hot and tired. what a long time you have been in town!" "i have had quite an adventure," he said. "mother, i want to know if you will do something for me." "you have but to ask, maurice." "there is a girl"--he hesitated, and a very slight accession of colour came into his bronzed cheeks, "there is a girl i have taken rather a fancy to. oh, no, i am not the least bit in love with her, so don't imagine it, little mother; but i pity her, and like her also exceedingly. i met her down at dawlish. i want to know if you will be good to her. i came across her to-day whilst walking in town, and she was looking, oh! so fagged out and tired! i said you would write and invite her to come and see us here, and i promised that you would ask her to spend next sunday with us." "oh, my dear maurice, your last sunday with me, god only knows for how long!" "but you don't mind, do you, mother?" she looked at him very earnestly. she was a wise woman in her way. "no, i don't mind," she said; "i will ask her, of course." "then that is all right. her name is miss florence aylmer, and this is her address." "aylmer! how strange!" "it is all very strange, mother. i cannot understand it, and it troubles me a good deal. she is florence aylmer, and she is my mrs. aylmer's niece by marriage." "very queer," said mrs. trevor; "i never thought mrs. aylmer had any relations. what sort of girl did you say she was?" "not exactly handsome, but with a taking face and a good deal of pluck about her--and oh, mother, i believe she is starvingly poor, and she has to earn her own living, i made her have a cup to tea and some bread-and-butter to-night, and she ate as if she were famished. it's awfully distressing. i really don't know what ought to be done." chapter xv. edith franks. when florence reached home she sat down for a long time in her attic, and did not move. she was thoroughly tired, and the slight meal she had taken at the restaurant had by no means satisfied her appetite. after about half an hour of anxious thought, during which she looked far older than her years, she took off her hat, and, going to her tiny chest of drawers, unlocked one of them and took her purse out. she carefully counted its contents. there were twelve unbroken sovereigns in the purse, and about two pounds' worth of silver--nearly fourteen pounds in all. "how fast it is going!" thought the girl. "at this rate it will not see me through the winter, and, if those terrible people at the different registry-offices are right, i may not get any work during the whole winter. what shall i do? i will not go back to the little mummy, to live upon her and prove myself a failure. i shall not ask anybody to help me. i must, i will fight my battle alone. oh, this hunger! what would i not give for a good dinner." she took up one of the shillings, and looked at it longingly. with this in her hand, she could go down to the restaurant and have as much food as she required. suddenly she made up her mind. "i must eat well for once. i must get over this hunger. i cannot help myself," she said to herself. "this meal must last me the greater part of the week; to-morrow and the next day and the next i must do with a bread-and-butter dinner; but there is sunday to be thought of--sunday with that nice mr. trevor, sunday with the country air all around, and of course plenty to eat. if i can have a good dinner to-night, i can go without another at least till sunday." so, hastily putting back the rest of her money, and locking her drawer, she went downstairs to the restaurant. she went to a table where she had sat before, and ordered her meal. she looked at the _menu_ and ordered her dinner with extreme care. she could have anything she fancied on the _menu_ for a shilling. a good many girls had really excellent and nourishing meals for sixpence, but florence was so hungry she determined to be, as she expressed it, greedy for once. so she made her selection, and then sat back to wait as best she could for the first of the dishes to arrive. a girl with a rosy face and bright dark eyes presently came and took the seat opposite to her. she was a stranger to florence. the waitress came up and asked what the girl would like to have for dinner. "soup, please, and a chop afterwards," was the hasty reply. the waitress went away, and the girl, taking a german book out of her bag, opened it and began to read eagerly. she did not notice florence, who had no book, and was feeling in a very excited and fractious humour, becoming feverishly anxious for her dinner. presently florence dropped her napkin-ring, making a little clatter as she did so. the girl seated opposite started, stopped, and picked it up for her. "thank you," said florence. there was something in her tone which caused the strange girl to drop her german book and look at her attentively. "are you very tired?" she said. "tired, yes, but it does not matter," answered florence. "it is the hot weather," said the girl; "it is horrid being in town now. i should not be, only--" she paused and looked full at florence, then she said impulsively: "you will be somewhat surprised: i am going to be a doctor--a lady doctor. you are horrified, no doubt. before ten years are out there will be women doctors in england: they are much wanted." "but can you, do they allow you to study in the men's schools?" "do they?" said the girl; "of course they don't. i have to go to america to get my degree. i am working here, and shall go to new york early in the spring. oh, i am very busy, and deeply interested. the whole thing is profoundly interesting, fearfully so. i am reading medical books, not only in english, but also in french and german. do you mind if i go on reading until dinner arrives?" "of course not. why should you stop your studies on my account?" said florence. the girl again favoured her with a keen glance, and then, to florence's surprise, instead of continuing her reading, she immediately closed her book and looked full across at her companion. "why don't you read?" said florence, in a voice which was almost cross. "thank you; i have found other employment." "staring at me?" "well, yes; you interest me. you are _fearfully_ neurotic and--and anæmic. you ought to take iron." "thank you," said florence; "i don't want anything which would make me more hungry than i am at present. iron is supposed to promote appetite, is it not?" "yes. do you live in this house?" "i do," answered florence. "i have taken a room on the third floor, no. . what is your number?" "oh, i aspire a good bit," said florence, with the ghost of a smile; "the number of my room is ." "may i come and see you?" "no, thank you." "what a rude girl! you certainly are _fearfully_ neurotic. ah! here comes--no, it's not my dinner, it is yours." the soup florence had ordered was placed before her. how she wished this bright-eyed girl, with the rude manner, as she considered, would resume her german. "would you like me to go on reading?" said the girl. "you can please yourself, of course," answered florence. "i won't look at you, if that is what you mean; but i do wish, if i may not come to see you, that you will come to see me. there are so few girls at present in the house, and those who are there ought to make friends, ought they not? see: this is my card--edith franks." "and you really mean to be a doctor--a doctor?" said florence, not glancing at the card which her companion pushed towards her. "it is the dearest dream of my life. i want to follow in the steps of mrs. garrett anderson; is she not noble? i thought you would be pleased." "i don't know that i am; it does not sound feminine," replied florence. she was devouring her soup, and hating edith franks for staring at her. presently edith's own dinner arrived, and she began to eat. she ate in a leisurely fashion, sipping her soup, and breaking her bread into small portions. she was not very hungry; in fact, she was scarcely hungry at all. as florence's own quite large meal proceeded, she began to consider herself the greediest of the greedy. miss franks sat on and chatted. she talked very well, and she had plenty of tact, and soon florence began to consider her rather agreeable than the reverse. florence had ordered five distinct dishes for her dinner, and she ate each dish right through. miss franks was now even afraid to glance in her direction. "there is no doubt the poor soul was starving," she said to herself. at last florence's meal was over. the two girls left the table together. "come to my room, won't you, to-night? it is not seven o'clock yet. i always have cocoa between nine and ten. come and have a cup of cocoa with me, will you not?" "thank you," said florence; "you are very good. my name is florence aylmer." "and you are studying? what are you doing?" "i am not studying." "aren't you? then--" "you are full of curiosity, and you want to know why i am here," said florence. "i am here because i want to earn my bread. i hope to get a situation soon. i am a girl out of a situation--you know the kind." she gave a laugh, and ran up the winding stairs to her own attic at the top of the house, without glancing back at edith franks. "shy, poor, and half-starved," said the medical student to herself; "i thought my work would come to me if i waited long enough. i must look after her a little bit." meanwhile, the very first thing florence found when she entered her room was a letter, or, rather, a packet, lying on her table. she pounced upon it, as the hungry pounce on food. her appetite was thoroughly satisfied at last, and her mind was just in the humour to require some diversion. she thought that she would rather like having cocoa presently with miss franks. "she shall not patronise me; of that i am resolved," thought the proud girl. but here was a letter--a thick, thick letter. she flung herself into the first chair and tore it open. she glanced, a puzzled expression on her face, at pages of closely-written matter, and then picked up a single sheet, which had fallen from the packet. the letter was from bertha keys, and ran as follows:-- "my dear, good, brave flo-- "i have obtained your address, no matter how, no matter why, and i write to you. how are you getting on? you did a daring thing when you returned you know what; but, my dear, i respect you all the more for endeavouring to be independent. i think, however, it is quite possible that you may have considered my other suggestion. "now, flo, i should like to see myself in print--not myself as i am, but my words, the ideas which come through my brain. i long to see them before the world, to hear remarks upon them. will you, dear flo, read the tale which i enclose, and if you think it any good at all take it to a publisher and see if he will use it? you had better find an editor of a magazine, and offer it to him. it is not more than four thousand words in length, and it is, i think, exciting; and will you put your name to it and publish it as your own? i don't want the world to know bertha keys writes stories, but i should like the world to know the thoughts which come into her head, and if we make a compact between us there can be nothing wrong in it, and--but i will add no more. do, do, dear flo, make use of this story. i do not require any money for it. make what use of it you can, and let me know if i am to send you further mss. "your aunt, mrs. aylmer, is a little more snappish than usual. i have a hard time, i assure you, with her. my great friend, maurice trevor, returns, i think, in a day or two. ah, florence, you little know what a great, great friend he is! "yours affectionately, "bertha keys." chapter xvi. on the brink of an abyss. florence sat for a long time with the manuscript of bertha's story on her lap. having read the letter once, she did not trouble herself to read it again. it was the sort of letter bertha always wrote--the letter which meant temptation, the letter which seemed to drag its victim to the edge of an abyss. florence said to herself: "shall i read the manuscript or shall i not? shall i put it into the fire or shall i waste a couple of pence in returning it to bertha, or shall i--" she did not finish even in her own mind the last suggestion which formed itself in her brain. she had not read the title of the manuscript, but her thoughts kept wandering round and round it to the exclusion of everything else. presently she took it in her hand, and felt its weight, and then she turned the pages one by one, and glanced at them for a moment, and saw that they were all written out very neatly, in a sort of copper-plate writing which was not the least like bertha's. bertha had a bold, dashing sort of hand, but this hand might be the work of anyone--the ordinary clerk used such a handwriting. the words were very easily read. florence caught herself imbibing the meaning of a whole sentence; then, with a sudden, quick movement, she dashed the manuscript away from her to the other side of the room, and walked over and stood by the open window looking across london. she had a headache, brought on through intense excitement, and the view, for the greater part concealed by the interminable london houses, scarcely appealed to her. "it all looks worldly and sordid," thought the girl to herself. "i suppose it is very nice that i should have this peep across those chimney-tops, and should see those tops of houses, tier upon tier, far away as the skyline, but i am sick of them. they all look sordid. they all look cruel. london is a place to crush a girl; but i--i _won't_ be crushed." she paced up and down her room. there was not the slightest doubt that bertha's letter was the one subject of her thoughts. suddenly she came to a resolution. "i know what i'll do," she said to herself; "i won't read that manuscript, but i'll get miss edith franks to read it. i won't tell her who has written it; she can draw her own conclusions. i'll get her to read it aloud to me, and perhaps she will tell me what it is worth. i hope, i do hope to god that it is worth nothing--that it is poor and badly written, and that she will advise the author to put it into the fire, and not to waste her time offering it to a publisher. she shall be the judge of its merits; but i won't decide yet whether i shall use it or not--only she shall tell me whether it is worth using. i am sure it won't be worth using. bertha wrote a clever essay long ago, but she does not write much, and she must be out of practice; and why should she be so clever and able to do everything so well? but miss franks shall decide. she looks as if she could give one a very downright honest opinion, and she is literary and cultivated, and would know if the thing is worth anything. yes, it is a comfort to come to some decision." so florence washed her face and hands, made her hair tidy, and put on a fresh white linen collar, and soon after nine o'clock, with the manuscript in her hand, she ran downstairs, and presently knocked at the door of no. . the brisk voice of miss franks said: "come in!" and florence entered. "that is right," said edith franks; "i am right glad to see you. what do you think of my diggings--nice, eh?" "oh, you are comfortable here," said florence, with the ghost of a sigh, for truly the room, as compared with her own, looked absolutely luxurious. there was a comfortable sofa, which miss franks told her afterwards she had contrived out of a number of old packing-cases, and there was a deep straw armchair lined with chintz and abundantly cushioned, and on a table pushed against the wall and on the mantelpiece were jars full of lovely flowers--roses, verbena, sweetbriar, and quantities of pinks. the room was fragrant with these flowers, and florence gave a great sigh as she smelt them. "oh, how sweet!" she said. "yes; i put this verbena on the little round table near the sofa; you are to lie on the sofa. come: put up your feet this minute." "but i really don't want to," said florence, protesting, and beginning to laugh. "but i want you to. you can do as you please in the restaurant, and you can do as you please in your own diggings, but in mine you are to do as i wish. now then, up go your feet. i am making the most delicious cocoa by a new recipe. i bought a spirit-lamp this morning. you cannot think how clever i am over all sorts of cooking." "but what are those things on that table?" said florence. "oh, some of my medical tools. i do a tiny bit of dissecting now and then--nothing very dreadful. i have nothing to-night of the least importance, so you need not shudder. i want to devote myself to you." florence could not but own that it was nice to be waited on. the sofa made out of packing-cases was extremely soft and comfortable. miss franks put pillows for her guest's comfort and laid a light couvre-pied over her feet. "now then," she said, "a little gentle breeze is coming in at the window, and the roses and pinks and mignonette will smell more sweetly still as the night advances. i will not light the lamp yet, for there is splendid moonlight, and it is such a witching hour. i can make the cocoa beautifully by moonlight. it will be quite romantic to do so, and then afterwards i will show you my charming reading-lamp. i have a lamp with a green shade lined with white, the best possible thing for the eyes. i will make you a shade when i have time. now then, watch me make the cocoa, or, if you prefer it, look out of the window and let the moon soothe your ruffled feelings." "you are very kind, and i don't know how to thank you," said florence; "but how can you possibly tell that i have ruffled feelings?" "see them in your brow, my dear: observe them in your face. i am not a medical student for nothing. i tell you you are anæmic and neurotic; indeed, your nerves have reached a rare state of irritability. at the present moment you are in quite a crux, and do not know what to do. oh, i am a witch--i am quite a witch; i can read people through and through; but i like you, my dear. you are vastly more interesting to me because you are in a crux, and neurotic and anæmic. now then, look at your dear lady moon, and let me make the cocoa in peace." "what an extraordinary girl!" thought florence to herself; "but i suppose i like her. she is so fearfully downright, i feel almost afraid of her." miss franks darted here and there, busy with her cooking. after a time, with a little sigh of excitement, florence saw her put the extinguisher on the spirit-lamp. she then hastily lit the lamp with the green shade, and, placing it on the table where the verbena and the sweetbriar and mignonette gave forth such intoxicating odours, she laid a cup of steaming frothy cocoa by florence's side, and a plate of biscuits not far off. "now then, eat, drink, and be thankful," said miss franks. "i love cocoa at this hour. yours is made entirely of milk, so it will be vastly nourishing. i am going to enjoy my cup also." she flung herself into the straw chair lined with cushions, and took her own supper daintily and slowly. while she ate, her bright eyes kept darting about the room noting everything, and from time to time fastening themselves with the keenest penetration on florence's flushed face. florence felt that never in the whole course of her life had she enjoyed anything more than that cup of cocoa. when the meal was finished miss franks jumped up and began to wash the cups and saucers. "you must let me help you," said florence. she sprang very determinedly to her feet. "i have done these things over and over for mother at home," she said, "and i really must wash my own cup and saucer." "you shall wipe, and i will wash," said miss franks. "i don't at all mind being helped. division of labour lightens toil, does it not? there, take that tea-towel; it is a beauty, is it not? it is russian." it was embroidered at each edge with wonderful stitches in red, and was also trimmed with heavy lace. "i have a sister in russia, and she sent me a lot of these things when i told her i meant to take up housekeeping," said miss franks. "now that we have washed up and put everything into apple-pie order, what about that manuscript?" "what manuscript?" said florence, starting and colouring. "the one you brought into the room. you don't suppose i didn't see? you have hidden it just under that pillow on the sofa. lie down once more on your place of repose, and let me run my eye over it." "would you?" said florence. she coloured very deeply. "would you greatly mind reading it aloud?" "you have written it, i presume?" said miss franks. florence did not say anything. she shut up her mouth into rather a hard line. edith franks nodded twice to herself; then, putting on her pincenez, she proceeded to read the manuscript. she had a perfectly well-trained voice without a great amount of expression in it. she read on at first slowly and smoothly. at the end of the first page she paused for a moment, and looked full up at her companion. "how well you have been taught english!" she said. still florence did not utter a word. at the end of the second page miss franks again made a remark. "your writing is so good that i have never to pause to find out the meaning of a word, and you have a very pure saxon style." "oh, i wish you would go on, and make your comments at the end," said florence then, in an almost cross tone. "my dear, that answer of yours requires medicine. i shall certainly insist upon your taking a tonic to your room with you. i can dispense a little already, and have some directions by me. i can make up something which will do you a lot of good." "do go on reading," said florence. edith franks proceeded with the manuscript. her even voice still flowed on without pause or interruption. at the end of the third or fourth page, however, she ceased to make any remarks: she turned the pages now rapidly, and about the middle of the story her voice changed its tone. it was no longer even nor smooth: it became broken as though something oppressed her, then it rose triumphant and excited. she had finished: she flung the manuscript back almost at florence's head with a gay laugh. "and you pretend, you pretend," she said, "that you are a starving girl--a girl out of a situation! you are a sham, miss aylmer--you are a sham." "what do you mean?" said florence. "why, this," said edith franks. she took up the manuscript again. "what about it? i mean, do you--do you--like it?" "like it? it is not that exactly. i admire it, of course. have you written much? have you ever published anything?" "never a line." "but you must have written a great deal to have achieved that style." "no, i have written very little." "then you are a heaven-born genius: give me your hand." florence slowly and unwilling extended her hand. miss franks grasped it in both of hers. "flexible fingers," she said, "but not exactly, not precisely the hand of an artist, and yet, and yet you are an artist through and through. my dear, you are a genius." "i do not know why you say that." "because you have written that story, that queer, weird, extraordinary tale. it is not the plot alone: it is the way you have told it, the way the figures group themselves together, the strength that is in them, the way you have grasped the situation; and you have made all those characters live. they move backwards and forwards; they are human beings. i am so glad johanna won the victory, she was so brave, and it was such a cruel temptation. oh, i shall dream of that story, and yet you say you have written very little." "you jump to conclusions," said florence. she spoke in a queer voice. "i never told you that i had written that story." "but you have, my dear; i see it in your face. oh, i congratulate you." "would it be possible to--to publish it?" was florence's next remark, made after a long pause. "publish it? i know half a dozen editors in london who would jump at it. i know a good deal about writing, as it happens. my brother is a journalist, and he has talked to me about these things. he is a very clever journalist, and at one time i had a faint sort of dream that i might follow in his steps, but my own career is better--i mean for me. publish it; of course, you shall publish it. editors are only too thankful to get the real stuff, but, poor souls! they seldom do get it. you will be paid well for this. of course, you will make up your mind to be an author, a writer of short stories, a second bret harte. oh, this is splendid, superb!" florence got up from her sofa; she felt a little giddy. her face was very white. "do you--do you know any publishers personally?" was her next remark. "not personally, but i can give you a list of half a dozen at least. i shall watch your career with intense interest, and i can advise you too. i tell you what it is--on sunday i will go and see my brother tom, and i will tell him about you, and ask him what he would recommend. you must not give yourself away; you have a great career before you. of course, you will lead the life of a writer, and nothing else?" "good night," said florence; "i am very tired, but i am awfully obliged to you." "won't you wait until i make up your tonic?" "i could not take it to-night. i have a bad headache; i want to go to bed. thank you so very much." "but, i say, you are leaving your darling, precious manuscript behind you." miss franks darted after florence, and thrust the manuscript into her hand. "take care of it," she said; "it is the work of a genius. now, good night." florence went upstairs. slowly she entered her dismal little attic. she lit a candle, and locked her door. she laid the manuscript on the chest of drawers. she went some steps away from it as though she were afraid of it; then with a hasty movement she unlocked the drawer where she kept her purse, and thrust the manuscript in. she locked the drawer again, and put the key into her writing-desk, and then she undressed as fast as ever she could, and got into bed, and covered her head so that she should not see the moon shining into her room, and said under her breath: "o god, let me sleep as soon as possible, for i cannot, i dare not think." chapter xvii. nearer and nearer. florence had lived without letters for some time, but now they seemed to pour in. the next morning, as she was preparing her extremely frugal breakfast, consisting of bread without butter and a little weak tea, she heard the postman climbing all the way up to her attic floor. his double knock sounded on her door, and a letter was dropped in. she took it up: it was from her mother. she opened it languidly. mrs. aylmer wrote in some distress:-- "my darling child-- "the queerest thing has happened. i cannot possibly account for it. i have been robbed of five pounds. i was on the sands yesterday talking to a very pleasant jolly fat little man, who interested me by telling me that he knew london, and that he considered i had done extremely wrong in allowing you to go there without a chaperon. he described the dangers to which young girls were subjected in such terrible and fearful language that i very nearly screamed. "i thanked him for his advice, and told him that i would write to you immediately and ask you to come home. my darling, it would be better for us both to starve at home than for you to run the risks which he has hinted at. "but to come to the real object of this letter. i am five pounds short, my dear florry--i had five pounds in my pocket, two of which i had received unexpectedly, and three from my very, very tiny income. sukey and i were going to have quite a little turn-out--a nice tea-party; but fortunately, most fortunately, providence prevented my ordering the buns and cakes, or sending out the invitations, and when i came in my money was gone. of course it was not the little man, so do not point your suspicions at him. somebody robbed the widow. oh, what a judgment will yet fall upon that head! "dear flo, i know you have something by you--how large a sum you have never confided to your poor mother. will you lend me five pounds, darling, and send it at once? quarter-day is coming on, and i have several things to meet. do not hesitate, my love: it shall be returned to you when i get my next allowance. "i will write to you later on with regard to your coming back to dawlish. in the meantime think of your poor mother's distress, and do your utmost for her." florence let the letter drop from her hands. she sat before her frugal board, and slowly and listlessly raised her cup of tea to her lips. "i seem to be pushed gradually nearer and nearer the edge," she said to herself. "what possessed mother to lose that money? of course the man was a thief. mother is so silly, and she really gets worse as she grows older. dear little mummy, i love her with all my heart; but her want of common-sense does try me sometimes." the day was going to be a particularly hot one. there was a mist all over the horizon, and the breeze was moving languidly. florence had her window wide open, and was wondering how she could live through the day. to-day was saturday. to-morrow she would have a pleasant time. she looked forward to meeting maurice trevor more than she dared to admit to herself. she wondered what sort of woman his mother was. "at any rate," she said to herself, "he is nice. i like him, and i am sure he likes me, and we shall enjoy ourselves on hampstead heath. it won't be so hot there; it will be a little bit of the country. i must send mother the five pounds, and i suppose i need not decide about that awful manuscript till monday." these thoughts had scarcely come into her head before there came a knock at her door. florence went to open it, and edith franks, very neatly dressed, and looking business-like and purposeful, with bright eyes and a clear colour in her cheeks, stood on the threshold. "how do you do?" she said. "i am just off to my work. i am about to have a very hard day, but i thought i would refresh myself with a sight of you. may i come in?" "please do," said florence, but she did not look altogether happy as she gave the invitation. her bed was unmade, her dressing things were lying about, her breakfast was just the sort which she did not wish the keen-eyed medical student to see. there was no help for it, however. edith franks had come up for the purpose of spying into the nakedness of the land, and spy she did. she looked quickly round her in that darting, bird-like manner which characterised all her movements. she saw the untidy room, she noticed the humble, insufficient meal. edith franks had the kindest heart in the world; but she was sometimes a little, just a very little destitute of tact. "my dear," she said, "may i sit down? your stairs really take one's breath away. i know now what i specially came for. tom has promised to call for me this morning." "who is tom?" asked florence. "don't you know? what a short memory you have! i told you something about him last night--my clever journalist brother. he is on the staff of the _daily tidings_, and the new six-penny magazine that people talk so much about, the _argonaut_. he has a splendid post, and has great influence. if you will entrust that precious manuscript to me, i will let tom see it. he is the best of judges. if he says it is worth anything, your fortune is made. if, on the other hand--" "oh, but he won't like it, and i think i would rather not," said florence. she turned very pale as she spoke. edith gave her another glance. "let me have it," she said. "tom's seeing it means nothing. i will get him to run his eye over it while we are at lunch together. here, get it for me; there's a good girl." florence rose. her feet seemed weighted with lead. she unlocked her drawer, took out the manuscript, and nearly flung it at edith's head. she restrained herself, however, and stood with it in her hand looking as undecided as a girl could look. "you tempt me mightily," she said; "why do you tempt me?" "to get money for what is such splendid work," said miss franks, with a gay laugh. "i am glad i tempt you, for you want money, you poor, proud, queer girl. i like you--i like you much, but you must just let me help you over this crisis. give it to me, my dear." she nearly snatched the manuscript from florence, and thrust it into a small leather bag which she wore at her side. "tom shall tell you what he thinks of it, and now ta! ta!" chapter xviii. a vestige of hope. miss franks was heard tripping downstairs as fast as her feet could carry her, and florence covered her face with her hands. "i have yielded," she said to herself. "what is to be done?" she got up desperately. "i must not think, that is evident," was her next sensation. she could not take any more breakfast. she was too tired, too stunned, too unnerved. she dressed herself slowly, and determined, after posting the necessary money to her mother, to go the round of the different registry-offices where she had entered her name. "if there is any chance, any chance at all, i will tell edith franks the truth to-night," she said to herself. "if there is no chance of my earning money--why, this sum that mother has demanded of me means the reducing of my store to seven pounds and some odd silver--i shall be penniless before many weeks are over. what is to be done?" florence wrote a short letter to her mother. she made no allusions whatever to the little woman's comments with regard to the dangers in which she herself was placed. "i am extremely likely to die of starvation, but there is no other danger in my living alone in london," she thought, with a short laugh. and then she went to a post-office and got the necessary postal orders, and put them into the letter, and registered it and sent it off. "oh, mummy, do be careful," she said, in the postscript; "it has been rather hard to spare you this, though, of course i do it with a heart and a half." afterwards poor florence went the dreary round--from harley-street to bond-street, from bond-street to regent-street, from regent-street to the strand did she wander, and in each registry-office she received the same reply: "there is nothing at all likely to suit you." at last, in a little office in fleet-street, she was handed the address of a lady who kept a school, and who might be inclined to give florence a small post. "the lady came in late last night," said the young woman who spoke to her across a crowded counter, "and she said she wanted someone to come and live in the house and look after a lot of girls, and she would be glad to make arrangements, as term would begin in about a fortnight. you might look her up. i know the salary will be very small; but i think she is willing to give board and lodging." slightly cheered by this vestige of hope, florence mounted an omnibus, and presently found herself at south kensington. she found the right street, and stopped before a door of somewhat humble dimensions. she rang the bell. a charwoman opened the door after some delay, told her that mrs. fleming was within, and asked her what her message was. florence said she had come after the post which mrs. fleming was offering. the charwoman looked dubious. "i wouldn't if i was you," she said, in a low voice, hiding both her hands under her apron as she spoke. florence would not condescend to consult with the charwoman whether she was to accept the situation or not. she simply said: "will you tell your mistress that i am here?" "a wilful lass," muttered the old woman, "and i told her she had better not." she shambled across a dirty passage, and opened a door at the farther end. a moment later florence found herself in the presence of a tall woman with a very much powdered face and untidy hair. this personage was dressed in rusty black, wore a dirty collar and cuffs, and had hands evidently long strangers to soap-and-water. she invited florence to seat herself, and looked her all over. "h'm! you've come after the situation. your name, please." "florence aylmer." "your age?" "i am nearly twenty-one." "very young. have you had experience in controlling the follies of youth?" "i have been pupil teacher at my last school for over a year," said florence. "ah, and where was your school?" florence mentioned it. "have you ever got into any scrape of any sort, been a naughty girl, or anything of that kind? i have to make most searching enquiries." "why do you ask?" said florence. she coloured first, and then turned very pale. mrs. fleming gazed at her with hawk-like eyes. "why don't you answer?" "because i cannot see," replied florence, with some spirit, "that you have any right to ask me the question. i can give you excellent testimonials from the mistress of the school where i was living." "that will not do. i find that nothing so influences youth as that the instructress should give an epitome of her own life, should be able plainly to show how _she_ has conquered temptation, and risen even above the _appearance_ of evil. if there is a flaw in the governess, there will also be a flaw in the pupils--understand, eh?" "yes, madam," said florence; "i am afraid your post won't suit me. i have certainly a great many flaws; i never supposed you wanted a perfect governess." "impertinent," said mrs. fleming. "here am i ready to offer you the shelter of my roof, the excellent food which always prevails in this establishment, and fifteen pounds a year, and yet you talk in that lofty tone. you are a very silly young woman. i am quite sure you won't suit me." "it is a foregone conclusion," said florence, indulging in a little pertness as she saw that the situation would no more suit her than she it. she walked towards the door. "i will wish you good morning," she said. "stay one moment. what can you teach?" "nothing that will suit you." "i must certainly remove my name from that registry-office. i stipulated that i should see godly maidens of spotless character. you, who evidently have a shady past, dare to come to me to offer your polluted services! i will wish you good morning." "i have already wished you good morning," said florence. she turned without another word, and, not deigning to ask the assistance of the charwoman, left the house. when she got to the street she was trembling. "it is hard for girls like me to earn their own bread," she said to herself. "what is to be done? nearer and nearer am i getting to the edge of the cliff. what is to be done?" she returned home, and spent the rest of the day in a state of intense depression. her attic was so suffocating that she could not stay in it, but there was a general sitting-room downstairs, and she went there and contrived to make herself as wretched as she could over a well-thumbed novel which another girl had left behind her on the previous evening. a certain miss mitford, the head of this part of the establishment, wandered in, saw that florence was quite alone, noticed how ill and wretched she looked, and sat down near her. "your name is, i think, aylmer," said this good woman. "yes: florence aylmer," replied florence, and she scarcely raised her eyes from her book. "you don't look very well. i am going for a little drive: a friend of mine is lending me her carriage. i have plenty of room for you; will you come with me?" "do you mean it?" said florence, raising languid eyes. "i certainly do. my friend has a most comfortable carriage. we will drive to richmond park. what do you say?" "that i thank you very much, and i--" "of course you'll come." "yes, i'll come," said florence. she ran upstairs more briskly than she had done yet. the thought of the drive, and the peace of being alone with a woman who knew absolutely nothing about her, was soothing. miss mitford was not remarkable for her penetration of character, but she was essentially kind. the carriage arrived and she and florence got in. they drove for a quarter of a mile without either of them uttering a word; then the coachman drew up at a shabby house. miss mitford got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell; in a moment or two three little girls with very pasty faces and lack-lustre eyes appeared. "i am sorry i was late, dears," said miss mitford; "but jump in: there is room for us all in the barouche." florence felt now almost happy. there was no chance of miss mitford discovering her secret. indeed, the superintendent of no. , prince's mansions, had not the faintest idea of enquiring into florence's affairs. she could bestow a passing kindness on a sad-looking girl, but it was not her habit to enquire further. she chatted to the children, and florence joined in. presently she found herself laughing. when they reached the park, they all alighted and sat under the trees, and miss mitford produced a mysterious little basket, out of which she took milk and sponge-cakes, and florence enjoyed her feast just as much as the children did. it was seven o'clock when she arrived home again, and edith franks was waiting for her in the downstair hall. chapter xix. in the balance. the moment edith saw florence, she went up to her, seized her by the arm, and said, in an imperious voice: "you must come with me to my room immediately." "but why?" asked miss aylmer, trying to release herself from the firm grip in which edith franks held her. "because i have something most important to tell you." florence did not reply. she had been cheered and comforted by her drive, and she found that edith franks, with all her kindness, had a most irritating effect upon her. there was nothing for it, however, but to comply, and the two went upstairs as far as the third story together. there they entered edith's sitting-room. she pushed florence down on the sofa, and, still keeping a hand on each of her shoulders, said emphatically: "tom: read it." "what do you mean?" was florence's almost inane answer. "how stupid you are!" edith gave her a little shake. "when i am excited--i to whom it means practically nothing, why should not you be? tom read it, and he means to show it to his chief. you are made, and i have made you. kiss me; let me congratulate you. you will starve no longer; you will have plenty. what is more, you will have fame. you will be courted by the great; you have an honourable future in front of you. look up! lose that lack-lustre expression in your eyes. oh, good gracious! the girl is ill." for florence had turned ghastly white. "this is a case for a doctor," said edith franks; "lie down--that is better." she pulled the cushions away from the sofa and pushed florence into a recumbent position. "i have some sal volatile here; you must drink it." edith rushed across the room, took the necessary bottle from her medical shelf, prepared a dose, and brought it to the half-fainting girl. florence sipped it slowly. the colour came back into her cheeks, and her eyes looked less dazed. "now you are more yourself. what was the matter with you?" "but you--you have not given it; he--he has not shown it--" "you really are most provoking," said miss franks. "i don't know why i take so much trouble for you--a stranger. i have given you what would have taken you months to secure for yourself: the most valuable introduction into the very best quarter for the disposal of your wares. oh, you are a lucky girl. but there, you shall dine with me to-night." "i cannot." "too proud, eh?" "oh, you don't know my position," said poor florence. "nonsense! go up to your room and have a rest. i will come for you in a quarter of an hour. i have ordered dinner for two already. if you don't eat it, it will be thrown away." "i am afraid it will have to be thrown away! i--i don't feel well." "you are a goose; but if you are ill, you shall stay here and i will nurse you." "no; i think i'll go upstairs. i want to be alone." florence staggered across the room as she spoke. edith franks looked at her for a moment in a puzzled way. "i shall expect you down to dinner," she said. "dinner will be ready in a quarter of an hour. mind, i shall expect you." florence made no answer. she slowly left the room, closing the door after her, and retired to her own apartment. edith franks clasped both her hands to her head. "well, really," she thought, "why should i put myself out about an ungrateful girl of that sort? but there, she is deeply interesting: one of those strange vagaries of genius. she is a psychological study, beyond doubt. i must see plenty of her. i have a great mind to take up psychology as my special branch of the profession; it is so deeply, so appallingly interesting. poor girl, she has great genius! when that story is published all the world will know. i never saw tom so excited about anything. he said: 'there is stuff in this.' he said it after he had read a page; he said it again when he had gone half-way through the manuscript; and he clapped his hands at the end and said: 'bravo!' i know what that means from tom. he is the most critical of men. he distrusts everything until it has proved itself good, and yet he accepted the talent of that story without a demur." miss franks hurriedly moved about the room, changed her dress, smoothed her hair, washed her hands, looked at her little gun-metal watch, saw that the quarter of an hour had expired, and tripped downstairs to the dining-room. "will she be there, or will she not?" thought edith franks to herself. she looked eagerly into the great room with its small tables covered with white cloths. there were seats in the dining-room for one hundred and fifty people. edith franks, however, looked over to a certain corner, and there, at one of the tables, quietly waiting for her, and also neatly dressed, sat florence aylmer. "that is right," said miss franks; "you are coming to your senses." "yes," answered florence, "i am coming to my senses." there was a bright flush on each of her cheeks, and her eyes were brilliant: she looked almost handsome. edith gazed at her with admiration. "so you are drinking in the delicious flattery: you are preparing for the fame which awaits you," said the medical student. "i want to say one thing, miss franks," remarked florence, bending forward. "what is that?" "when you came up this morning to my room i did not wish to give you the manuscript; you took it from me almost by force. you promised further that your brother's seeing it would mean nothing. you did not keep your word. your brother has seen it, and, from what you tell me, he approves of it. from what you tell me further, he is going to show it in a certain quarter where its success will be more or less assured. of course, you and he may be both mistaken, and after all the story which you think so highly of may be worth nothing; that remains to be proved." "it is worth a great deal; the world will talk about it," said edith franks. "but i don't want the world to talk of it," said florence. "i didn't wish to be pushed and hurried as i have been. i did wrong to consult you, and yet i know you meant to be kind. you have not been kind: you have been the reverse; but you have _meant_ to be kind, and i thank you for your intention. things must go their own way. i have been hard pressed and i have yielded; only please do not ask me to talk about it. when your brother receives news i shall be glad to know; but even then i want to hear the fate of the manuscript without comment from you. that is what i ask. if you will promise that, i will accept your dinner. i am very proud, and it pains me to accept charity from anyone; but i will accept your dinner and be grateful to you: only will you promise not to talk of the manuscript any more?" "certainly, my dear," answered edith franks. "have a potato, won't you?" as edith helped florence to a floury potato, she exclaimed, under her breath: "a little mad, poor girl: a most interesting psychological study." chapter xx. rose view. it was a most glorious sunday, and florence felt cheered as she dressed for her visit to hampstead. she resolved to put all disagreeable things out of sight. "i fell before," she said to herself, "and i am falling again. i am afraid there is nothing good in me: there is certainly _nothing_ stable in me. i yielded to temptation when i was a girl at school, and i am yielding now. i have put myself again into the power of an unscrupulous woman. but for to-day at least i will be happy; i will banish dull care." so she made herself look as bright and pretty as she could in a white washing dress. she wore a smart sailor hat, and, putting on some white washing gloves, ran downstairs. on one of the landings she met edith franks. "whither away?" asked that young lady. "i am going to hampstead to spend the day with friends." "that is very nice. i know hampstead well. what part are you going to?" "close to the heath: to people of the name of trevor." "not surely to mrs. trevor, of rose view?" exclaimed edith franks, starting back a step and raising her brows as she spoke. "yes." "and do you know her son, that most charming fellow, maurice trevor?" "i know him slightly." "oh, but this is really delightful. we have been friends with the trevors, tom and i, ever since we were children. this seems to be quite a new turn to our friendship, does it not?" florence felt herself both cold and stiff. she longed to be friendly with edith, who was, she was well aware, all that was kind; nevertheless, a strange sensation of depression and of coming trouble was over her. "she is kind; but she may tempt me to do what is wrong," thought poor florence. "i don't know the trevors well," she answered. "i have met mr. trevor once or twice, but i have never even seen his mother. his mother has been kind enough to ask me to spend to-day with her. i will say good-bye now." "be sure you give my love to dear mrs. trevor, and remember me to maurice. tell him, with my kind regards, that i commiserate him very much." "why so?" asked florence. "because he has had the bad luck to be adopted by a rich, eccentric old lady, and he will lose all his personality. tell him i wouldn't be in his shoes for anything, and now ta! ta! i see you are dying to be off." edith went back to her room, and florence ran downstairs, entered an omnibus which would convey her the greater part of the way to hampstead, and arrived there a little before ten o'clock. as she was walking up the little path to the trevors' cottage, maurice trevor came down to meet her. "how do you do?" he said, shaking hands with her and taking her immediately into the house. mrs. trevor was standing in the porch. "this is miss aylmer, mother," said the young man. mrs. trevor held out her hand, looked earnestly into florence's face, then drew her towards her and kissed her. "i am glad to see you, my dear," she said; "my son has told me about you. welcome to rose view; i hope you like the place." florence looked around her and gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. the house was a very small one, but it stood in a perfect bower of roses: they were climbing all over the house, and blooming in the garden: there were standard roses, yellow, white, and pink, moss-roses, the old-fashioned cabbage-rose, and scotch roses, little white and red ones. "i never saw anything like it," said florence, forgetting herself in her astonishment and delight. mrs. trevor watched her face. "she is a nice girl, but she has some trouble behind," thought the widow to herself. "we will go round the garden," she said; "it is not time for church yet. i am not able to go this morning, but maurice will take you presently. you have just to cross the heath and you can go to a dear little church, quite in the depths of the country. i never need change of air here in my rose-bower. but come: what roses shall i pick for you?" "i must give miss aylmer her flowers, as she is practically my guest," said trevor, coming forward at that moment. he picked a moss-rose bud and a few scotch roses, made them into a posy, and gave them to florence. she placed the flowers in her belt; her cheeks were already bright with colour, and her eyes were dewy with happiness. she bent down several times to sniff the fragrance of the flowers. mrs. trevor drew her out to talk, and soon she was chatting and laughing, and looked like a girl who had not a care in the world. "i never saw anything so sweet," she said. "how have you managed to make all these roses bloom at once?" "i study roses; they are my specialty. i think roses are the great joy of my life," said mrs. trevor. but as she spoke she glanced at her stalwart, handsome son, and florence guessed that he was his mother's idol, and wondered how she could part with him to mrs. aylmer. "the church bells are beginning to ring," he said suddenly; "would you like to go to church or would you rather just wander about the heath?" "i think i would rather stay on the heath this morning," said florence. she coloured as she spoke. "i do not feel very churchy," she added. "all right: we'll have our service out of doors then; we'll be back, mother, in time for lunch." chapter xxi. an awkward position. trevor raised the latch of the gate as he spoke, and florence and he went out into what the girl afterwards called an enchanted world. florence during that walk was light-hearted as a lark and forgot all her cares. trevor made himself a very agreeable companion. he had from the first felt a great sympathy for florence. he was not at that time in love with her, but he did think her a specially attractive girl, and, believing that she was sorrowful, and also having a sort of latent feeling that he himself was doing her an injury by being mrs. aylmer's heir, he was more attentive to her and more sympathetic in his manner than he would otherwise have been. they found a shady dell on the heath where they sat and talked of many things. it was not until it was nearly time to return home, and they saw the people coming away from the little church down in the vale, that trevor looked at his companion and said abruptly: "i do wish you and the mother could live together. do you think it could be managed?" "i don't know," said florence, starting; "for some things i should like it." "i cannot tell you," he continued, flushing slightly as he spoke, "what a great satisfaction it would be to me. i must be frank with you. i always feel that i have done you a great injury." "you certainly have not done me an injury; you have added to the pleasure of my life," said florence. "i do not suppose we shall see a great deal of each other, and i often wonder why. if i am to be mrs. aylmer's heir i shall have to spend most of my life with her; but then, so long as you are in the world, i ought not to hold that position." "oh, never mind about that," said florence. "she is your aunt?" "she is my aunt by marriage. it does not matter. we don't get on together. she--she never wishes to see me nor to hear of me." "but i wonder why; it seems very hard on you. you and your mother are poor, whilst i am no relation. why should i usurp your place--in fact, be your supplanter?" "you are not. if you did not have the money, someone else would. i should never be my aunt's heiress." "and yet she knows you?" "she did know me." "did you ever do anything to offend her?" "i am afraid i did." trevor was on the point of asking "what?" but there was an expression in florence's face which stayed the word on his lips. she had turned white again, and the tired, drawn expression had come to her eyes. "you must come home now and have lunch," he said; "afterwards i will take you for another walk, and show you some fresh beauties." they rose slowly and went back to the house. lunch was waiting for them, and during the meal mrs. trevor and maurice talked on many things which delighted and interested florence immensely. they were both highly intelligent, had a passionate love for horticulture, and also were well read on many other subjects. florence found some of her school knowledge now standing her in good stead. in the course of the meal she mentioned edith franks. both mother and son laughed when her name was spoken of. "what! that enthusiastic, silly girl who actually wants to be a doctor?" cried mrs. trevor. "she is a first-rate girl herself, but her ideas are--" "you must not say anything against edith franks, mother," exclaimed her son. "for my part, i think she is very plucky. i have no doubt," he added, "that women doctors can do very good work." "she is much too learned for me, that is all," replied mrs. trevor; "but i hear she is to undergo her examinations in america. i trust the day will never come when it will be easy for a woman to obtain her medical degree in this country. it is horrible to think of anything so unfeminine." "i do not think edith franks is unfeminine," said florence. "she has been awfully kind to me. i think she is experimenting on me now." "and that you don't like, my dear?" "she is very good to me," repeated florence, "but i do not like it." mrs. trevor smiled, and maurice gave florence a puzzled, earnest glance. "i do wish, mother," he said suddenly, "that you could arrange to have miss aylmer living with you." "oh, my dear, it would be much too far, and i know she would not like it. if she has to work for her living, she must be nearer town." "i am afraid it would not do," said florence, with a sigh; "but, of course, i--i should love it." "you have not anything to do yet, have you?" asked trevor. "not exactly." she coloured and looked uncomfortable. he gave her a keen glance, and once more the thought flashed through mrs. trevor's mind: "the girl is hiding a secret; she has a sorrow: what is she trying to conceal? i wish i could draw her secret from her." the meal over, trevor and florence once more wandered on the heath. the day, which had been so sunny and bright in the morning, was now slightly overcast, and they had not walked half a mile before rain overtook them. they had quite forgotten to provide themselves with umbrellas, and florence's thin dress was in danger of becoming wet through. as they walked quickly back now, they were overtaken by a man who said to florence: "i beg your pardon, but may i offer you this umbrella?" before she could reply, the stranger looked at trevor and uttered an exclamation. "why, tom!" cried trevor. he shook hands heartily with him, and introduced him to florence: "mr. franks--miss aylmer." "aylmer?" said the young man; "are you called florence aylmer?" he looked full at the girl. "yes, and you have a sister called edith franks," she answered. all the colour had left her face, her eyes were full of a sort of dumb entreaty. trevor gazed at her in astonishment. "you must come back and see my mother, franks," he continued, turning again to the young man. "it is very kind of you to offer your umbrella to miss aylmer, but i think you must share it with her." there was no help for it. florence had to walk under mr. franks's umbrella; she had seldom found herself in a more awkward position. "of course," she thought, "he will speak of the manuscript." she rushed recklessly into conversation in order to avoid this, but in vain. during the first pause mr. franks said: "i have good news for you, miss aylmer. i showed your story to my chief, anderson, last night. i begged of him to read it at once. he did so to oblige me. he will take it for the _argonaut_. i thought you would be glad. he wants you to call at the office to-morrow, when he will arrange terms with you.--forgive us, won't you, trevor, for talking business; but it was such a chance, coming across miss aylmer like this, and i thought she would like to know as soon as possible what a great success she has made." trevor glanced at florence in some astonishment. "does this mean that you write?" he said, "and that you have had an article accepted?" "a very promising article accepted extremely willingly," said franks. "miss aylmer deserves your hearty congratulations, trevor. she is a very fortunate young lady indeed." "i know i am, and i am grateful," said florence. trevor again looked at her. "she is not happy. what can be wrong?" he said to himself. "have you ever published anything before?" continued franks. "never." "well, you are lucky. your style--i do not want to flatter you, but your style is quite formed. you must have been a very successful essay-writer at school." "no, i never wrote much," said poor florence. "i--i hate writing," she said the next moment. the words burst impetuously from her lips. "by all that's wonderful! what do you mean by that? surely it would be absolutely impossible for anyone who hated writing to do so with your ease and fluency!" "we are nearly home now, and miss aylmer seems very tired," said trevor. "will you come in, franks?" "no, thanks; i must be getting home. you will call at our office to-morrow, miss aylmer?" "thank you," said florence; "at what hour?" "i shall be in and will introduce you to my chief if you can come at twelve o'clock. well, good-bye for the present." he raised his hat to florence, favoured her with a keen glance, said good-bye to trevor, and turned away. "i must congratulate you," said trevor, as the young man and the girl walked up the little path to the house. "what for?" she asked. she raised her eyes full of dumb misery to his face. "for having won a success, and a very honourable one." "oh, don't ask me any more," she said; "please, please don't speak of it. i thought i should be so happy to-day." "but does not this make you happy? i do not understand." "it makes me terribly miserable. i cannot explain. please don't ask me." "i won't; only just let me say that, whatever it is, i am sorry for you." he held out his hand. the next moment he had taken hers. her hand, which had been trembling, lay still in his palm. he clasped his own strong, firm hand over it. "i wish i could help you," he said, in a low voice, and then they both entered the house. mrs. trevor, through the little latticed window in the tiny drawing-room, had witnessed this scene. "what?" she said to herself. "is my boy really falling in love with that nice, interesting, but unhappy girl? of course, i shall not oppose him; but i almost wish it were not to be." chapter xxii. the story accepted. tea was ready prepared. the sun came out after the heavy shower, and florence found the trevors even more kind and agreeable than they had been at lunch. when the meal was over, trevor called his mother out of the room. he spoke to her for a few moments alone, and then she re-entered the little drawing-room. florence was seated by the open window, looking out. she was resting her chin on the palm of her hand as she gazed across the rose-garden. at that moment trevor went quietly by. he stooped to pick one or two roses; then he turned and looked at florence. florence smiled very faintly, and a rush of colour came into trevor's face. mrs. trevor then came up to florence and spoke. "i do it because my son wishes it," she said, "and i also do it because i take an interest in you. he has told me of your great success in the literary market. you, young and inexperienced, have had an article accepted by so great a magazine as the _argonaut_. you scarcely know what an immense success you have won. i did not, of course, understand what your occupation in london was likely to be; but if you are to be a writer, why not come and live with me here? i have a nice little room which i can offer you, and this drawing-room will always be at your disposal, for i sit as a rule in my dining-room. you can go into town when you want to, and you will make me happy, and--and i think maurice would like it." as mrs. trevor spoke she looked full at the girl, and florence found herself trembling and even colouring as trevor's name was mentioned. "will you think over it, my dear," said mrs. trevor, "and let me know?" "i will think over it and let you know. you are very kind to me. i scarcely know how to thank you enough," replied florence. "as to the terms," continued mrs. trevor, "they would be very moderate. my cottage is my own, and i have few expenses. i could take you in and make you comfortable for fifteen shillings a week." "oh!" said florence. she thought of that money which was getting daily less. she looked into the lovely garden and her heart swelled within her. her first impulse was to throw her arms round mrs. trevor's neck: to say it would be peace, comfort, and happiness to live with her. she would save money, and her worst anxieties would be removed. but she restrained herself. there was a heavy weight pressing against her heart, and even the widow's kindness scarcely touched her. "i will let you know. you are more than kind," she said. a moment afterwards she had said good-bye to mrs. trevor, and maurice and she were hurrying down the hill to meet the omnibus which was to convey the girl back to prince's mansions. "my mother has told you what we both wish?" he said. "to be honest with you, i feel that we owe you something. i am usurping your place; i can never get over that fact." "i wish you wouldn't think of it, for it is not the truth," said florence. "i have told you already that even if you did not exist i should never inherit a farthing of my aunt's money, and what is more," she added, the crimson dyeing her cheeks, "i wouldn't take it if she offered it to me." "you are a strange girl," he said. he bade her good-bye as she entered the omnibus, and then turned to walk up hampstead hill once again. the next day at twelve o'clock florence aylmer, neatly dressed, and looking bright and purposeful, and no longer overpowered by any sense of remorse, appeared at mr. anderson's office. she was received with the politeness which is ever accorded to the successful. the very clerks in the outer office seemed to know that she was not to be confounded with the ordinary young person who appears daily and hourly offering unsaleable wares. florence's wares were saleable--more than saleable. she was ushered into a room to wait for a moment, and then very soon franks appeared on the scene. "how do you do, miss aylmer?" he said, coming up in his quick way, and shaking hands with her. "i am very pleased to see you. will you come with me now, as i should like to introduce you to mr. anderson?" they left the waiting-room together, went up some broad stairs, and entered a very spacious apartment on the first floor. here an elderly man, of tall presence, with grey hair and a hooked nose, was waiting to receive them. he stood up when florence appeared, bowed to her, and then held out his hand. "will you seat yourself, miss aylmer?" he said. florence did so. mr. anderson stood on the hearth and looked her all over. he had a keen, hawk-like glance, and his scrutiny was very penetrating. florence found herself colouring under his gaze. she had been full of _sangfroid_ and almost indifference when she entered the office, but now once again that terrible, overpowering sense of guilt was visiting her. mr. anderson was a scotchman to the backbone, and a man of very few words. "i read your story," he said; "it is sharp and to the point. you have a nice style and an original way of putting things. i accepted your story for the _argonaut_; it may not appear for some months, but it will certainly be published before the end of the year. we had better now arrange terms. what do you think your manuscript worth?" "nothing at all," was florence's unguarded answer. this was so unexpected that both franks and the editor smiled. "you are a very young writer indeed," said mr. anderson. "you will soon learn to appraise your wares at their true value. as this is your first effort i will pay you two guineas a thousand words. there are, i think, from five to six thousand words in the manuscript. you will receive a cheque therefore, say, for twelve guineas on the day of publication." florence gave a short gasp. "it really is not worth it," she said again. franks felt inclined to say: "don't make such a fool of yourself," but he restrained himself. mr. anderson now drew his own chair forward and looked at florence. "i should be glad," he said, "to receive further contributions. you have doubtless many ideas, and you have at present the great and inestimable charm of novelty. you write in a fresh way. we are always looking for work of the sort you have given us. i should be sorry if you took your stories to anyone else. would it be possible to make an arrangement for us to receive all your contributions, say, for twelve months?" "i assure you," here interrupted franks, "that this is so unusual an offer that you would be very silly indeed, miss aylmer, to reject it." florence gazed from one to the other in growing alarm. "what i mean is this," said anderson, noticing her perturbation and pitying her supposed innocence. "when your story appears it will attract the attention of the critics. it will receive, beyond doubt, some very favourable comments, and other editors, who equally with myself are looking out for what is fresh and novel, will write to you and ask you to work for them. i do not wish in any way to injure your future prospects; but i think you would do better for yourself, and eventually increase the value of your contributions, by giving us your work during the first year. when can we find room for this first story of miss aylmer's, franks?" franks thought for a moment. "there is no reason why it should not appear in november," he said. "we could dispense with illustrations--at least one illustration will be quite sufficient." "very well; it shall appear then. you will soon receive proofs, miss aylmer; and can you let me have another small story of about the same length in a month from now? if your first story is liked we can find room for another in december. you will think over my proposal. i do not want you to hurry nor to appear to coerce you in any way, but we shall be proud to be the publishers who introduced you to, i hope, a very large audience." mr. anderson here got up, and florence, seeing that the interview was at an end, bowed and went away. franks accompanied her downstairs. "you will, of course, accept mr. anderson's offer?" he said. "of course i shall," replied florence; "why should i not? but you are both under a mistake with regard to me. i do not suppose any other editors will want my contributions; but if you wish for them you can certainly have them." she returned home, avoided edith franks, and stayed for the remainder of that day in her own attic. "soon my pecuniary difficulties will be at an end," she said to herself. "i have not the slightest doubt that i can get some more stories into the _argonaut_ this year. i shall soon get over my remorse; my conscience will soon cease to prick me. if i receive twelve guineas for each story i shall earn a considerable sum. i can then live easily. i do not mind how poorly i live if only i am assured of a certainty." she walked across the room and looked out; the expression on her face had changed: it had grown hard and defiant. she took up her pen, drew a sheet of note-paper before her, and began to write:-- "dear bertha-- "the story is accepted by that new six-penny magazine, the _argonaut_, and they want more. please send me something else. i have succumbed to temptation, and am once again, as you so earnestly desire, in the toils. "yours, "florence aylmer." having written this letter, florence proceeded to write another:-- "dear mrs. trevor-- "i have thought of your kind offer of yesterday. indeed, i have scarcely ceased to think of it since i left you. it is with great, great sorrow that i must decline it. you and your kind son had better think no more about me. i am not what i seem: i am not a good girl nor a nice girl in any way. if i were straight and simple and honest i could be the happiest of the happy in your house; but i am not, and i can never tell you what i really am. please forget that you ever knew me. "yours, with gratitude, "florence aylmer." chapter xxiii. bertha's joy. bertha keys found herself in a state of pleasurable excitement. she was in the highest spirits. mrs. aylmer, as she watched her flit about the room, and listened to her gay conversation, and observed her animated face, said to herself: "a more charming companion could not fall to the lot of any woman. now what is the matter, bertha?" she said. "your face quite amuses me; you burst out into little ripples of laughter at the smallest provocation. that dress is extremely becoming; it is a pleasure to see you. what is it, my dear? have you heard any specially good news?" "i have heard this news, and i think we ought both to be very happy," said bertha. "mr. trevor comes home this evening; he will be with us to dinner." mrs. aylmer gave her companion a keen, searching glance. "miss keys," she said slowly. "yes," said bertha, pausing and laying her hand lightly on a little table near; "do you want me to do anything?" "nothing in especial: you are always doing things for me. you are a good girl and a valuable secretary to me; you suit me to perfection. now, my dear, i have no wish to part with you." "to part with me?" said bertha. she looked startled and raised her curious greeny-grey eyes with a new expression in them. "to part with you, bertha; but if you set your heart on mr. maurice trevor you and i must part." "what does this mean? do you want to insult me?" "no, my dear, by no means; but girls will be girls. how old are you, miss keys?" "i am seven-and-twenty." "and maurice is three-and-twenty," said mrs. aylmer. "he is four years your junior; but that in affairs of the heart, i am afraid, does not matter much. you like him, i can see. my dear miss keys, the moment i see my adopted son paying you the slightest attention you must leave here. i daresay he never will pay you that kind of attention, and probably it is all right; but a word to the wise is enough, eh?" "quite enough," said bertha; "you are a little unkind, my dear friend, to speak to me in that tone, and when i was so happy too. believe me, i have not the slightest intention of marrying anyone. i have seen too much trouble in married life to care to cast in my lot with the married folks. i shall live with you as your companion as long as you want me. may i not like mr. trevor, and be a sort of sister to him?" "certainly, only don't be too sisterly or too friendly; do not ask for his confidence; do not think too much about him. he is a charming fellow, but he is not intended for you. my heir must marry as i please, and i am already looking out for a wife for him." "indeed; how very interesting!" "there is a young girl i happen to know, who lives not far from here. she is extremely handsome, and will have a great deal of money. i mean to invite her to aylmer's court next week. now you, miss keys, can do a great deal to promote a friendly feeling between the young people; but i will tell you more of this to-morrow." "thank you," replied bertha. "i wonder," she continued, "who the girl is." "that, my dear, i will tell you by-and-by. at present you are to know nothing about it." the sound of wheels was now heard on the gravel and bertha ran downstairs. "poor dear mrs. aylmer," she said to herself; "it is easy to blind her after all. i do not at all know at present whether i want to marry maurice or not; but, whatever happens, i inherit my dear friend's money, either as his wife, or on my own account: it does not in the least matter which. no wonder i am in good spirits! he comes back to-night, and florence aylmer has yielded to temptation. i have nothing to fear from her now. the second story will go to her by the first post in the morning. i fancy it will be even more fetching than the one which has already taken the fancy of the editor of the _argonaut_." trevor had now entered the hall, and bertha went to meet him. "how do you do?" she said, in her gayest voice. she was dressed in the most becoming way, and looked wonderfully attractive. her red-gold hair was always a striking feature about her; her complexion at night was of the palest cream and dazzlingly fair; her eyes looked big, and as she raised them to trevor's face they wore a pathetic expression. he wrung her hand heartily, asked for mrs. aylmer, said that he would go to his room to get ready for dinner, and ran upstairs three steps at a time. "how nice he looks!" thought the girl; "it would be possible for me to like him even as much as mrs. aylmer fears, but i will not show my hand at present. what does this fresh combination mean? i wonder who the girl is who is to be brought to aylmer's court on purpose to be wooed by maurice trevor." the dinner-gong sounded, and soon mrs. aylmer, trevor, and bertha sat around the board. he chatted gaily, telling both the ladies some amusing adventures, and causing mrs. aylmer to laugh heartily several times. "you are a very bad boy to stay away from me so long," she said; "but now you are not to stir: your work is cut out for you. i mean you to take complete control of the estate. to-morrow you and i will have a long conversation on the subject." "but i am not at all a business man," he answered, frowning slightly and glancing from bertha to mrs. aylmer. "never mind; you can learn. you surely ought to know something of what is to be your own eventually!" "i thought that your steward and miss keys managed everything." "miss keys manages a good deal, perhaps too much," said mrs. aylmer, frowning, and glancing in a somewhat suspicious way at her companion. "i mean you to manage your own affairs in the future; but you and i will have a talk after breakfast to-morrow." "yes, i shall be glad to have a talk with you," he answered. he looked at her gravely. bertha wondered what was passing in his mind. chapter xxiv. trevor asks bertha's advice. that same evening, when mrs. aylmer had retired to bed and bertha was about to go to her own room, she met trevor on the stairs. "are you disengaged?" he said. "i should like to speak to you for a moment or two." "i am certainly disengaged to you," she replied. "what can i do for you?" "come back to the drawing-room; the lamps are still alight. i won't keep you many minutes." they both re-entered the beautiful room. the night was so warm that the windows were open; the footman appeared and prepared to close them, but trevor motioned him back. "i will shut up the room," he said; "you need not wait up." the man withdrew, closing the door softly behind him. bertha found herself standing close to trevor. she looked into his face and noted with a sense of approval how handsome and manly and simple-looking he was. an ideal young englishman, without guile or reproach. he was looking back at her, and once more that peculiar expression in his honest blue eyes appeared. "i want to consult with you," he said: "something is giving me a good deal of uneasiness." "what is that, mr. trevor?" "when i was in town i met miss florence aylmer." "did you really? how interesting!" bertha dropped lightly into the nearest chair. "well, and how was the dear florence? had she got a berth of any sort? is she very busy? she is terribly poor, you know." "she is disgracefully, shamefully poor," was his answer, spoken with some indignation, the colour flaming over his face as he spoke. bertha did not say anything, but she looked full at him. after a moment's pause, she uttered one word softly and half below her breath, and that word was simply: "yes?" "she is disgracefully poor!" he repeated. "miss keys, that ought not to be the case." "i do not understand you," said bertha. "may i explain?" he dropped into a chair near her, and bent forward; his hands were within a couple of inches of hers as they lay in her lap. "i have had a talk with miss aylmer, and find that she is my friend's niece. my benefactress, the lady who has adopted me, is aunt by marriage to the girl, who is now struggling hard to earn a living in london. between that girl and starvation there is but a very thin wall. i am in a false position. i ought to have nothing to do with mrs. aylmer. florence aylmer is her rightful heiress; i am in the wrong place. i thought i would speak to you. what would you advise?" "how chivalrous you are!" said bertha, and she looked at him again, and her queer big eyes were full of a soft light, a dangerous light of admiration. he said to himself: "i never knew before how handsome you could be at times!" and then he turned away, as if he did not want to look at her. "you are very chivalrous," she said slowly; "but what can you do?" "you see how manifestly unfair the whole thing is," continued the young man. "i am no relation whatever to mrs. aylmer. she knew my mother, it is true; she wanted an heir, and took a fancy to me; she has promised that i am to inherit her wealth. have you the least idea what her income is, or what wealth i am in the future likely to possess?" "you will be a very rich man," said bertha slowly. "how do you know?" "because mrs. aylmer has a large yearly income. her landed estates are considerable, and she has money in many stocks and shares. she has enough money in english consols alone to give you a considerable yearly income. think what that means. this money you can realise at a moment's notice. her own income i cannot exactly tell you; but this i do know, that she does not spend half of it. thus she is accumulating money, and she means to give it all to you." "but it is unfair. it cannot be right. i will not accept it." "is that kind to your mother? you left off your professional studies in order to take your present position. you thought of your mother at the time. you have often spoken to me about her and your great love for her." "i love her, and because i love her i cannot accept the present state of things." "why did you accept them in the beginning?" "i knew nothing of florence aylmer: she is the rightful heiress." "do you think, if you refuse all this wealth, that she will inherit it?" "why not? she ought to inherit it. but there, i have spoken to you; i have but little more to say. my mind is made up. no objections you can urge will make me alter what i have firmly resolved to do. i shall talk to mrs. aylmer about her niece to-morrow. i will show her how wrong she is. i will ask her to put that wrong right." bertha gave a low laugh. the fear which had risen again in her breast was not allowed to appear; she knew that she must be very careful or she would betray herself. she thought for a moment; then she said softly: "you must do as you please. after all, this is scarcely my affair; but i will tell you what i know." "what is that?" "florence aylmer at one time did something which offended mrs. aylmer." "poor girl she told me so herself. what could any young girl do to have such a punishment meted out to her? she ought to be here in your place, miss keys; she ought to be here in my place. you and i are not wanted in this establishment." "oh, why do you say that? mrs. aylmer must have a companion." "well, you can please yourself, of course; but i cannot stay to see injustice done to another." "you cannot force mrs. aylmer to leave her money except where she pleases. she dislikes miss aylmer; she will have nothing to do with her, and she will be very angry with you. you refuse the money and you do not make things any better for miss aylmer. mrs. aylmer can leave her money to charities. it is easily disposed of." trevor sat quite still, gazing out into the summer night. after a pause he walked towards the window and closed it. he fastened the bolts and drew down the blinds; then he turned to bertha and held out his hand. "i thought you could have counselled me, but i see you are not on my side," he said. "good night." "there is only one thing i must add," said bertha. "what is that?" "if you deliberately choose to injure yourself you must not injure me." "what do you mean by that? how can i possibly injure you?" "you can say what you like with regard to florence aylmer, but you must not mention one fact." "what is that?" "that i happen to know her." "what do you mean?" "i do not choose to say what i mean. i trust to your honour not to injure a woman quite as dependent and quite as penniless as florence aylmer. i have secured this place, and i wish to stay here. if you are mad, i am sane. i ask you not to mention to mrs. aylmer that i know florence; otherwise, you must go your own gait." "i will, of course, respect your confidence, but i do not understand you." "some day you will, and also what a great fool you are making of yourself," was bertha's next remark. she sailed past him out of the room and up to her own bed-room. chapter xxv. trevor's resolve. if trevor had a fault it was obstinacy. he stayed awake for a short time, but finally dropped asleep, having made up his mind, of course, not to injure bertha keys, whom he could not understand in the least, but to have, as he expressed it, a sober talk with mrs. aylmer. he saw that bertha, for reasons of her own, was very much against this course, and he resolved to keep out of her way. he rose early and went for a long ride before breakfast. he did not return until he knew bertha would be busy over household matters, and mrs. aylmer would in all probability be alone in her private sitting-room. he tapped at her door between eleven and twelve o'clock, and at her summons entered and closed it behind him. "ah, maurice, that is good," said the lady; "come and sit near me. i am quite prepared to have a long chat with you." "and i want to have a long talk with you, mrs. aylmer," was his answer. he drew a chair forward, and sat where he could see right out over the landscape. "it is a beautiful day," said the lady. "yes," he replied. "maurice," she said, after a pause, "you must know that i am very much attached to you." "you have always been extremely good to me," he answered. "i am attached to you; it is easy to be good to those one loves. i have never had a child of my own; you stand to me in the place of a son." "but in reality i am not related to you," he answered. she frowned slightly. "there are relations of the heart," she said then. "you have touched my heart. there is nothing i would not do for you." again he said: "you are very kind." she was silent for half a minute, then she proceeded: "you are my heir." he fidgeted. "do not speak until i have finished. i do not like to be interrupted. you are my heir, and i mean to settle upon you immediately one thousand pounds a year for your own expenses. you can do what you please with that money." "it is a great deal too much," he said. "it is not; it is what you ought to have. you can give some of it to your mother--not a great deal, but a little--and the rest you can spend on yourself, or you can hoard it, just as you like." "i shall not hoard it," he answered, and his face flushed. "it will be yours from next month. i am expecting my lawyer, mr. wiltshire, to call here this afternoon. several matters have to be arranged. maurice, you will live with me for the present; that is, until you marry." "i do not mean to marry," he answered. "all young men say that," she replied. "you will marry as others do. you will fall in love and you will marry. i shall be very glad indeed to welcome your wife. she shall have the best and most affectionate welcome from me, and i will treat her as though she were my daughter: just as i treat you, maurice, as though you were my real son." "but i cannot forget that i am not your son," he answered. "mrs. aylmer, there is something i must say." his words disturbed her for a moment; she did not speak, but looked at him in a puzzled manner; then she said: "if you have something disagreeable to tell me (and i cannot imagine what it is), at least hear my point of view first. i am particularly anxious that you should marry. as my heir, you are already comparatively rich, and your expectations are excellent. you will have at my death a very large income. you will also be the owner of this fine property. now, i should like you to marry, and i should like you to marry wealth." "why so? how unfair!" said the young man. "it is a wish of mine. wealth attracts wealth. there is a girl whom i have heard of--whom i have, i believe, some years ago seen--a very sweet, very graceful, very pretty girl. her name is miss sharston. she was poor, but i have lately heard that sir john wallis, the owner of cherry court park, in buckinghamshire, is going to make her his heiress. she is coming on a visit here. i cannot, of course, force your inclination, maurice; but if by any chance you and catherine sharston should take a fancy to each other, it would be a union after my own heart." "thank you," he answered. he rose immediately to his feet. "you are treating me with your customary liberality. you have always been most liberal, most generous. i am the son of a widow with very small means. my father was strictly a man of honour. he was a soldier, and he fell in his country's cause. i hope that, although he could not leave me gold, he could and did leave me honour. i cannot afford to have my honour tarnished." "maurice! i tarnish your honour! you really make very extraordinary insinuations. what does this mean?" "you didn't think about it, dear friend; it has not occurred to you to look at it in this light, but, believe me, such is the case." "maurice!" "i only knew of it lately," he continued, "and by an accident. you want to give me a great deal of money now; you want to leave me a large sum of money in the future. you propose that i shall if possible marry a girl who is also to be very rich. that is a subject which cannot even be discussed. i do not think, whatever happens, that i could marry any girl i did not love. if this girl comes here, i shall of course be glad to make her acquaintance, but i do not think it is right or just to her to mention such a subject in connection with her name. but to proceed to other matters. if i were to accept your offer just as you have made it, i should perhaps be able to spend my money, and perhaps in a fashion to enjoy it, but i should no longer feel happy when my brave father's name was mentioned, nor should i feel happy when i looked into the eyes of my real mother." "go on, maurice; this is very quixotic, very extraordinary, and, let me add, very fatiguing," said mrs. aylmer. "i make you the best offer i have ever made to anybody, and even you, my dear boy, must recognise limits in our intercourse." "i ought not to be your heir," he said; "i will come to the point at once. you ought not to leave your money to me; it is not just nor right." "and pray may i not leave my money to whom i please?" "you ought not to leave it to me; you ought to leave it to miss aylmer." "miss aylmer! what miss aylmer?" "her name is florence. i met her in london. i met her also at dawlish. she is very poor. she is a brave girl, independent, with courage and ability. she is about to make a striking success in the world of literature; but she is poor--poor almost to the point of starvation. why should she be so struggling, and why should i, who am no relative of yours, inherit all this wealth? it won't do, mrs. aylmer; and, what is more, i won't have it." mrs. aylmer was so absolutely astonished that she did not speak at all for a moment. "you are mad," she said then slowly. "no, i am not mad: i am sane. i shall be very glad to receive a little help from you. i shall be your devoted son in all but name, but i do not want your money: i mean i don't want any longer to be your heir. give your wealth to florence aylmer, and forget that you have made this suggestion to me. believe me, you will be happy if you do so." "are you in love with this girl?" said mrs. aylmer slowly. "you have no right to ask the question; but i will answer it. i do not think i am in love with her. i believe i am actuated by a sense of justice. i want you to do justice to this girl, and i want to give you in return my undying gratitude and undying respect." "indeed; what valuable possessions! now, my dear maurice, you have just gone a step too far. as you have spoken of florence aylmer, i will tell you something about her. there was a time when i intended to leave her my money. i intended to adopt her, to educate her, to bring her out as my niece and heiress. she herself by her own unworthy conduct prevented my doing so. she acted in a most dishonourable way. i will not tell you what she did, but if you wish to know farther go and see sir john wallis, of cherry court park, and ask him what he thinks of florence aylmer." "then you refuse to do what i ask?" "i utterly and absolutely refuse to leave florence aylmer one halfpenny of my money; and, what is more, the thousand a year which i intend to settle on you will be only given on condition that you do not help florence aylmer with one penny of it. do not answer me now. you are young and impulsive; not a word more at present. i will ask mr. wiltshire to postpone his visit for three months. during that time you can consider matters. during that time i expect everything to go on just as usual. during part of that time miss sharston and her father and also sir john wallis will be my guests. at the end of that time i will again have an interview with you. but unless you promise to give up your present mad ideas, and to let miss aylmer pursue her own career, unhelped by you, unmolested by you, i shall find another heir or heiress for my property." "i don't want the time to consider," said maurice, whose face now was white with suppressed feeling. "let your lawyer come now, mrs. aylmer; my mind is made up." "i will not take your decision now, you foolish boy. you are bound, because of my kindness in the past, to take three months to consider this matter. but leave me; i am tired." chapter xxvi. at aylmer's court. aylmer's court was in the full perfection of its autumn beauty when sir john wallis, accompanied by kitty sharston and her father, drove up the winding avenue as mrs. aylmer's guests. a private omnibus from aylmer's court was sent to the railway station to meet them, and their luggage was now piled up high on the roof. sir john wallis did not look a day older than when we last saw him in all the glories of his own house, surrounded by the girls whom he had made happy. kitty was seated beside her father and opposite to her old friend. she looked sweet and bright, with that gentle, high-bred, intelligent expression which she always wore. kitty's heart was no longer empty or sad. her beloved father had come back to live with her, she hoped, as long as life lasted. her old friend, sir john wallis, had only recently declared her his heiress; and, although kitty would never leave her father for anything that mere money could offer, she was glad to feel that he was no longer anxious about her future. as to kitty, herself, however rich she might be, she would always be simple-hearted and think of wealth in the right spirit; for what it could do to promote the happiness of others, and not merely as a means of increasing her own splendour or silly pleasures. "you have two fathers, you know, kitty," said sir john, as they drove up the avenue. "you are bound to be a very circumspect young lady, as you are under such strict surveillance." "you need not suppose for a single moment that i am the least afraid of either of you," was her answer, and she gave her head a little toss which was not in the least saucy, but was very pretty to see. colonel sharston smiled and turned to his friend. "how is it that we have accepted this invitation?" he said. "i do not know mrs. aylmer. what sort of woman is she?" "oh, a very estimable person. i have known her for many years. i felt that we could not do less than give her a few days of our company, and aylmer's court is a beautiful place." so it truly was--the park undulating away to the edge of the landscape, and acres and acres of forest-land being visible in every direction. there was a lake a little way to the left of the house, on which a small pleasure-boat was now being rowed. in that boat sat a girl dressed in dark blue, with a sailor hat on her head. kitty bent forward; then she glanced at sir john wallis and suddenly squeezed his hand. "do you know who is rowing on the lake?" she said. "who, my dear? why, kitty, you have turned quite white." "i met her before, but, do you know, i had absolutely forgotten it. she is mrs. aylmer's companion, and i believe her right hand." "but who is she, dear? what is the matter? you look quite ill." "don't you remember bertha keys?" "miss keys; why, that was the girl who behaved so badly at the time when i offered my scholarship, was it not?" "the very same girl," said kitty. "and what do you want me to do regarding her, kitty?" "i do not know. i don't want to do her any injury. don't be surprised when you meet her, that is all, and--" "kitty, your heart is a great deal too tender. you ought not to belong to this evil world at all," said sir john, while her father looked at kitty and asked for an explanation. "another time, father. all sir john has to do is to treat miss keys as if he had never met her before." "well, i daresay i can manage more than that for your sake, kitty; and now, here we are at the house." mrs. aylmer and her adopted son, maurice trevor, were standing on the steps to meet their guests. the moment she saw trevor, kitty smiled and took an eager step forward to meet him. he held out his hand. "this is a real pleasure," she said. "i had forgotten all about your being here. do you remember dawlish?" "of course i do," he answered. "i do not easily forget pleasant occasions." mrs. aylmer now turned to kitty, took her hand in hers, and, turning her gently round, looked into her face. it was a good face, eyes of the sweetest grey, delicate colouring, an intelligent forehead, lips true and pure and honest. mrs. aylmer scarcely knew why she sighed, and why a wish rose up in her heart that she had never felt before: that maurice, the boy she truly loved, should really like and marry this girl. just for the moment she forgot all about kitty's future circumstances; she welcomed her for herself. "would you like to go for a walk before dinner?" said trevor. "miss keys is rowing on the lake; we will go to meet her." "i should be delighted. may i go, father?" said kitty. "certainly, my love." "then will you two gentlemen come into the house?" said mrs. aylmer. she nodded to trevor, who walked off immediately with kitty. as soon as they got out of ear-shot, kitty faced her companion. "i never knew that i should meet you here. i am so glad. i heard from florence a few days ago; she said you were so good and kind to her when you were in london. i must thank you now in her name." "i should like to be kind to her, but in reality i was able to do only very little for her," said trevor. "does she write often to you? how is she getting on?" "she seems to me to be getting on in the most wonderful way. she has quite a considerable amount of literary work to do. two of her stories have already been accepted, and she is asked to do a third, and i have no doubt that other work also will fall in her way. she will now be able to support herself comfortably. i cannot tell you what a relief it is to me." trevor smiled. "she is wonderfully clever and interesting," he said. "i am glad she is your friend. she has talked to me about you and----" just at that moment bertha keys, having moored her little boat came to meet them. she came straight up to kitty and spoke in a defiant voice, and as if she were talking to a perfect stranger. "how do you do?" she said. "i suppose i must introduce myself. my name is miss keys. i am mrs. aylmer's companion. i shall be pleased to do everything i can to promote your comfort while at aylmer's court. have you been here long?" "only a few moments," answered kitty, taking her cue, "and mr. trevor has most kindly offered to show me round the place. i am so tired of sitting still that it is delightful to move about again." "then i won't keep you. dinner is at half-past seven, and the dressing-gong sounds at seven. mrs. aylmer's maid will help you to dress, miss sharston--that is, unless you have brought your own." "oh, i don't keep a maid," said kitty merrily; "i hate maids, and in any case i am not rich enough to afford one." miss keys raised her brows in a somewhat supercilious way. chapter xxvii. bertha's secret. the two young people walked about, talking of nothing in particular, until at last it was time for them both to return to the house. kitty went up to her own room, managed to dress before mrs. aylmer's maid appeared, and then proceeded to the drawing-room. there she found bertha alone. she went straight up to her. "do you wish it known?" she said. "wish what known? i do not understand," replied bertha. bertha was looking her very best in a black lace dress with some gloire de dijon roses in her belt. she raised her eyes and fixed them insolently on kitty. "do i wish what known?" she repeated. "why, that i met you, that i knew you, you understand. you must understand. i thought, as you were here, that it would injure you if i spoke of it." bertha suddenly took hold of kitty's hands and drew her into the recess by the window. "keep it a secret," she said; "pretend you never knew me. don't tell your father; don't tell sir john." "but sir john remembers you--he must remember you. you know what happened at cherry court school. how can he possibly forget?" "i shall be ruined if it is known. mrs. aylmer must not know. get sir john to keep it a secret; you must--you shall." "i have asked him not to speak of it; but i must understand how you came to be here. i will say nothing to-night. to-morrow i will speak to you," said kitty. just then other people entered the drawing-room, and the two girls immediately separated. sir john, having taken his cue from kitty, treated miss keys as a stranger. she was very daring and determined, and she looked better than she had ever looked in her life before. her eyes were shining and her clear complexion grew white and almost dazzling. no circumstance could ever provoke colour into her cheeks, but she always looked her very best at night, and no dress became her like black lace, so dazzlingly fair were her neck and arms, so brilliant her plentiful hair. sir john and colonel sharston looked at her more than once--sir john with that knowledge in his eyes which bertha knew quite well he possessed, and colonel sharston with undisguised admiration. in the course of the evening the colonel beckoned kitty to his side. "i like the appearance of that girl," he said; "but she has a strange face: she must have a history. why are we not to mention to mrs. aylmer that you already knew her, kitty?" "i will tell you another time, father," answered kitty. then she added, in a low voice: "oh, i am sorry for her, very sorry. it might ruin her, father, if it were known; you would not ruin her, would you?" "of course not, my dear child, and i will certainly respect your wish." the next day, after breakfast, kitty found herself alone with bertha. bertha was feeding some pigeons in a dove-cote not far from the house. kitty ran up to her and touched her on the arm. "i have made up my mind," said kitty. "yes?" answered bertha. there was a fresh note in kitty's voice--a note of resolve. her eyes looked full of determination; she was holding herself very erect. bertha had never been worried by the thought of kitty: a girl in her opinion so insignificant. now she looked at her with a new feeling of terror and also respect. "i don't understand," she said; "in what way have you made up your mind?" "i have spoken to sir john and also to my father. they know--they cannot help knowing--that i knew you, and that my dear friend, sir john wallis, knew you some years ago; but we do not want to injure you, so we will not say a word about it. you can rest quite content; we will not talk of your past." "in particular you will not talk of my past to mr. trevor?" "no, not even to mr. trevor. in short," continued kitty, "we have made up our minds to respect your secret, but on a condition." "yes?" said bertha. she spoke in a questioning tone. "as long as you behave in a perfectly straightforward way; as long as i have no reason to feel that you are doing anything underhand to anybody's name, we will respect your secret and leave you undisturbed in the possession of your present post. i think," continued kitty, "that i partly understand matters. you have come here without telling mrs. aylmer what occurred at cherry court school and at cherry court park; you don't want her to know how terribly you injured my great friend, florence aylmer. if you will leave florence alone now, if you will do nothing further in any way to injure her, i and those i belong to will respect your secret. but if i find that you are tampering with florence's happiness, then my duty will be plain." "what will your duty be?" said bertha. as she spoke she held out a lump of sugar to a pretty white fantail which came flying to receive it. she raised her eyes as she spoke and looked full at kitty. "i shall tell what i know," said kitty. "i think that is all." she turned on her heel and walked away. chapter xxviii. a smiling world. things were going well now with florence aylmer. she was earning money, and it was unnecessary for her to live any longer in the top attic of prince's mansions. she had got over her first discomfort; her conscience no longer pricked her; she took an interest in the situation, and sometimes laughed softly to herself. she knew that she was losing a good deal: that the worth and stability of her character were being slowly undermined. but she was winning success: the world was smiling at her just because she was successful, and she resolved to go on now, defying fate. she wrote often to her mother and to kitty sharston, and told both her mother and kitty of her successes. she never wrote to bertha except about business. bertha as a rule, enclosed directed envelopes to herself, so that florence's writing should not be seen by mrs. aylmer or trevor or any guests who might be staying in the house. bertha was very wise in her generation, and when she did a wrong thing she knew at least how to do that wrong thing cleverly. florence was now quite friendly with edith franks. edith took an interest in her; she still believed that there was something behind the scenes--something which she could not quite fathom--but at the same time she fully and with an undivided heart believed in florence's great genius, as did also her brother tom. by edith's advice florence secured the room next to hers, and the girls were now constantly together. tom often dropped in during the evenings, and took them many times to the play. florence began to own that life could be enjoyable even with a heavy conscience and tarnished honour. she was shocked with herself for feeling so. she knew that she had fallen a good many steps lower than she had fallen long ago when she was an inmate of cherry court school; nevertheless, there seemed no hope or chance of going back. she had to go forward and trust to her secret never being discovered. early in november, or, rather, the latter end of october, her first story was published in the _argonaut_. it was sufficiently striking, terse, and original to receive immediate attention from more than one good review. she was spoken of as a young writer of great promise, and a well-known critic took the trouble to write a short paper on her story. this mention gave her, as tom assured her, a complete success. she was quoted in several society journals, and one well-known paper asked for her photograph. all the expectations of the _argonaut_ were more than realised, and some people said that florence was the coming woman, and that her writings would be quite as popular as those of the best-known american fiction writers. hers was the first short story of any promise which had appeared in the english magazines for some time. the next from her pen was eagerly awaited, and it was decided that it was to be published in the december number. bertha, having provided florence with the story, she carefully re-wrote it in her own hand, and it was sent to the editor. it was a better story than the first, but more critical. there was a cruel note about it. it was harrowing. it seemed to go right down into the heart, and to pierce it with a note of pain. it was a wonderful story for a girl of florence's age to have written. the editor was charmed. "i don't like the tone of the story," he said to franks; "i don't think that i should particularly care to have its author for my wife or daughter, but its genius is undoubted. that girl will make a very big mark. we have been looking for someone like her for a long time. we have had no big stars in our horizon. she may do anything if she goes on as well as she has begun." "and yet she does not look specially clever," said franks, in a contemplative voice. "her speech is nothing at all remarkable; in fact, in conversation i think her rather dull than otherwise." "i was taken with her face on the whole," said the editor; "it was strong, i think, and, with all our knowledge, we can never tell what is inside a brain. she at least has a remarkable one, franks. we must make much of her: i don't want her to be snapped up by other editors. we must raise her terms. i will give her three guineas a thousand words for this new story." franks called upon his sister and florence aylmer on the evening of the day when the editor of the _argonaut_ made this remark: he found them both in his sister's comfortable room. florence was reclining on the sofa, and edith was busily engaged over some of her biological specimens. "oh, dear!" said franks, as he entered the room; "why do you bring those horrors home, edith?" "they are all right; i keep them in spirit," she replied. "don't interrupt me; go and talk to florence: she is in a bad humour this evening." "in a bad humour, are you?" said franks. he drew a chair up, and sat at the foot of florence's sofa. she was nicely dressed, her hair was fashionably arranged, she had lost that look of hunger which had made her face almost painful to see, and she received franks with a coolness which was new-born within her. "i don't know why you should be depressed," he said; "anyhow, i hope to have the great pleasure of driving the evil spirits away. i have come with good news." "indeed!" answered florence. "yes; my editor, mr. anderson, is so pleased with your second story, 'the judas tree,' that he is going to raise his terms. you are to receive three guineas a thousand words for your manuscript. it is, i think, exactly six thousand words in length. he has asked me to hand you a cheque to-night. will you accept it?" as franks spoke, he took out his pocket-book and handed florence a cheque for eighteen guineas. "you will be a rich girl before long," he said. "it seems like it," she answered. she glanced at the cheque without any additional colour coming to her face, and laid it quietly on a little table by her side. "and now, miss aylmer, there is something i specially want you to do for me. i hope you will not refuse it." "i will certainly do what i can," she answered. "it is this. the _argonaut_ is, of course, our monthly magazine. it holds the very first position amongst the six-pennies, and has, as you doubtless know, an enormous circulation. you will very soon be the fashion. we are about to issue a weekly paper, a sort of review. we trust it will eclipse even the _spectator_ and the _saturday_, and we want a paper from your pen. we want it to be on a special subject--a subject which is likely to cause attention. can you and will you do it? anderson begged of me to put the question to you, and i do so also on my own account." "but what subject do you want me to write upon?" said florence, feeling sick and faint, and yet not knowing at first how to reply. "the subject is to be about women as they are. they are coming to the front, and i want you to talk about them just as you please. you may be satirical or not, as it strikes your fancy. i want you in especial to attack them with regard to the æsthetic craze which is so much in fashion now. if you like to show them that they look absolutely foolish in their greenery-yallery gowns, and their hair done up in a wisp, and all the rest of the thing, why, do so; then you can throw in a note about a girl like my sister." "oh, come!" exclaimed edith, from her distant table, "that would be horribly unfair." "anyhow, i want you to write about woman in her improved aspects; that is the main thing," said franks. "will you do it or will you not?" florence thought for a wild moment. it would be impossible for bertha to help her with this paper. she could not get information or subject-matter in time. dare she do it? "i would rather not," she said. franks face fell. "that is scarcely kind," he said; "you simply must do it." "you will not refuse tom," said edith, who had apparently not been listening, but who now jumped up and came forward. "what is it, tom? what do you want florence to do?" tom briefly explained matters. "it is for our new venture," he said. "miss aylmer is scarcely the fashion yet, but she soon will be. it is to be a signed article--'woman in her many crazes' can be the title. no one can know more on the matter than she does." "oh, i'll prime you up with facts, if that is all," said edith; "you must do it: it would be most ungenerous and unkind to refuse tom after the way he has brought you to the front." "but i must refuse," said florence. she rose from the sofa; her face looked pale with desperation. "that horrid secret, whatever it is, is beginning to awake once more," thought the astute edith to herself. she looked at florence with what tom called her scientific face. "sit down," she said, "sit down. why should you not do it?" "because i am no good at all with that class of paper." "but your style will be invaluable, and you need not say much," said franks. "we want just the same simple terse, purely saxon style. we want one or two of your ideas. you need not make it three thousand words long: it does not really matter. you will be well paid. i have the editor's permission to offer you twelve guineas. surely you will not refuse such a valuable cheque." florence looked with almost vacant eyes at the cheque which was lying on the table near her. the whole thing seemed like black magic. "i suppose i must try," she said; "i have never written any prose worth reading in my life. you will be dreadfully disappointed; i know you will." "i am quite certain we shall not be disappointed; anyhow, i am going to risk it. you must not go back on your promise. write your paper to-morrow morning when you are fresh; then post it to me in the evening. good-bye. i am awfully obliged to you." the young journalist took his departure before florence had time to realise what she had done. she heard his steps descending the stairs, and then turned with lack-leisure eyes to edith. "what have i done?" she cried. "done?" said edith, in a tone of some impatience. "why, your duty, of course. you could not refuse tom after all his kindness to you. where would you be but for him--but for me? do you suppose that, just because you are clever, you would have reached the position you have done if it had not been for my brother? you must do your very best for him." "oh, don't scold me, please, edith," said poor florence. "i don't mean to; but really your queer ways of accepting tom's favours exasperate me now and then." "perhaps i had better go to my own room," said florence. "i am in your way, am i not?" "when you talk nonsense you are. when you are sensible i delight to have you here. lie down on the sofa once more, and go on reading this last novel of george eliot's: it will put some grit into you." edith returned once more to her task, lit a strong lamp which she had got for this special purpose, put on her magnifying-glasses, adjusted her microscope, and set to work. florence knew that she was lost to all externals for the next hour or so. she herself took up her book and tried to read. half an hour before this book had interested her, now she found it dry as sawdust; she could not follow the argument nor interest herself in the tale. she let it drop on her lap, and stared straight before her. how was she to do that which she said she would do? her crutch was no longer available. the ghost who really supplied all her brilliant words and felicitous turns of speech and quaint ideas was not to be secured on any terms whatsoever. what could she do? she felt restless and uncomfortable. "i did wrong ever to consent to it, but now that i have begun i must go on taking in the golden sovereigns," she said to herself, and she took up the cheque for eighteen guineas, looked at it eagerly, and put it into her purse. starvation was indeed now far removed. florence could help her mother and support herself; but, nevertheless, although she was now well fed and well clothed and comfortably housed, she at that moment had the strongest regret of all her life for the old hungry days when she had been an honest, good girl, repentant of the folly of her youth, and able with a clear conscience to look all men in the face. "but as i have begun i must go on," she said to herself. "to court discovery now would be madness. i cannot, i will not court it. come what may, i must write that article. how am i to do it, and in twenty-four hours? oh, if i could only telegraph to bertha!" chapter xxix. almost betrayed. florence spent a restless night. she rose early in the morning, avoided edith, and went off as soon as she could to the british museum. she resolved to write her article in the reading-room. she was soon supplied with books and pamphlets on the subject, and began to read them. her brain felt dull and heavy; her restless night had not improved her mental powers; try hard as she would, she could not think. she had never been a specially good writer of the queen's english, but she had never felt worse or more incapable of thought than she did this morning. write something, however, she must. tossed about as she had been in the world, she had not studied the thoughts of men and women on this special subject. she could not, therefore, seize the salient points from the pamphlets and books which she glanced through. the paper was at last produced, and was not so good as the ordinary schoolgirl's essay. it was feeble, without metaphor, without point, without illustration. she did not dare to read it over twice. "it must go," she said to herself; "i can make up for it by a specially brilliant story of bertha's for the next number. what will mr. franks say? i only trust he won't find me out." she directed her miserable manuscript to thomas franks, esq., at the office of the _argonaut_, and as she left the museum late in the afternoon of that day dropped the packet into the pillar-box. she then went home. edith franks was waiting for her, and edith happened to be in a specially good humour. "have you done the article?" she said. "yes," replied florence, in a low voice. "i am glad of it. i felt quite uneasy about you. you seemed so unwilling to do such a simple thing last night." "it was not at all a simple thing to me. i am no good at anything except fiction." edith gave her foot an impatient stamp. "don't talk rubbish," she said; "you know perfectly well that your style must come to your aid in whatever you try to write. then your fiction is not so remarkable for plot as for the careful development of character and your pithy remarks. your powers of epigram would be abundantly brought to the fore in such a subject as tom asked you to write about. but never mind, my dear, it is your pleasure to duplicate yourself--i do not think it is at all a worldly-wise habit; but, of course, that is your affair. now come into the dining-saloon at once. i have good news for you. tom has obtained tickets for us all three to see irving in his great piece--'the bells.'" florence certainly was cheered up by this news. she wanted to forget herself, to forget the miserable article which she vainly and without real knowledge of the ordinary duties of an editor hoped that tom franks would not even read. she ate her dinner with appetite, and went upstairs to her room in high good humour. her means were sufficiently good to enable her to dress prettily, and she, edith, and tom found themselves just before the curtain rose in comfortable stalls at the theatre. franks was in an excellent humour and in high spirits. he chatted merrily to both girls, and florence had never looked better. franks gave her a glance of downright admiration from time to time. suddenly he bent forward and whispered to her: "what about my article?" "i posted it to you some hours ago," she answered. "ah! that is good." a smile of contentment played round his lips. "i look forward most eagerly to reading it in the morning," he said: "it will be at my office by the first post, of course." "i suppose so," said florence, in a listless voice. her gaiety and good humour suddenly deserted her. the play proceeded; edith was all critical attention, franks also warmly approved, and florence forgot herself in her absorbing interest. but between the acts the thought of her miserable schoolgirl essay came back to haunt her. just before the curtain rose for the final act she touched franks on his sleeve. "what is it?" he said, looking at her. "i wish you would make me a promise." "what is that?" "don't read the stuff i have sent you; it is not good. if you don't like it, send it back to me." "i cannot do that, for i have advertised your name. you simply must put something into the first number, but of course it will be good: you could not write anything poor." "oh, you don't know. mine is a queer brain: sometimes it won't act at all. i was not pleased with the article. perhaps the public would overlook it, if you would only promise not to read it." "my dear miss aylmer, i would do a great deal for you, but now you ask for the impossible. i must read what you have written. i have no doubt i shall be charmed with it." florence sat back in her seat; she could do nothing further. the next day, when he arrived at his office, tom franks eagerly pounced upon florence's foolscap envelope. he tore it open and began to read the silly stuff she had written. he had not gone half-way down the first page before the whole expression of his face altered. bewilderment, astonishment, almost disgust, spread themselves over his features. he turned page after page, looked back at the beginning, glanced at the end, then set himself deliberately to digest florence's poor attempt from the first word to the last. he flung the paper from him with a gesture of despair. had she done it to trick him? positively the production was scarcely respectable. a third-form schoolgirl would have done better. there were even one or two mistakes in spelling, the grammar was slipshod, the different utterances what few schoolgirls would have attempted to make: so banal, so threadbare, so used-up were they. where was that terse and vigorous style? where were those epigrammatic utterances? where was the pure saxon which had delighted his scholarly mind in the stories which she had written? he rang his office bell sharply. a clerk appeared. "bring me the last number of the _argonaut_," he said. it was brought immediately, and franks opened it at florence's last story. he read a sentence or two, compared the style of the story with the style of the article, and finally shut up the _argonaut_ and went into his chief's room. "i have a disappointment for you, mr. anderson," he said. "what is that, franks?" asked the chief, raising his head from a pile of papers over which he was bending. "why, our _rara avis_, our new star of the literary firmament, has come to a complete collapse. something has snuffed her out; she has written rubbish." "what? you surely do not allude to miss aylmer?" "i do. i asked her to do a paper for the _general review_, thinking that her name would be a great catch in the first number. she consented, i must say with some unwillingness, and sent me _this_. look it over and tell me what you think." mr. anderson read the first one or two sentences. "she must have done it to play a trick on us," he said; "it is absolutely impossible that this can be her writing." "it cannot be printed," said franks; "what is to be done?" "you had better go and see her at once. have you any explanation to offer?" "none; it must be a trick. see for yourself how her opening sentence starts in this story: there is a dignity about each word; the style is beautiful. compare it with this." as franks spoke he pointed to a paragraph of the _argonaut_ and a paragraph in poor florence's essay. "i will rush off at once and see if i can find her," he said; "she must have sent this to pay me out. she did not want to write; i did not think she would be so disobliging." "offer her bigger terms to send us a paper to-morrow. we must overlook this very shabby trick she has played on us." "of course, the thing could not possibly be printed," said franks. "i will go and see her." he snatched up his hat, hailed a hansom, and drove straight to prince's mansions, and arrived there just as florence was going out. she turned pale when she saw him. one glance at his face made her fear the worst. he had found her out. she leant up against the lintel of the door. "what is it?" she said. he glanced at her, and said, in a gruff voice: "come up to my sister's room. i must speak to you." they went upstairs together. as soon as they entered the room, florence turned and faced franks. "you--of course you won't use it?" "no; how can i use it? it is stuff; it is worse: it is nursery nonsense. why did you send it to me? i did not think that you would play me such a trick." "i told you i could only write fiction." "nonsense, nonsense! i might have expected something poor compared to your fiction; but at least you did know the queen's english: you did know how to spell. you have behaved very badly, and it is only because the governor and i feel certain that this is a trick that we put up with it. come, have we not offered you enough? i will pay you a little more, but another essay i must have, and in twenty-four hours from the present time." "and suppose i refuse?" "in that case, miss aylmer, i shall be driven to conclude that your talent was but fictitious, and that--" "that i am a humbug?" said florence. a look came into her eyes which he could not quite fathom. it was a hungry look. they lit up for a moment, then faded, then an expression of resolve crept round her lips. "i will write something," she said; "but give me two days instead of one." "what do you mean by two days?" "i cannot let you have it to-morrow evening; you shall have it the evening after. it shall be good; it shall be my best. give me time." "that's right," he said, grasping her hand. "upon my word you gave me a horrid fright. don't play that sort of trick again, that's all. we are to have that article, then, in two days?" "yes, yes." he left her. the moment he had done so florence snatched up the paper which he had brought back, tore it into a hundred fragments, thrust the fragments into the fire, and rushed downstairs. she herself was desperate now. she went to the nearest telegraph-office and sent the following message to bertha keys:-- "expect me at aylmer's court to-morrow at ten. must see you. you can manage so that my aunt does not know." chapter xxx. the telegram. the sharstons and sir john wallis were enjoying themselves very much at aylmer's court. mrs. aylmer exerted herself to be specially agreeable. she could, when she liked, put aside her affected manner: she could open out funds of unexpected knowledge: she at least knew her own country well: she took her guests to all sorts of places of local interest: she had the best of the neighbours to dine in the evenings: she had good music and pleasant recitations and round games for the young folks, and dancing on more than one occasion in the great hall. the time passed on wings, and the three guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. both trevor and bertha were greatly responsible for this happy state of things. bertha, having quickly discovered that kitty would not betray her secret, resumed that manner which had always made her popular. bertha, in reality one of the most selfish women who ever lived--who had wrecked more lives than one in the course of her unscrupulous career--could be to all appearance the most absolutely unselfish. in great things she was selfish to the point of cruelty; in little things she completely forgot herself. so day after day, by tact, by apparent kindness, by much cleverness, she led the conversation into the brightest channels. she suggested, without seeming to suggest, this and that way of passing the time. she was always ready to play anybody's accompaniment or any amount of dance music: to lead the games: to promote the sports. kitty could not help owning that she was charming. now and then, it is true, she sighed to herself and wished that she could forget that dark spot in bertha's past. sir john wallis looked often at the strange girl with a feeling of surprise struggling with a new-born respect. after all, was he to bring up this girl's past to her? she had conquered, no doubt. she had turned over a new leaf. of course, he and kitty and his old friend, colonel sharston, would never breathe a word to injure her. and bertha, who was quick to read approval in the eyes of those she wished to please, felt her heart grow light within her, and thought little of danger. trevor, too, was more or less off his guard. he knew what mrs. aylmer expected of him, but he resolved to shut away the knowledge. he liked kitty most heartily for herself. she was a charming companion: she was one of the most amiable and one of the sweetest girls he had ever met; but the sore feeling in his heart of hearts with regard to florence never deserted him, and it was her image which rose before his eyes when he looked at kitty, and it was about florence he liked best to speak. kitty added to all her other charms by being delighted to talk on this congenial theme. she and trevor often went away for long walks together, and during those walks they talked of florence, and trevor gradually but surely began to give some of his confidences to his young companion and to tell her how bitterly he felt the position in which mrs. aylmer had placed her own niece. "i cannot take her place," he said; "you would not if you were placed in the same position?" "if i were you i would not," said kitty, in her gentle voice; but then she added, with a sigh: "i do not think even you know mrs. aylmer. florence used to tell me all about her long ago. she is a very strange woman. although she is so kind to us, i am afraid she is terribly unforgiving; i do not think she will ever forgive poor flo." trevor was silent for a moment, then he said slowly: "this mystery of the past, am i never to know about it?" kitty looked at him, and her gentle grey eyes flashed. "you are never to know about it from me," she said. he bowed, and immediately turned the conversation. a fortnight had nearly gone by, and the guests now felt themselves thoroughly at home at aylmer's court, when late one afternoon the telegraph-boy was seen coming down the avenue. he met trevor and asked him immediately if miss keys were at home. trevor replied that he did not know where miss keys was. it turned out that she had been away for several hours. trevor consented to take charge of the telegram. as no answer was possible, the boy departed on his way. bertha had gone to see an old lady for mrs. aylmer, and did not come home until it was time to dress for dinner. it was quite late, for they dined at a fashionable hour. the telegram was lying on the hall table. she saw that it was addressed to herself, started, for she did not often receive telegrams, and tore it open. its contents certainly were the reverse of reassuring. if florence appeared on the scene now, what incalculable mischief she might effect! how could she, bertha, stop the headstrong girl? she glanced at the clock and stamped her foot with impatience. the little telegraph-office in the nearest village had been closed for the last hour and a half. it would be impossible, except by going by train to the nearest town, to send off a telegram that night. bertha went up to her room, feeling intensely uncomfortable. in spite of all her efforts, she could scarcely maintain conversation during the evening which followed. in the course of that evening trevor asked her if she had received her telegram. "it came two or three hours ago," he said; "the messenger wanted to wait for an answer, but i knew there was no use in that, as you would not be home until late. i hope you have had no bad news." "irritating news," she replied, in a whisper; "pray don't speak of it to the others. i don't want it mentioned that i have had a telegram." he glanced at her, and slightly raised his brows. she saw that he was disturbed, and that a sort of suspicion was stealing over him. she came nearer, and by way of looking over the illustrated paper which he was glancing through, said, in a very low voice: "it was from florence aylmer. she has got herself into a fresh scrape, i am afraid." he threw back his head with an impatient movement. "what do you mean?" "nothing, but if you wish to do her a good turn you will not mention the fact that i have received this telegram." there was nothing more to be said, and trevor walked across the room to the piano. he and kitty both had good voices, and they sang some duets together. during the night which followed bertha slept but little. again and again she took up florence's telegram and looked at it. she would be at hamslade, the nearest station to aylmer's court, between nine and ten o'clock. bertha resolved, come what would, to meet her at the station. "whatever happens, she must not come here," thought bertha; "but how am i to get to the station, so early too, just when mrs. aylmer wants me for a hundred things? stay, though: i have an idea." chapter xxxi. bertha writes the essay. bertha got up early next morning to act upon the idea that had occurred to her on the previous evening. she ran downstairs and had a private interview with the cook. it was mrs. aylmer's custom, no matter what guests were present, to breakfast in her room, and immediately after breakfast bertha, as a rule, waited on her to receive her orders for the day. these orders were then conveyed to the cook and to the rest of the servants. breakfast was never over at aylmer's court until long past nine o'clock, and if bertha wished to keep florence from putting in a most undesired appearance, she must be at hamslade station at half-past nine. she had a chat with the cook and then wrote a brief note to mrs. aylmer. it ran as follows:-- "i am going in the dogcart to hamslade. have just ascertained that the pheasants we intended to have for dinner to-day are not forthcoming. will wire for some to town, and also for peaches. i will leave a line with kitty sharston to take the head of the table at breakfast." "she will be awfully cross about it all," thought bertha, "and, of course, it is a lie, for there is plenty of game in the larder, and we have an abundant supply of peaches and apricots, but any port in a storm, and cook will not betray me." the dogcart was round at the door sharp at nine o'clock, and bertha, having sent up a twisted bit of paper to kitty's bed-room, asking her to pour out coffee, started on her way. she reached the station a little before the train came in, and sent the necessary telegrams to the shops in london with which they constantly dealt. a large party was expected to dine at aylmer's court that night, which was bertha's excuse for ordering the fruit and game. the train was rather late, which added to her impatience. she paced up and down the platform, and when at last florence's anxious, perturbed face appeared, bertha was by no means in the best of humours. "what mad craze is this?" she cried. "you know you cannot possibly come to aylmer's court. i came here to prevent it. now, what is it you want with me?" "i must speak to you, and at once, bertha." "come into the waiting-room for a moment. you must return by the next train, florence; you really must. you don't know how terribly annoyed i am, and what risks i run in coming here. the house is full of company, and there is to be a dinner-party to-night. mrs. aylmer won't forgive me in a hurry." while bertha was talking florence remained quite silent. "we must find out the next train to town," continued bertha. "i am not going back until you do what i want," said florence. "i dare not. if you do not choose to have me at aylmer's court, i will stay here; but you must do what i want." "what is that?" "i want you to write an essay for me immediately." "oh, my dear, what utter folly! really, when i think of the way in which i have helped you, and the splendid productions which are being palmed off to the world as yours, you might treat me with a little more consideration. my head is addled with all i have to do, and now you come down to ask me to write an essay." "listen, bertha, listen," said poor florence. she then told her story in as few words as possible. "i made such a fool of myself. i was very nearly betrayed, but fortunately mr. franks and mr. anderson took it as a practical joke. i have promised that they shall have an admirable essay by to-morrow evening. you must write it; you must let me have it to take back with me." "what is the subject?" said bertha, who was now listening attentively. "the modern woman and her new crazes. you know you have all that sort of thing at your finger-tips," said florence, glancing at her companion. "oh, yes, i could write about the silly creatures if i had time; but how can i find time to-day? it is not even a story. i have to think the whole subject out and start my argument and--it cannot be done, florence--that's all." "but it can, it must be done," replied florence. "bertha, i am desperate; all my future depends on this. i have gone wrong again, and you are the cause, and now i will not lose all: i must at least have my little share of this world's goods as my recompense. oh, i am a miserable girl! you are the evil genius of my life." "don't talk such folly," said bertha; "do let me think." they were now both seated in the waiting-room, and bertha covered her face for a moment with her hands. florence looked round, she felt hemmed in, and now that she was face to face with bertha she found that she regarded her with loathing. presently bertha raised her head and glanced at her. "you must have it to-night?" "yes." "well, the best thing i can possibly do is to go straight home. i will leave you here; you must on no account let anyone see you--that is all-important. i will try to get to the station this evening and let you have it. i don't know that i can write anything worth reading in the time." "but at least you will give style and epigram and pure english," said poor florence, who was sore after the bitter words with which her own production had been received. "yes, i shall at least write like a woman of education," said bertha. "well, stay here now, and i will, by hook or by crook, come here in time for you to take the last train to town. i suppose it would not do if i posted it?" "no, it would not; i dare not go back without it. you think i am altogether in your power; but i am desperate, and if you do not let me have that essay to-night i will come to the court, whoever dines there, and see you. what does it matter to me? aunt susan cannot hate me more than she does." "you shall have the essay, of course," said bertha, who turned pale when florence uttered this threat. "she means it too," thought miss keys, as she drove rapidly home. "oh, what shall i do? such a world of things to be done, and all those guests expected, and if the fruit or game does not arrive in time (and cook and i dare not now show the stores which we have put away in hiding) what is to be done?" bertha entered the house and saw mrs. aylmer, who was in just as bad a humour as bertha had expected to find her in. everything, she declared, was going wrong. she wished she had not asked those guests to dinner. if there was no game nor proper fruit for dessert, she, mrs. aylmer, would be disgraced for life. bertha roused herself to be soothing and diplomatic. she brought all her fund of talent and ingenuity to the fore, and presently had arranged things so well that she was able to rush to her desk in mrs. aylmer's boudoir and begin to write florence's essay. bertha was a quick writer and had a great deal of genius, as we know, but she was harassed and worried to-day, and for a time the paper which she had promised to give to florence did not go smoothly. she was in reality much interested in the struggles of the woman who was at that time called "modern." she pitied her; she felt that she belonged to the class. had she time she would have written with much power, upholding her, commending her, encouraging her to proceed, assuring her that the difficulties which now surrounded her lot would disappear, and that by-and-by those who watched her struggles would sympathise with her more and more. but she had not time to do this. it was much easier to be sarcastic, bitter, crushing. this was her real forte. she determined to write quickly and in her bitterest vein. she was in her element. the paper she was writing would make the modern woman sit up and would make the domestic woman rejoice. it was dead against æstheticism: against all reform with regard to women's education. it was cruel in its pretended lack of knowledge of women's modern needs. bertha felt that she hated her at that moment. she would give vent to her hatred. she would turn the disagreeable, pugnacious, upstart new woman into ridicule. if bertha possessed one weapon which she used with greater power than another it was that of sarcasm. she could be sarcastic to the point of cruelty. soon her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone: she was in her element. she was writing quickly, for bare life, and she was writing well. the paper would make the new woman sit up, and would make the old woman rejoice. it would be read eagerly. it was not a kind paper. it was the sort of paper to do harm, not good; but its cleverness was undoubted. she finished it just before the luncheon gong rang, and felt that she had done admirable work. "after all," she said to herself, "why should i work through the channel of that little imp, florence aylmer? why should she have the fame and glory, and i stay here as a poor companion? why should i not throw up the thing and start myself as a writer and get praise and money and all the good things which fame and success bring in their train? why should i not do it?" bertha thought. she held the paper in her hand. it was but to betray florence and go herself to the editor of the _argonaut_ and explain everything, and the deed was done. but no: she could not do it. she knew better--she was trying for a bigger prize. "either i inherit mrs. aylmer's wealth or i marry maurice trevor and inherit it as his wife," she thought. "i think i see my way. he is depending on me in spite of himself. he will never marry kitty sharston. he neither wants her nor she him. he is to be my husband, or, if not, he goes under completely and i secure mrs. aylmer's wealth. no amount of writing would give me what i shall get in that way. i can keep florence quiet with this, and she is welcome, heartily welcome, to the cheap applause." chapter xxxii. trevor and florence. it was bertha's intention to go back to the railway station in the dogcart in order to secure the pheasants and fruit for the coming party; but just as she was preparing to jump on the cart mrs. aylmer herself appeared. "my dear bertha," she said, "where are you going?" bertha explained. "that is quite unnecessary. you can send thomas. i want you to come for a drive with me. i wish to see mrs. paton of paton manor. i have not yet returned her call. there are also other calls which i want to make. the young people are away enjoying themselves, and our elderly friends have gone shooting. you must come with me, as i cannot possibly go alone." as mrs. aylmer spoke the jingle of bells was heard, and bertha, raising her eyes, saw the pretty ponies which drew mrs. aylmer's own special little carriage trotting down the avenue. bertha had always to drive mrs. aylmer in this little carriage, and, much as she as a rule enjoyed doing so, it was by no means her wish to do so now. she looked at mrs. aylmer. "the cook really does want the things from town." "that does not matter, my dear. thomas is driving the dogcart and can call for the things. he had better go straight away at once." mrs. aylmer gave directions to the man, who whipped up the horse and disappeared down the avenue. bertha felt a momentary sense of despair; then her quick wit came to the rescue. "i quite forgot to give thomas a message," she said; "he must have it. excuse me one minute, mrs. aylmer." before mrs. aylmer could prevent her she was running after the dogcart as fast as she could go. she shouted to thomas, who drew up. "yes, miss," he said; "the mare is a bit fresh; what is it?" "you must take this parcel; there is a young lady waiting for it at the station: see that she gets it. get one of the porters to put it into her hand. there is no message; just have the parcel delivered to her." "but what is the name of the young lady, miss?" bertha had not thought of that. she looked back again at the house. mrs. aylmer was getting impatient, and was waving her hand to her to come back. "her name is miss florence aylmer; see that the parcel is put into her hands: there is no message." thomas, not greatly caring whom the message was for, promised to see it safely delivered, and the mare, not brooking any further delay, raced down the avenue. "i do trust things will go right," thought bertha to herself; "it is extremely dangerous. florence certainly was mad when she came to this part of the country." there was no help for it, however. bertha was learning once more that the way of the transgressors is hard. she had to stifle all her feelings of anxiety, help mrs. aylmer into her pretty pony carriage, and take the reins. meanwhile thomas and the spirited mare went as fast as possible to the railway station. the mare did not like the trains, which were coming and going at this moment in considerable numbers, hamslade being a large junction. she did not like to stand still with so many huge and terrible monsters rushing by. thomas did not dare to leave her, so he called to a porter who stood near. "i have come for some things from town; they must have arrived by the last train. are there any packages for mrs. aylmer of aylmer's court?" "i'll go and see," said the man. he presently returned with the pheasants and fruit, which had arrived in due course. thomas saw them deposited in the dogcart, and was just turning the mare's head towards home when he suddenly remembered the parcel. he drew up the animal again almost on its haunches. it reared in a state of fright. what was to be done? the porter had already disappeared into the station, and thomas knew better than to return home without obeying bertha's orders. miss keys was a power in the establishment. she could dismiss or she could engage just as she pleased. thomas would not oppose her for worlds. he looked around him, and just at that moment saw maurice trevor crossing a field in a leisurely fashion. maurice drew up when he saw thomas. "hallo," he said, "what are you doing here, thomas?" "i came for some parcels from town, sir. i wonder, sir, if you would either hold the mare for a minute or do a commission for miss keys?" "i will do the commission; what is it?" "it is not much, sir; it is just to deliver this parcel to a young lady who is waiting for it at the station." "a young lady who is waiting for it at the station?" said trevor. "yes, sir: miss florence aylmer. there is no answer, sir." trevor received the little brown-paper parcel, very neatly made up and addressed to miss florence aylmer, in unbounded astonishment. thomas, relieved and feeling that his duty was well done, gave the mare her head and was soon out of sight. trevor entered the station. he went to the ladies' waiting-room, and there saw florence aylmer. she came to the door the moment he appeared. "what are you doing here?" was his exclamation. "you may well wonder. but why are you here?" "i came to give you this." as she spoke he placed the little parcel in florence's hand. "thank you," she said. she had brought a small bag with her; she opened it and dropped the parcel into it. her face looked worried; it had turned red when she saw trevor: it was now very white. he stood leaning up against the door of the waiting-room and contemplated her in astonishment. "what have you been doing here all day?" he repeated. "that is my affair," she answered. "forgive me; i do not want to be unduly curious, but surely when you were so near you might have come on to the court. we should all have been glad to see you, and mrs. aylmer is your aunt." "you must please remember, mr. trevor," said florence, speaking in as stately a tone as she could assume, "that mrs. aylmer does not act as my aunt--she does not wish to have anything to do with me." "but you have been here for hours in this dingy waiting-room." "no; i took a walk when i thought no one was looking." "that means you do not wish it to be known that you are here?" "i do not; and i earnestly beg of you not to mention it. did miss keys really give you the parcel to bring to me?" "she really did nothing of the kind. she gave it to one of the grooms, who could not leave a spirited mare. he saw me and asked me to deliver it into your hands." "thank you," said florence. she stood silent for a moment; then she looked at the clock. "i must go," she said; "there is a train back to town immediately, and i want to cross to the other platform." "i will see you into the train if you will allow me." florence could not refuse; but she heartily wished trevor anywhere else in the world. "you will be sure not to mention that you saw me here," she said. "i may speak of it, i suppose, to miss keys?" "i wish you would not." "i won't promise, miss aylmer. i am very uncomfortable regarding the position you are in. it is hateful to me to feel that you should come here like a thief in the night, and stay for hours at the railway station. what mystery is there between you and miss keys?" florence was silent. "you admit that there is a mystery?" "i admit that there is a secret between us, which i am not going to tell you." he reddened slightly; then he looked at her. she was holding her head well back; her figure was very upright; there was a proud indignation about her. his heart ached as he watched her. "i think of you often," he said; "your strange and inexplicable story is a great weight and trouble on my mind." "i wish you would not think of me: i wish you would forget me." florence looked full at him; her angry dark eyes were full of misery. "suppose that is impossible?" he said, dropping his voice, and there was something in his tone which made her heart give a sudden bound of absolute gladness. but what right had she to be glad? she hated herself for the sensation. trevor came closer to her side. "i have very nearly made up my mind," he said; "when it is quite made up i shall come to see you in town. this is your train." he opened the door of a first-class carriage. "i am going third," said florence. without comment he walked down a few steps of the platform with her. an empty third-class carriage was found; she seated herself in it. "good-bye," he said. he took off his hat and watched the train out of the station; then he returned slowly--very slowly--to aylmer's court. he could not quite account for his own sensations. he had meant to go to meet kitty and her father, who were both going to walk back by the river, but he did not care to see either of them just now. he was puzzled and very angry with bertha keys, more than angry with mrs. aylmer, and he had a sore sense of unrest and misery with regard to florence. "what can she want with miss keys? what can be the secret between them?" he said to himself over and over again. he was far from suspecting the truth. bertha returned from her drive in apparently excellent spirits. she entered the hall, to find trevor standing there alone. "why are you back so early?" she said. he did not speak at all for a moment; then he came closer to her. before he could utter a word she sprang to a centre table, and took up a copy of the _argonaut_. "you are interested in miss aylmer. have you read her story--the first story she has ever published?" she asked. "no," he replied; "is it there?" "it is. the reviews are praising it. she will do very well as a writer." kitty sharston and her father appeared at that moment. "look, miss sharston," exclaimed trevor; "you know miss aylmer. this is her story: have you read it?" "i have not," said kitty; "how interesting! i did not know that the number of the _argonaut_ had come. florence told me she was writing in it." she took up the number and turned the pages. "oh!" she exclaimed once or twice. trevor stood near. bertha went and warmed herself by the fire. "oh!" said kitty, "this is good." then she began to laugh. "only i wish she were not quite so bitter," she exclaimed, a moment later. "it is wonderfully clever. read it; do read it, mr. trevor." trevor was all-impatient to do so. he took the magazine when kitty handed it to him, and began to read rapidly. soon he was absorbed in the tale. as he proceeded with it an angry flush deepened on his cheeks. "what is the matter?" said bertha, who, for reasons of her own, was watching this little scene with interest. "i don't like the tone of this," he said. "of course it is clever." "it is very clever; and what does the tone matter?" said bertha. "you are one of those painfully priggish people, mr. trevor, who will never get on in the world. have you not yet discovered that being extra good does not pay?" "i am not extra good; but being good pays in the long run," he answered. he darted an indignant glance at bertha keys and left the hall. scarcely knowing why he did so, he strode into mrs. aylmer's boudoir. bertha's desk, covered with papers, attracted his attention. there was a book lying near which she was reading. he picked it up, and was just turning away when a scrap of thin paper scribbled over in bertha's well-known hand arrested his eye. before he meant to do so he found that he had read a sentence on this paper. there was a sharpness and subtlety in the wording of the sentence which puzzled him for a moment, until he was suddenly startled by the resemblance to the style of the story in the _argonaut_ which he had just read. he scarcely connected the two yet, but his heart sank lower in his breast. he thought for a moment; then, opening his pocket-book, he placed the torn scrap of paper in it and went away to his room. it was nearly time to dress for dinner. mrs. aylmer always expected her adopted son to help her to receive her guests, but trevor made no attempt to get into his evening suit. his valet knocked at the door, but he dismissed him. "i don't want your services to-night, johnson," said the young man. johnson withdrew. "it is all horrible," thought trevor; "all this wealth and luxury for me and all the roughness for her, poor girl! but why should i think so much about her as i do? why do i hate that story, clever as it is? the story is not like her. it hurts me to think that she could have written it. it is possible that i"--he started: his heart beat more quickly than was its wont--"is it possible," he repeated softly, under his breath, "that i am beginning to like her too much? surely not too much! suppose that is the way out of the difficulty?" he laughed aloud, and there was relief in the sound. chapter xxxiii. a tete-a-tete. kitty sharston, in the softest of white dresses, was playing trevor's accompaniments at the grand piano. he had a beautiful voice--a very rich tenor. kitty herself had a sweet and high soprano. the two now sang together. the music proceeded, broken now and then by snatches of conversation. no one was specially listening to the young pair, although some eyes were watching them. in a distant part of the room sir john wallis and mrs. aylmer were having a tête-à-tête. "i like him," said sir john. "you are lucky in having secured so worthy an heir for your property." "you don't like him better than i like your adopted child, miss sharston," was mrs. aylmer's low answer. "ay, she is a sweet girl--no one like her in the world," said sir john. "i almost grudge her to her father, much as i love him. we were comrades on the battle-field, you know. perhaps he has told you that story." "i have heard it, but not from him," said mrs. aylmer, with a smile. "your friendship for each other is quite of the david and jonathan order. and so, my good friend"--she laid her white hand for an instant on sir john's arm--"you are going to leave your property to your favourite kitty?" sir john frowned; then he said shortly: "i see no reason for denying the fact. kitty sharston, when it pleases god to remove me, will inherit my wealth." "she is a sweet, very sweet girl," replied mrs. aylmer. she glanced down the room; there was significance in her eyes. sir john followed her look. kitty and trevor had now stopped all music. trevor was talking in a low tone to the girl; kitty's head was slightly bent and she was pulling a white chrysanthemum to pieces. "i wonder what he is saying to her?" thought mrs. aylmer. then all of a sudden she made up her mind. "i should like it," she said aloud; "i should like it much." sir john started, and a slight accession of colour came into his ruddy cheeks. "what do you mean?" he said. "have you never thought of it? it is right for the young to marry. this would be a match after my own heart. would it please you?" "it would, if it were god's will," said sir john emphatically. he looked again at the pair by the piano, and then across the long room to colonel sharston. colonel sharston was absorbed in a game of chess with bertha keys. he was noticing nothing but the intricacies of the game. "all the same," added sir john, "her father and i are in no hurry to see kitty settled in life. she is most precious to us both; we should scarcely know ourselves without her." "oh, come now, i call that selfish," said mrs. aylmer; "a pretty girl must find her true mate, and there is nothing so happy as happy married life." "granted, granted," said sir john. "you and i, sir john, are not so young as we used to be. it would be nice for us to see those we love united: to feel that whatever storms life may bring they will bear them together. but say nothing to colonel sharston on the subject yet. i am glad to feel that when _my son_, as i always called maurice, proposes for _your daughter_, as you doubtless think kitty, there will be no objection on your part." "none whatever, except that i shall be sorry to lose her. i have a great admiration for trevor; he is a man quite after my own heart." soon afterwards sir john wallis moved away. mrs. aylmer, having sown the seed she desired to sow, was satisfied. from time to time the old man watched the pretty, bright-eyed girl. during the rest of the evening trevor scarcely left her side; they had much to talk over, much in common. mrs. aylmer was in the highest spirits. "this is exactly what i want," she said to herself; "but i can see, for some extraordinary reason, that notwithstanding his attentions, maurice has not fallen in love with that remarkably sweet girl. whom has he given his heart to? if i thought for a single moment that bertha was playing that game, i should dismiss her with a month's salary. but no: she would not dare. she is a clever woman and invaluable to me, and there is no saying what clever women will not think of; but i do not believe even bertha would go as far as that, and i warned her too. for some reason maurice is not often with bertha just now. yes, i must bring things to an issue. the sharstons and sir john leave on monday. maurice must make up his mind to propose to miss sharston almost immediately afterwards. he can follow them to southsea, where they have taken a house for the winter." mrs. aylmer was quite cheerful as she thought over this. "we will have a grand wedding in the spring," she said to herself, "and kitty shall come and live with me. i need not keep bertha keys when kitty is always in the house. kitty would suit me much better. i seldom saw a girl i liked more thoroughly." meanwhile kitty sharston and her companion, little guessing the thoughts which were passing through the minds of their elders, were busily talking over the one subject which now occupied all trevor's thoughts. like bees round a flower, these thoughts drew nearer and nearer every moment to the subject of florence aylmer. whenever trevor was silent or distrait kitty would speak of florence, and his attention was instantly arrested. he began to talk in cheerful and animated tones. incidents of florence's life at school always made him laugh. he was glad to hear of her small triumphs, which kitty related to him with much _naïveté_. this evening, after a longer pause than usual, during which kitty tore her chrysanthemum to pieces, and mrs. aylmer was quite certain that maurice was saying something very tender and suitable, trevor broke the silence by saying abruptly: "you have doubtless all sorts of prizes and competitions in your school life. was miss aylmer ever remarkable for the excellence of her essays and themes?" "ever remarkable for the excellence of her essays or themes?" said kitty. before she could reply, bertha, whose game was over, and who had just given an emphatic checkmate to her enemy, strolled across the room. she stood near the piano and could overhear the two; kitty's eyes met hers, and kitty's cheeks turned pale. "i don't think she was specially remarkable for the excellence of her writing," said kitty then, in a low voice. "you surprise me. such talent as she now possesses must have been more or less inherent in her even as a child." "it does not always follow," said bertha, suddenly joining in the conversation. "i presume you are both talking of your favourite heroine, florence aylmer. but you remember an occasion, however, miss sharston, when florence aylmer _did_ receive much applause for a carefully-worded essay." "i do," said kitty; "how dare you speak of it?" she rose to her feet in ungovernable excitement, her eyes blazed, her cheeks were full of colour. another instant and she might have blurted out all the truth, and ruined bertha for ever, had not that young lady laid her hand on her arm. "hush!" she whispered; "be careful what you say. remember you injure her. mr. trevor, i think i see mrs. aylmer beckoning to you." mrs. aylmer was doing nothing of the kind; but trevor was obliged to go to her. kitty soon subsided on her seat. "why did you say that?" she said. "can you not guess? i wanted to save the situation. why should poor florence be suspected of having written badly when she was young? it is much more natural for you, who are her true friend, to uphold her and to allow people to think that the great talent which she now possesses was always in evidence. i spoke no less than the truth. that essay of hers was much commented on and loudly applauded." "oh, you know you have told a lie--the worst sort of lie," said kitty. "oh, what am i to say? sometimes i hate you." "i know you hate me, but you have no cause to. i am quite on your side." "i don't understand you; but i will not talk to you any further." kitty rose, crossed the room, and sat down by her father. "she is a very nice girl; far too good to be thrown away on him," thought bertha to herself. "i admire her as i admire few people. she was always steadfast of purpose and pure of soul, and will be a charming wife for a man who loves her, some day; but she is not for maurice trevor. he does not care _that_ for her! yes, i know the old folks are plotting and planning; but all their plots and plans will come to nothing. there will be a fine _fracas_ soon, and i must see, whatever happens, that _my_ bread is well buttered." chapter xxxiv. maurice rebels. on the morning of the day when the guests were to depart mrs. aylmer, having spent a long and almost restless night, sent for trevor to her room. he entered unwillingly. he had begun to dislike his tête-à-tête with mrs. aylmer very much. "now, my dear boy, just sit down and let us have a cosy chat," said the old lady. trevor stood near the open window. "the day is so mild," he said, "that it is almost summer. who would suppose that we were close to december?" "i have not sent for you, maurice, to talk of the weather. i have something much more important to say." "and what is that?" he asked. "you remember our last conversation in this room?" he knitted his brows. "i remember it," he answered. "i want to carry it on now; we have come to the second chapter." "what do you mean by that?" "our last conversation was introductory. now the story opens. you have behaved very well, quite as well as i could have expected, during the time that sharstons and sir john wallis have stayed here." "i am glad you are pleased with my behaviour; but in reality i did not behave well: i mean according to your lights. i am just as much a rebel as ever." "maurice, my dear boy, try not to talk nonsense; try to look a little ahead. how old are you?" "i shall be six-and-twenty early in the year." "quite a boy," said mrs. aylmer, in a slightly contemptuous voice. "in ten years you will be six-and-thirty, in twenty six-and-forty. in twenty years from now you will much rejoice over what--what may not be quite to your taste at the present moment, though why it should not be--maurice, it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that you should not love that sweet and beautiful girl." "which girl do you mean?" said trevor. "don't prevaricate; you know perfectly well to whom i allude." "miss sharston? she is far too good, far too sweet to have her name bandied between us. i decline to discuss her." "you must discuss her. you can do so with all possible respect. kitty sharston is to be your wife, maurice." "she will never be my wife," he replied. his tone was so firm, he stood so upright as he spoke, his eyes were fixed so sternly, that just for a moment mrs. aylmer recognised that she had met her match. "you refuse to do what i wish?" she said then slowly, "i who have done all for you?" "i refuse to do this. this is the final straw of all. no wealth is worth having at the price you offer. i will only marry the woman i love. i respect, i admire, i reverence miss sharston; but i do not love her, nor does she love me. it is sacrilege to talk of a marriage between us. if i offered she would refuse; it is not to be thought of; besides--" "why do you stop? go on. it is just like your gratitude. how true are the poet's words: 'sharper than serpent's tooth!' but what is your intention in the future?" "justice," he replied. "i cannot bear this. it troubles me more than i can say. if you will not reinstate the girl who ought to be your heiress in her right position, i at least will do what i can for her. i will offer her all i have." "you! you!" mrs. aylmer now indeed turned pale. she rose from her seat and came a step nearer the young man. "you are mad; you must be mad," she said. "what does this mean?" "it means that i intend to propose for florence aylmer. whether she will accept me or not god only knows, but i love her." "you told me a short time ago that you were not her lover." "i had not then looked into my own heart. now i find that i care for no one else. her image fills my mind day and night; i am unhappy about her--too unhappy to endure this state of things any longer." "do you think she will take you, a penniless man? do you think you are a good match for her or for any girl?" "that has nothing to do with it. if she loves me she will accept all that i can give her, and i can work for my living." "i will not listen to another word of this. you have pained me inexpressibly." "you gave me time to decide, and i have decided. if you will forgive miss aylmer whatever she happened to do to displease you, if you will make her joint heiress with me in your estates, then we will both serve you and love you most faithfully and most truly; but if you will not give her back her true position i at least will offer her all that a man can offer--his heart, his worship, and all the talent he possesses. i can work for my wife, and before god i shall be fifty times happier than in my present position." mrs. aylmer pointed to the door. "i will not speak to you any more," she said. "this is disastrous, disgraceful! go! leave my presence!" chapter xxxv. the essay arouses criticism. thomas franks was much relieved when, on the morning after her return to town, florence sent him the paper which bertha had written. florence herself took the precaution to carefully copy it out. as she did so, she could scarcely read the words; there were burning spots on her cheeks, and her head ached terribly. having completed her task, she sent it off by post, and tom franks, in good time, received bertha's work. he read it over at first with some slight trepidation, then with smiling eyes and a heart beating high with satisfaction. he took it immediately to his chief. "ah! this is all right," he said; "read it: you will be pleased. it quite fulfills the early promise." mr. anderson did glance rapidly over bertha's paper. "miss florence aylmer has done good work," he said, when he had finished reading her pungent and caustic words; "and yet--" a thoughtful expression crossed his face, he was silent for a moment, then he looked up at the young man, who was standing near. "i doubt if in any way such a paper will help our new production," he said. "it is difficult for me to believe that any girl could write in what i will call so agnostic a spirit. there is a bitterness, a want of belief, an absence of all feeling in this production. i admit its cleverness; but i should be sorry to know much of the woman who has written it." "i admire talent in any form," said tom franks; "it will be inserted, of course. people who want smart things will like it, i am sure. believe me, you are mistaken; it will do good, not harm." "it may do good from a financial point of view: doubtless it will," said mr. anderson; "but i wish the girl who has those great abilities would turn them to a higher form of expression. she might do great things then, and move the world in a right way." "i grant you that the whole thing is pessimistic," said franks; "but its cleverness redeems it. it will call attention, and the next story by miss aylmer which appears in the _argonaut_ will be more appreciated than her last." "see that that story appears in the next number," said his chief to franks, and the young man left the room. florence received in due time a proof of her paper for correction. there was little alteration, however, needed in bertha's masterly essay; but florence was now obliged to read it carefully, and her heart stood still once or twice as she read the expressions which she herself was supposed to have given birth to. she had just finished correcting the proofs when edith franks came into the room. "i have just seen tom," she said; "he is delighted with your essay. is that it? have you corrected it? may i look through it?" "i would much rather you did not read it, edith." "what nonsense! it is to be published, and i shall see it then." "well, read it, if you must, when it is in the paper; only i would rather you didn't read it at all." "what do you mean?" "i don't like it." "why do you write what you don't like?" said edith, fixing her sharp eyes on her new friend's face. "one does all sorts of things perhaps without reason; one writes as one is impelled," said florence. edith went up to her, and after a brief argument possessed herself of the long slip of proof she was holding in her hand. "i am going to read it now," she said; "i always said you were neurotic: even your talents tend in that direction. oh, good gracious! what an extraordinary opening sentence! you are a queer girl!" edith read on to the end. she then handed the paper back to florence. "what do you think of it?" said florence, noticing that she was silent. "i hate it." "i thought you would. oh. edith, i am glad!" "what do you mean by that?" "because i so cordially hate it too." "i would not publish it if i were in your place," said edith; "it may do harm. it is against the woman who is struggling so bravely. it turns her noblest feelings into ridicule. why do you write such things, florence?" "one cannot help one's self; you know that," replied florence. "rubbish! one can always help doing wrong. you have been queer all through. i cannot pretend to understand you. but there, as tom admires it so much, i suppose it must go into the paper. will you put it into an envelope, and i will post it?" florence did so. she directed the envelope to the editor, and edith took it out with her. as she was leaving the room, she turned to florence and said: "try and make your next thing more healthy. i hope to goodness very few people will read this; it is bad from first to last." she ran downstairs. just as she was about to drop the little packet into the pillar-box, she glanced at her watch. "i shall have time to go and see tom. i don't like this thing," she said to herself. "miss aylmer ought not to write what will do direct harm. the person who has written this paper might well not believe in any god. i don't like it. it ought not to be published. i will speak to tom about it. some of the worst passages might at least be altered or expunged." edith hailed a hansom, was taken citywards, and found herself in her brother's own private room shortly before he was finishing for the day. "here is the work of your precious protégée," she said, flinging the manuscript on tom's desk. he took it up. "has she corrected it? that's right; i want to send it to the printer. by the way, edith, have you read it?" "i grieve to say i have." tom franks looked at her in a puzzled way. "why do you speak in that tone?" "because it is so horrible and so false, tom. why do you publish it?" "you agree with mr. anderson; he doesn't like it either." "don't send it to the printers like that. poor florence must be a little mad. cut out some of the passages. give it to me, and i'll show you. this one, for instance, and this." tom franks took the paper from her. "it goes in entire, or it does not go in at all," he said; "its cleverness will carry the day. i must speak to miss aylmer. she must not give vent to her true feelings; in future, she must put a check on them." "she must have a terrible mind," said edith. "if i had known it, i don't think i could have made her my friend." "oh, don't give her up now," said tom; "poor girl, she is to be pitied." "of course she is; great talent like hers often means a tendency to insanity. i must watch her; she is a curious and interesting study." "she is monstrously clever," said tom franks; "i admire her very much." edith, feeling that she had done no good, left the office. chapter xxxvi. a letter from home. in due time the first number of the new weekly paper appeared, and florence's article was on the leading page. it created, as tom franks knew it would, a good deal of criticism. it met with a shower of abuse from one party, and warm notices, full of congratulation, from another. it certainly increased the sale of the paper and made people look eagerly forward to the next work of the rising star. florence, who would not glance at the paper once it had appeared, and who did her utmost to forget bertha's work, tried to believe that she was happy. she had now really as much money as she needed to spend, and was able to send her mother cheques. mrs. aylmer was in the seventh heaven of bliss. as to sukey, she was perfectly sick of hearing of miss florence's talents and miss florence's success. mrs. aylmer the less thought it high time to write a congratulatory letter to her daughter. "my dear flo," she wrote, "you are the talk of the place. i never knew anything like it. i am invaded by visitors. i am leading quite a picnic life, hardly ever having a meal at home, and with your cheques i am able to dress myself properly. sukey also enjoys the change. but why, my dear love, don't you send copies of that wonderful magazine, and that extraordinary review, to your loving mother? i have just suggested to a whole number of your admirers to meet me at this house on wednesday next, when i propose to read aloud to them either your article in the _general review_ or one of your stories in the _argonaut_. do send me the copies, dear; i have failed hitherto to get them." at this point in her letter mrs. aylmer broke off abruptly. there had come a great blot of ink on the paper, as if her pen had suddenly fallen from her hand. later on the letter was continued, but in a different tone. "our clergyman, mr. walker, has just been to see me. what do you think he has come about? he brought your paper with him and read passages of it aloud. he said that it was my duty immediately to see you, and to do my utmost to get you into a better frame of mind. "he says your style--i am quoting his exact words--and your sentiments are bitterly wrong, and will do a lot of mischief. my dear girl, what does this mean? just when your poor, doting old mother was so full of bliss and so proud of you, to give her a knock-down blow of this sort! i must request you, my precious child, the next time you write for the _general review_, to do a paper which will not cause such remarks as i have just listened to from the lips of our good clergyman. you might write, florence, a nice little essay on the sins of ambition, or something of that sort--or what do you say to a paper on flowers, spring flowers?--i think that would be so sweet and poetic--or the sad sea waves? i really did not know that i had such a clever brain myself. you must have inherited your talent from me, darling. now, do write a paper on the sad sea waves. i know i shall cry over it. i feel it beforehand. don't forget, my love, the lessons your poor mother has tried to teach you. mr. walker spoke so severely that i almost thought i ought to return your nice cheque for five pounds; but on reflection, it seemed to me that that would do no good, and that i at least knew how to spend the money well. i told him i would give him ten shillings out of it for the missionary society. he seemed quite shocked. how narrow-minded some clergymen are! but there, flo, don't forget that the next paper is to be on spring flowers or the sad sea waves. it will take like wildfire. "your affectionate mother." this letter was received by florence on the following morning. she was seated at her desk, carefully copying the last production sent to her by bertha keys. it was not an essay this time, but a story, and was couched in rather milder terms than her two previous stories. florence thrust it into a drawer, read her mother's letter from end to end, and then, covering her face with her hands, sat for a long time motionless. "i am successful; but it seems to me i am casting away my own soul," she said to herself. "i am not happy. i never thought, when i could supply mother with as much money as she needed, when my own affairs were going on so nicely, when my independence was so far secured, and when i was on a certain pinnacle of success, that i could feel as i do. but nothing gives me pleasure. even last night, at that party which the franks took me to, when people came up and congratulated me, i felt stupid and heavy. i could not answer when i was spoken to, nor carry on arguments. i felt like a fool, and i know i acted as one; and if mr. franks had not been so kind, i doubt not i should have openly disgraced myself. oh, dear! the way of transgressors is _very_ hard, and i hate bertha more than words can say." florence was interrupted at this pause in her meditations by a tap at her door. she was now able to have two rooms at her command in prince's mansions, and franks, who had come to see her, was ushered into a neatly-furnished but simple-looking sitting-room. florence rose to meet him. "are you well?" he said, staring at her. "why do you ask? i am perfectly well," she replied, in a tone of some annoyance. "i beg your pardon; you look so black under the eyes. do you work too hard at night?" "i never work too hard, mr. franks; you are absolutely mistaken in me." "i am glad to hear it. is your next story ready?" "i am finishing it." "may i see it?" "no, i cannot show it to you. you shall have it by to-morrow or next day at latest." "do you feel inclined to do some more essays for our paper?" "i would rather not," said florence. "but why so?" "you didn't like my last paper, you know." "oh, i admired it for its cleverness. i didn't care for the tone. it is unnecessary to give way to all one's feelings. when you have written more and oftener, you will have learned the art of suppression." "i have just had a letter from mother," said florence; "i will show you her postscript. you will see that, although she was proud of me, it was the pride of ignorance. this is what our clergyman, mr. walker, says, and he is right." franks read the few words of the postscript. "i suppose he is right," he answered. he looked full at the girl and half-smiled. "it would be extremely successful if you would do a paper in a _totally_ different tone," he said; "could you not try?" "i cannot give what is not in me." "well, have a good try. choose your own subject. let me have the very best you can. i must not stay any longer now. the story at least will reach me in good time?" "yes, and i think you will like it rather better than the last. good-bye," said florence. he held her hand lingeringly for a moment, and looked into her face. as he went downstairs he thought a good deal about her. she interested him. if he married, he would as soon have clever and original florence aylmer for his wife as any other woman he had ever met. he was just leaving the house when he came face to face with trevor. maurice was hurrying into the house as franks was going out. the sub-editor of the _argonaut_ started when he saw trevor. "hallo," he said, "who would have thought to see you here? how are you?" "quite well, thank you." "i imagined you to be in the country safe with that kind old lady who is feathering your nest." "i don't think that will come off, franks; but i do not feel inclined to discuss it. i have come up to town to see miss aylmer. how is she?" "quite well, or, rather, no: i don't think she is very well. i have just seen her. what a wonderfully clever girl she is!" "so it seems," said trevor, in a somewhat impatient tone. "is she in?" "yes; i have just come from her." "then i won't detain you now." trevor ran upstairs, and franks went quickly back to his office. chapter xxxvii. trevor proposes to florence. trevor's vigorous knock came upon florence's door. she did not know why her heart leapt, nor why the colour came into her cheeks. she had been feeling indifferent to all the world a moment before. now she was suddenly eager and full of interest. she crossed the room and opened the door wide. when she saw trevor she uttered an exclamation and her eyes shone. "is it possible that you have come?" she said. "how are you? won't you come in?" he took her hand. "yes, i have come," he answered. "can you give me a little time, or are you too busy?" "i am never busy," said florence. he looked at her in some surprise when she said that, but resolved to take no notice. he had quick eyes and a keen intuition, and he saw at a glance that florence was uneasy and suffering, also that she was more or less indifferent to the life on which she had entered, which ought to have been so full of the keenest interest. she asked him to seat himself and took a chair near. "how are they all at aylmer's court?" she asked. "when i left yesterday morning they were well," he replied. "did you know that your friend miss sharston was on a visit there?" "yes, i heard of it; kitty wrote to me. do you like kitty, mr. trevor?" "of course i like her," he replied, and, remembering what was expected of him by mrs. aylmer with regard to kitty, the bronze on his cheeks deepened. florence noticed the increase of colour, and her heart beat. "i wonder if he does like her and if she likes him. i should not be surprised; i ought to be glad," she thought. but she knew very well that she was not glad, and she vaguely wondered why. "i have come with a message from my mother," said trevor, who was watching her while her eyes were travelling towards the fire. he was thinking how ill and worn she looked, and his heart was full of pity as well as love, but he would not speak yet. he must wait; he must be sure of her feelings before he committed himself. "i have come with a message from my mother," he repeated. "i want you to come back with me now. you enjoyed your last day at the cottage: it was summer then. it is early winter now, but the heath is still beautiful. shall we go together, and after lunch have a walk on the heath?" "i am very sorry, but i cannot go," replied florence. she looked longingly out of the window as she spoke. "no," she repeated; "i cannot." "but why not? you say you are not busy." "in one sense i am not busy; but i have some work to do." "some of your literary work?" florence nodded, but did not speak. "i have to copy something," she said, after a pause; "i have to send it to the editor of the _argonaut_; he is waiting." "do you know, i have only read one of your stories, the first which appeared in the _argonaut_? it was clever." "i wish it had been idiotic," replied florence. "everyone says to me: 'your story is clever.' i hate that story." "i am delighted to hear you say so. i did not admire it myself. of course i saw that it was--" "don't say again that it was clever. i don't wish to hear anything about it. i cannot come with you to-day. i have to do some copying." "why do you say copying?" "because i always copy the manuscripts faithfully before mr. franks has them for the _argonaut_. he is waiting, and i am a slow writer." "shall i copy the story for you?" "not for all the world," replied florence, startled at her own vehemence. trevor rose, a look of annoyance on his face. "i am sorry you should think of my offer of help in that spirit," he said; "you don't quite understand: perhaps some day i may be able to make things plain to you. i take a great, a very great interest in you. you have brought--" "what?" said florence. "you have brought a great anxiety and trouble into my life, as well as a very great absorbing interest; but i can say no more now." "if you will go away," said florence, "i will begin to work. i have a headache, and am confused. go away and come again, if you like. i shall be better the next time you come." "why won't you tell me what is troubling you?" "how do you know anything troubles me?" "how do i know?" said trevor. "i have eyes--that is all: eyes and a certain amount of intuition," he added. "i cannot go to-day," said florence, who took no notice of his words, "but perhaps on sunday i may go to see your mother. will you be there then?" "yes: did you not hear? i have broken with mrs. aylmer." "what?" said florence. she forgot herself in her excitement. she came two or three steps forward; her hands were clasped tightly together. "yes; i cannot stand the life. mrs. aylmer is very kind to me, and means well; but so long as she is so cruel to you i cannot endure it. i have told her so, and i am going to earn my own living in the future. i am no longer a rich man--indeed, i am a very poor one; but i have brains and i think i have pluck, and some day i am certain i shall succeed." trevor held himself erect, and his eyes, full of suppressed fire, were fixed on florence's face. he wanted her to say she was glad; he wanted to get a word of sympathy from her. on the contrary, she turned very white, and said, in a low, almost broken voice: "oh, i am terribly sorry! why have you done this?" "you are _sorry_?" "yes, i am." "i have done it for you. i cannot stand injustice." "i could never under any circumstances accept mrs. aylmer's money," said florence. "you do me no good, and yourself harm; and then your mother: she was so happy about you. oh, do go back to mrs. aylmer; do tell her you didn't mean it. i know she must be very fond of you. it makes me so wretched, so overpoweringly wretched, to think you should have done this for me. oh, do go back! she will be so glad to receive you. i know a little about her: i know she will receive you with rejoicing." "do you know what she wants me to do?" he said. he was very white now. he had thrown prudence to the winds. "what?" "you will not like it when i tell you; but you must at least exonerate me: i am obliged to be frank." "say what you please; i am willing to listen." trevor dropped once more into a chair. "when i last saw her she made a proposal to me. it was not the first time; it was the second. she wanted me to marry--" "i know," said florence; "she wants you to marry kitty. but why not? she is so sweet; she is the dearest girl in all the world." "hush!" said trevor. "i do not love her, nor does she love me. i can scarcely bear to tell you all this. it is sacrilegious to think of marriage under such circumstances, and above all things to mention it in connection with a girl like miss sharston." florence found tears springing to her eyes. "you are very good," she said, "too good, to sit here and talk to me. of course, if you don't love kitty, there is an end of it. are you quite sure?" "positive. i know my own heart too well. i love another." "another?" florence had a wild fear for a moment that he was alluding to bertha keys. a desperate thought came into her brain. "at any cost, i will open his eyes: i will tell him the truth," she thought. trevor had come nearer, and was bending forward and trying to take her hand. "you are the one i love," he said. "how can i, who love you with all my heart and soul and strength, who would give my life for you, how can i think of anyone else? it does not matter whether you are the most amiable or the most unamiable woman in the world, florence: you are the one woman on god's earth for me. do you hear me, florence; do you hear me? i love you; i have come to-day to tell you that i give my life to you. i put it into your hands. i didn't mean to speak, but the truth has been wrung from me. do you hear me, florence?" florence certainly did hear, but she did not speak. trevor had taken her hand, and she did not withdraw it. she was stunned for a moment. the next instant there came over her, sweeping round her, entering her heart, filling her whole being, a delicious and marvellous ecstasy. the pain and the trouble vanished. the treachery, the deceit, and the fall she had undergone were forgotten. she only knew that, if trevor loved her, she loved him. she was about to speak when her eyes fell for a moment on a page of the manuscript she had just written. like a flash, memory came back. it stung her cruelly as a serpent might sting. she sprang to her feet; she flung down his hand. "you don't know whom you are talking to. if you knew me just as i am, you would unsay all those words; and, mr. trevor, you can never know me as i am, never, and i can never marry you." "but do you love me? that is the point," said trevor. "i--do not ask me. no--if you must know. how can i love anybody? i am incapable of love. oh, go, go! do go! i don't love you: of course i don't. don't think of me again. i am not for you. try and love kitty, and make mrs. aylmer happy. go; do leave me! i am unworthy of you, absolutely, utterly." "but if i think differently?" said trevor. he was very much troubled by her words; she spoke with such vehemence, and alluded to such extraordinary and to him impossible things, that he failed to understand her; then he said slowly: "you are stunned and surprised, but, darling, i am willing to wait, and my heart is yours. a man cannot take back his heart after he has given it, even though a woman does scorn it. but you won't be cruel to me; i cannot believe it, florence. i will come again to-morrow and see you." he turned without speaking to her again and left the room. florence never knew how she spent the rest of that day; but she had a dim memory afterwards that she worked harder during the succeeding hours than she had ever worked in her life before. her brain was absolutely stimulated by what she had gone through, and she felt almost inclined to venture to write that sunday-school paper which tom franks had so much desired. she was to go out that evening with the franks. she was now, although the london season had by no means begun, a little bit in request in certain literary circles; and tom franks, who had taken her in tow, was anxious to bring her as much forward as possible. edith and tom were going to drive to a certain house in the suburbs where a literary lady, a mrs. simpson, a very fashionable woman, lived. florence was to be the lioness of the evening, and edith came in early from her medical work to apprise her of the fact. "you had better wear that pretty black lace dress, and here are some crimson roses for you," she said. "i bought them at the florist's round the corner; they will suit you very well. but i wish you would not lose all your colour. you certainly look quite fagged out." "on the contrary, i am not the least bit tired," said florence. "i am glad i am going. i have finished the story for your brother and can post it first. i have had a hard day's work, edith, and deserve a little bit of fun to-night." "now that i look at you, you don't seem as tired as usual," said edith; "that is right. tom was vexed last night. he says you work so hard that you are quite stupid in society. try and allow people to draw you out. if you make even one or two of those pretty little epigrammatic speeches with which your writing is full, you will get yourself talked of more than ever. i presume, writing the sort of things you do, that you are going in for fame, and fame alone. well, my dear, at least so live that you may obtain that for which you are selling yourself." "i am not selling myself. how dare you?" said florence. her whole manner was new; she had ceased to depreciate herself. edith left her, and florence went into her bed-room and carefully made her toilet. her eyes were soft as well as bright. the dress she wore suited her well; there was a flush of becoming colour in her cheeks. she joined edith just as franks drove up in his brougham. he ran upstairs, and was pleased to see that the two girls were ready. "come, that is nice," he said, gazing at florence with an increased beating of his heart. he said to himself: "she is absolutely handsome. she would suit me admirably as a wife. i may propose to her to-night if i have the chance." he gave his arm to florence with a certain chivalry which was by no means habitual to him, and the two girls and franks went downstairs. "there is to be a bit of a crush," he said, looking at florence; "and, by the way, did i tell you who was to be present? you saw him to-day: maurice trevor. he is a great friend of mrs. simpson's, and he and his mother have been invited." florence's hand was still on franks's arm when he spoke, and as he uttered the words "maurice trevor" she gave that arm an involuntary grip. he felt the grip, and a queer sensation went through him. he could not look into her face, but his suspicions were aroused. why had she been so startled when trevor's name was mentioned? he would watch the pair to-night. trevor was not going to take florence from him if he, franks, wished for her: of that he was resolved. chapter xxxviii. at the reception. the guests were all interesting, and the room sufficiently large not to be overcrowded. franks seemed to watch florence, guarding her against too much intrusion, but at the same time he himself kept her amused. he told her who the people were. as he did so, he watched her face. she still wore that becoming colour, and her eyes were still bright. she had lost that heavy apathetic air which had angered franks more than once. he noticed, however, that she watched the door, and as fresh arrivals were announced her eyes brightened for an instant, and then grew perceptibly dull. he knew she was watching for trevor, and he cursed trevor in his heart. "she is in love with him. what fools women are!" muttered franks to himself. "if she married a man like that--a rich man with all that money could give--her literary career would be ended. i have had the pleasure of introducing her to the public; she is my treasure-trove, my one bright particular star. she shall not shine for anyone else. that great gift of hers shall be improved, shall be strengthened, shall be multiplied ten-thousandfold. i will not give her up. i love her just because she is clever: because she is a genius. if she had not that divine fire, she would be as nothing and worse than nothing to me. as it is, the world shall talk of her yet." presently trevor and his mother arrived, and it seemed to florence that some kind of wave of sympathy immediately caused his eyes to light upon her in her distant corner. he said a few words to his hostess, watched his mother as she greeted a chance acquaintance, and elbowed his way to her side. "this is good luck," he said; "i did not expect to see you here to-night." he sat down by her, and franks was forced to seek entertainment elsewhere. florence expected that after the way she had treated trevor early that day he would be cold and distant; but this was not the case. he seemed to have read her agitation for what it was worth. something in her eyes must have given him a hint of the truth. he certainly was not angry now. he was sympathetic, and the girl thought, with a great wave of comfort: "he does not like me because i am supposed to be clever. he likes me for quite another reason: just for myself. but why did not he tell me so before--before i fell a second time? it is all hopeless now, of course; and yet is it hopeless? perhaps maurice trevor is the kind of man who would forgive. i wonder!" she looked up at him as the thought came to her, and his eyes met hers. "what are you thinking about?" he said. they had been talking a lot of commonplaces; now his voice dropped; if he could, he would have taken her hand. they were as much alone in that crowd as though they had been the only people in the room. "what are you thinking of?" he repeated. "of you," said florence. "perhaps you are sorry for some of the things you said this morning?" "i am sorry," she answered gravely, "that i was obliged to say them." "but why were you obliged?" "i have a secret; it was because of that secret i was obliged." "you will tell it to me, won't you?" "i cannot." trevor turned aside. he did not speak at all for a moment. "i must understand you somehow," he said then; "you are surrounded by mystery, you puzzle me, you pique my curiosity. i am not curious about small things as a rule, but this is not a small thing, and i have a great curiosity as to the state of your heart, as to the state of your--" "my morals," said florence slowly; "of my moral nature--you are not sure of me, are you?" "i am sure that, bad or good--and i know you are not bad--you are the only woman that i care for. may i come and see you to-morrow?" "don't talk any more now; you upset me," said florence. "may i come and see you to-morrow?" "yes." "remember, if i come, i shall expect you to tell me everything?" "yes." "you will?" "i am not certain; i can let you know when you do come." "thank you; you have lifted a great weight from my heart." a moment later franks appeared with a very learned lady, a miss melchister, who asked to be introduced to florence. "i have a crow to pluck with you, miss aylmer," she said. "what is that?" asked florence. "how dare you give yourself and your sisters away? do you know that you were very cruel when you wrote that extremely clever paper in the _general review_?" "i don't see it," replied florence. her answers were lame. miss melchister prepared herself for the fray. "we will discuss the point," she said. "now, why did you say--" trevor lingered near for a minute. he observed that florence's cheeks had turned pale, and he thought that for such a clever girl she spoke in a rather ignorant way. "how queer she is!" he said to himself; "but never mind, she will tell me all to-morrow. i shall win her; it will be my delight to guard her, to help her, and if necessary to save her. she is under someone's thumb; but i will find out whose." his thoughts travelled to bertha keys. he remembered that strange time when he met florence at the railway station at hamslade. why had she spent the day there? why had bertha sent her a parcel? he felt disturbed, and he wandered into another room. this was the library of the house. some papers were lying about. amongst others was the first number of the _general review_. with a start trevor took it up. he would look through florence's article. that clever paper had been largely criticised already; but, strange to say, he had not read it. he sank into a chair and read it slowly over. as he did so, his heart beat at first loud, then with heavy throbs. a look of pain, perplexity, and weariness came into his eyes. one sentence in particular he read not only once, but twice, three times. it was a strange sentence; it contained in it the germ of a very poisonous thought. in these few words was the possibility of a faith being undermined, and a hope being destroyed. it puzzled him. he had the queer feeling that he had read it before. he repeated it to himself until he knew it by heart. then he put the paper down, and soon afterwards he went to his mother, and told her he was going home. "i will send a brougham for you; i am not very well," he said. she looked into his face, and was distressed at the expression she saw in his eyes. "all right, maurice dear; i shall be ready in an hour. i just want to meet a certain old friend, and to talk to that pretty girl miss aylmer. i will find out why she does not come to see us." "don't worry her. i would rather you didn't," said trevor. his mother looked at him again, and her heart sank. "is it possible he has proposed for her, and she will not accept him?" thought the mother; and then she drew her proud little head up, and a feeling of indignation filled her heart. if florence was going to treat her boy, the very light of her eyes, cruelly, she certainly need expect no mercy from his mother. chapter xxxix. an admirable arrangement. trevor took his departure, and the gay throng at mrs. simpson's laughed and joked and made merry. florence had now worked herself into apparent high spirits. she ceased to care whether she talked rubbish or not. she was no longer silent. many people asked to be introduced to the rising star, and many people congratulated her. instead of being modest, and a little stupid and retiring, she now answered back badinage with flippant words of her own. her cleverness was such an established fact that her utter nonsense was received as wit, and she soon had throngs of men and women round her laughing at her words and privately taking note of them. franks all the while stood as a sort of bodyguard. he listened, and his cool judgment never wavered for a moment. "i must give her a hint," he said to himself; "she requires training. that sort of sparkling, effervescent nonsense is in itself in as bad taste and is as poor as the essay she sent me when she played her great practical joke. she is playing a practical joke now on these people, leading them to believe that her chaff is wit." he came up to her gravely in a pause in the conversation, and asked her if she would like to go in to supper. she laid her hand on his arm, and they threaded their way through the throng. they did not approach the supper-room, however. franks led her into a small alcove just beside the greenhouse. "ah," he said, "i have been watching this place; couples have been in it the whole evening: couples making love, couples making arrangements for future work, couples of all sorts, and now this couple, you and i, find ourselves here. we are as alone as if we were on the top of mont blanc." "what a funny simile!" said florence. she laughed a little uneasily. "i thought," she continued, "you were going to take me in to supper." "i will presently; i want first to ask you a question, and to say something to you." "i am all attention," replied florence. "there is no use in beating about the bush," said franks, after a pause. "the thing admits of either 'yes' or 'no.' miss aylmer, i take a great interest in you." "oh, don't, please," said florence. "but i do; i believe i can help you. i believe that you and i together can have a most brilliant career. shall we work in harness? shall we become husband and wife? don't start; don't say no at first. think it over: it would be an admirable arrangement." "so it would," said florence. her answer came out quietly. she looked full into franks's cold grey eyes, and burst into a mirthless laugh. "why do you look at me like that? are you in earnest when you admit that it would be an admirable arrangement?" "i am absolutely in earnest. nothing could be more--more--" "let me speak. you are not in earnest. it is your good pleasure to take a great many things in life in a joking spirit. now, for instance, when you sent me that bald, disgraceful, girlish essay, you played a practical joke which a less patient man would never have forgiven. to-night, when you talked that rubbish to that crowd of really clever men and women, you played another practical joke, equally unseemly." "i am not a society person, mr. franks. i cannot talk well in company. you told me to talk, and i did the best i could." "your chatter was nearly brainless; the people who listened to you to-night won't put up with that sort of thing much longer. it is impossible with a mind of your order that you should really wish to talk nonsense. but i am not going to scold you. i want to know if you will marry me." "if i will be your wife?" said florence. "why do you wish it?" "i think it would be a suitable match." "but do you love me?" franks paused when florence asked him that direct question. "i admire you very much," he said. "that has nothing to do with it. admiration is not enough to marry on. do you love me?" "i believe i shall love you." "may i ask you a very plain question?" "what is that?" "if i were not very clever, if i did not write those smart stories and those clever papers, would you, just for myself, just for my face, and my heart, and my nature, would you desire me as your wife?" "that is scarcely a fair thing to ask, for i should never have met you had you not been just what you are." "well, do you love me?" said florence again. "you are a very strange girl. i think on the whole i do love you. i fully expect to love you very much when you are my wife." "did you ever love anybody else better than you love me?" "i didn't expect, miss aylmer, to be subjected to this sort of cross-questioning. there was once a girl--" a new note came into franks's voice, and for the first time those eyes of his were softened. "she died," he said softly; "you can never be jealous of her: she is in her grave. had she lived we should have been married long ago. don't let us talk of her to-night. you and i can have a brilliant career. will you say 'yes'?" "i cannot answer you to-night. you must give me time." "thank you; that is all i require. i am glad you will think it over. we can be married soon, for i have a good income. i want you to clearly understand that as my wife you continue writing. i want to lead you forth as one of the most brilliant women before the world. i can train you: will you submit to my training?" florence shivered slightly. "i will let you know to-morrow," she said. "come, let us go and have supper," said franks. he jumped up abruptly, offered florence his arm, and took her into the supper-room. the party broke up soon afterwards. mrs. trevor had no opportunity of seeing florence, or, rather, she would not give herself an opportunity. mrs. simpson shook hands with the young literary _débutante_ with marked favour. florence looked prettier than anyone had ever seen her look before. franks took his sister and florence home to their flat. as he parted from the latter, he ventured to give her hand a slight squeeze. "i will call to-morrow morning," he said. "can i see you before i go to my work?" "yes," said florence; "i shall be at home at"--she paused a moment--"nine o'clock," she said somewhat eagerly. "what! a rendezvous so early?" exclaimed edith, with a laugh. franks laughed also. "quite so, edith," he said; "we are all busy people, and have no time to waste. this is merely a business arrangement between miss aylmer and myself." "all right, tom; i am sure i'm not going to interfere," said edith. "good-night. come in, miss aylmer; it is very cold standing out in the street." the girls entered the house, and went up to their respective rooms. fires were burning brightly in each and the doors stood open. "you will come into my room and have cocoa, will you not?" said edith to florence. "no, thank you; not to-night." edith looked full at her. "has tom proposed to you?" she said suddenly. "i don't know why you should ask me that question." "your face answers me. you will be a fool if you accept him. he is not the man to make any woman happy. don't tell him that i said it; but he is cold through and through. only one woman, poor lucy leigh, who died before she was twenty, ever touched his heart. what heart he had is in her grave: you will never kindle it into life. take him if you wish for success, but do not say that i never warned you." edith went into her room and slammed the door somewhat noisily behind her. florence entered hers. the late post had brought a letter--one letter. she started when she saw the postmark, and a premonition of fresh trouble came over her. then, standing by the fire, she slowly opened the envelope. the contents were as follows:-- _"aylmer's court, dec. rd._ "my dear florence-- "i would come to see you, but am kept here by mrs. aylmer's indisposition. she has been seriously unwell and in the doctor's hands since maurice trevor left her in the disgraceful fashion he has done. he has nearly broken her heart, but i hope to have the solace of mending it. i wish to say now that from words dropped to mrs. aylmer it is highly probable that he has gone to town for the purpose of proposing to you. accept him, of course, if you wish. it is likely, very likely, that you will return his affection, for he is an attractive man, and has a warm heart, and also a good one. i have nothing whatever to do with that, but clearly understand the moment the news reaches me that you are betrothed to maurice trevor, on that very day i shall tell mrs. aylmer the whole truth with regard to the stories which are running in the _argonaut_ and the paper which has already appeared in the _general review_. i do not mind whether i go under or not; but you shall be seen in your true colours before ever you become the wife of maurice trevor. "yours faithfully--and faithful i shall be in that particular--bertha keys." chapter xl. is it "yes" or "no"? florence sat up long with that letter lying in her lap. the fire burned low and finally went out. still she sat by the cold hearth, and once or twice she touched the letter, and once or twice she read it. "it burns into me; it is written in my heart in letters of fire," she said to herself finally, and then she rose slowly and stretched her arms and crossed the room and looked out at the sky. from the top of her lofty flat she could see just a little sky above the london roofs. it was a clear cold night with a touch of frost, and the stars were all brilliant. florence gazed up at them. "there is a lofty and pure and grand world somewhere," she said to herself; "but it is not for me. good-bye, maurice; i could have loved you well. with you i would have been good, very good: with you i might have climbed up: the stars would not have been quite out of reach. good-bye, maurice; it is not to be." she took bertha's letter, put it on the cold hearth, set fire to it, and saw it consumed to ashes. then she undressed and went to bed. whatever her dreams were she rose in good time in the morning. she had a considerable amount to do. she was to see franks at nine o'clock. she was to see trevor later on. she had to copy a whole very brilliant story of bertha's. she was a slow writer and there was nothing of talent in her handwriting. "i am a very stupid girl when all is said and done," she said to herself; "i am not even in the ordinary sense of the word well-educated. i have been years studying, but somehow i think i must have a frivolous sort of brain. perhaps i have taken after the little mummy. the little mummy never was clever. she is a dear little mother when all is said and done, and very comforting when one is in trouble, and if i saw her now i might break down and fling my arms round her neck and confess to her. with all her silliness she would comfort me and she would never reproach me; but i must not tell. there is no softness in my future. thank goodness, at least i am young; i may have a great career; i will be satisfied to be famous. it will be terribly, terribly, difficult to be famous through the whim of another woman; but i suppose bertha will not forsake me." she dressed, prepared her breakfast as usual, and had just washed up afterwards and put her little sitting-room in order when franks's knock was heard at her door. he entered in that brisk, business-like, utterly cool way which always characterised him. he looked immaculate and fresh. he was always extremely particular about his appearance. his collars were invariably as white as the driven snow, and his clothes well cut. he dressed himself between the style of a country gentleman and a man of business. he never wore frock-coats, for instance. he was a small man, but well made. he held himself upright as a soldier. his black hair was brushed back from his lofty white brow. he had straight black eye-brows and a neat little black moustache and straight features. his skin was of an olive tint. those well-cut, classical features gave to his face a certain cold sameness of outline. it was almost impossible to surprise him or to cause emotion to visit his countenance. he looked now as composed as though he had merely come to give florence a fresh order for work. "ah," he said, "there you are. one minute past nine; sorry i am late; accept my apologies." florence pushed forward a chair. she could scarcely bring herself to speak. even her lips were white. franks did not sit; he came a step nearer. "i have exactly ten minutes," he said; "this is a purely business arrangement. is it to be 'yes' or 'no?'" "if you will faithfully assure me that--" began florence, and then she stopped and wetted her lips. her mouth was so dry she could scarcely proceed. franks gave an impatient start. he took out his watch and glanced at it. "yes," he said, "i am awfully sorry; if it is no, it won't be necessary to keep me now." "i must speak; you cannot hurry me." "oh, all right; take your own time," said franks. his face beamed all over for a moment. he looked at the girl with a certain covetousness. after all, there was something about her which might develop into strength and even beauty. she had been pretty last night. she would assuredly be his stepping-stone to great fame. he was a very clever man himself, but he was not a genius. with florence, with their two forces combined, might they not rise to any position? "yes, my dear, yes?" he said. "sit down, florence, sit down." she shivered when he called her by her christian name, but she did drop into a chair. he drew his own close to hers. "yes, florence," he said, "what is it? you are about to make conditions. if they lead to 'yes' i will fulfil them." "i only want to ask you to repeat something which you said last night." "what is that?" "can you assuredly tell me that you are only marrying me just because you think that you and i together can be famous?" "you would not like me to say that sort of thing, would you?" "on the contrary, if i firmly know, firmly and truly from your own lips, that you do _not_ love me, that there is no love in the matter, that it is a mere business arrangement----" "well, what?" "it would be, i think, _possible_." "then that means 'yes.' i like you very much. i hope a day may come when i shall love you." "i want it clearly to be understood," said florence, "that i do not wish for that day. i don't love you at all, and i don't want you to love me; but if we can, as you say, work in harness, perhaps it would be best. anyhow, i----" "you say 'yes,' my dear girl; that is all i need. we can talk over those curious ideas of yours later on. you are engaged to me, florence--come." he went quickly up to her, put his arm round her waist, drew her close to him, and kissed her on the forehead. "i am not repugnant to you, am i?" he said, as she shrank away. "i don't know," she replied; "i am selling myself and you are buying me: i hope i shall prove a good bargain. i don't want you to imagine for a moment that i care for you; but i am selling myself, and it may be best." "you must drop all that kind of nonsense when once you are my wife," he said. "as it is, i bear with it. we shall be married before christmas. we will take a flat in a fashionable part and see literary people. we will start a new salon. now good-bye; i will call again to-night. by the way, how is the story getting on?" "i don't know that i can quite finish it all to-day, but you shall have it by the time i promised." "thank you, florence. i believe you and i are acting wisely. i hope we shall be kind to each other: we have a great deal in common. you could not step up as high as i shall place you without my aid, and you are useful to me: it is an admirable arrangement. good-bye, dear." she shrank so far away that he did not venture to repeat his cold caress. he again looked at his watch. "how late i shall be!" he said. "anderson will be astonished. he will forgive me, however, when i tell him that i am engaged to my rising star. good-bye, florence." "thank god!" she muttered, when the door closed behind him. she had scarcely time, however, for reflection before it was opened again, and this time without knocking. edith franks, wearing her hat and coat and buttoning on her gloves, entered briskly. "i thought i heard tom going downstairs. so he has been?" she enquired. "yes, edith, he has been." edith came nearer and looked at florence's face. "so you are to be my sister-in-law," she said. "don't scold me, please, edith." "good gracious, no dear; i gave you my word of warning last night. now i am all congratulations. you will make a nice little sister-in-law, and we are proud of your ability. go on and prosper. you have chosen ambition. some women would prefer love, but everyone to their taste. i'm off. good-bye, florence. i see you would much rather not be kissed. tom has been doing that, doubtless. i will see you again this evening." edith went out of the room in her brisk way. she shut the door quickly. florence went straight to the window. she stood there for a minute or two looking out. then she dropped into a chair and, taking a sheet of note-paper, began to write. she was writing to bertha. "my dear bertha-- "the letter i received from you last night requires no comment. you may perhaps be glad to hear that i have just engaged myself to mr. franks, the sub-editor of the _argonaut_, and a very distinguished man. we are to be married before christmas. it is his particular wish that i should go on writing, and it is one of the conditions that we shall both pursue our own careers independently of the other, and yet each helped by the other. you will, i am sure, fulfil your part of the bargain. i shall want another story of about five thousand words next week, as terse, and brilliant, and clever as you can make it. i shall also want an article for the _general review_. make it smart, but avoid the woman question. i have been bullied on the subject, and did not know how to answer. "yours truly, "florence aylmer." this letter written, florence did not even wait to read it. she put it into an envelope, directed it, and ran out with it to the nearest pillar-box. she dropped it in and returned to the house. it was not yet eleven o'clock. how tired she was! it was nearly two hours since franks and she had ratified their contract. she was engaged now--engaged to a man who did not profess to love her, for whom she did not feel the faintest glimmering of affection. she was engaged and safe; yes, of course she was safe. no fear now of her ghastly secret being discovered! as long as bertha lived the stories could be conveyed to her, and the stories would mean fame, and she would go on adding fame to fame and greatness to greatness until she was known, not only in england, but in america, and in the colonies, as a new writer of great promise, and franks would be rich. oh, yes, he would manage her financial affairs in the future. he would not allow her to sell her talent for less than it was worth. he would instruct her how to dress, and how to speak when she was in public; he would take care that she did not give herself away as she had all but done last night. he would be her master, and doubtless she would find herself ruled by an iron rod. but no matter: she was safe. she would not think even for a moment of what she was throwing away. such was her feeling; but never mind: she had chosen the wrong and refused the right. great temptation had come, and she had not been able to resist it, and now the only way was to go straight on; and franks had made that way plain. it was the broad road which led to destruction. she was pricked by many thorns, and the broad road was the reverse of pleasant, and she saw dizzily how steep the hill would grow by-and-by, and how fast the descent would be; but never mind: she at least was safe for the present. she panted and felt herself turning slightly cold as this last thought came to her, for there was a tap at the door, and trevor, his face white, his grey eyes anxious, an expression of earnestness and love beaming all over his features, came in. he was in every way the opposite of tom franks. florence looked wildly at him. she must go through the dreadful half-hour which was before her. she hoped he would not stay long: that he would take his dismissal quietly. she dared not think too hard; she did her utmost to drive thought out. "well," said trevor, "have i come too early?" "oh, no," said florence, "it is past eleven," and she looked listlessly at the clock. he tried to take her hand. she put it immediately behind her. "you have come to ask me a question, have you not?" she said. "i have. you promised me your confidence last night." "i did not promise: i said i might give it." "am i to expect it?" "what do you want to know?" "i want to know this," said trevor. he took out of his pocket a copy of the _general review_. he opened it at the page where florence's article appeared. he then also produced from his pocket-book a tiny slip of paper, a torn slip, on which, in bertha keys's handwriting, was the identical sentence which had attracted so much attention in the _review_. "look," he said. florence did look. her frightened eyes were fixed upon the scrap of paper. "where--where did you get that?" she said. "it is remarkable," he said; "i thought perhaps _you_ would explain. i have read your paper--i am not going to say whether i like it or not. do you remember that day when i saw you and gave you a packet at hamslade station?" "quite well." "i think you would not be likely to forget. i was naturally puzzled to find you so near mrs. aylmer's house and yet not there. the packet i gave you was from miss keys, was it not?" "there can be no harm in admitting that fact," replied florence, in a guarded voice. he looked at her and shook himself impatiently. "i was perplexed and amazed at seeing you at the station." "you ought to try and curb your curiosity, mr. trevor," said florence. she tried to speak lightly and in a bantering tone. he was too much in earnest to take any notice of her tone. "i was curious; i had reason to be," he replied. "i went home. miss keys, miss sharston and others were in the hall. they were talking about you, and miss sharston showed me one of your stories. i read it; we both read it, and with keen curiosity." "was it the first or the second?" said florence. "the first story. it was clever; it was not a bit the sort of story i thought you would have written." florence lowered her eyes. "the style was remarkable and distinctive," he continued; "it was not the style of a girl so young as you are; but of course that goes for nothing. i went upstairs to mrs. aylmer's boudoir: i wanted to fetch a book. i don't think i was anxious to read, but i was restless. the book lay on miss keys's desk. on the desk also were some torn sheets of paper. i picked up one mechanically." "you read what was not meant for you to read!" said florence, her eyes flashing. trevor gave her a steady glance. "i admit that i read a sentence--the sentence i have just shown you. i will frankly tell you that i was surprised at it; i was puzzled by the resemblance between the style of the story and the style of the sentence. i put the torn sheet of paper into my pocket-book. i don't exactly know why i did it at the time, but i felt desperate. i was taking a great interest in you. it seemed to me that if you did wrong i was doing wrong myself. it seemed to me that if by any chance your soul was smirched, or made unhappy, or blackened, or any of its loftiness and its god-like quality removed, my own soul was smirched too, my own nature lowered. but i thought no special harm of you, although i was troubled; and that night i learned for the first time that i was interested in you because i loved you, because you were the first of all women to me, and i----" "oh, don't," said florence, "don't say any more." she turned away from him, flung herself on the sofa, and sobbed as if her heart would break. trevor stood near for a little in much bewilderment. presently she raised her eyes. he sat down on the sofa by her. "why don't you tell me everything, florence?" he said, with great tenderness in his tone. "i cannot: it is too late. think what you like of me! suspect me as you will! i do not think you would voluntarily injure me. i cannot give you my confidence, for i----" "yes, dear, yes; don't tremble so. poor little girl, you will be better afterwards. i won't ask you too much; only tell me, sweetest, with your own lips that you love me." "i am not sweet, i am not dear, i am not darling. i am a bad girl, bad in every way," said florence. "think of me as you like. i dare not be near you: i dare not speak to you. oh, yes, perhaps i _could_ have loved you: i won't think of that now. i am engaged to another man." "you engaged!" said trevor. he sprang to his feet as if someone had shot him. he trembled a little; then he pulled himself together. "say it again." "i am engaged to mr. franks." "but you were not engaged last night?" "no." "when did this take place?" "two hours ago; he came at nine--a minute past, i think. we became engaged; it is all settled. good-bye; forget me." florence still kept her hands behind her. she rose: her miserable tear-stained face and her eyes full of agony were raised for a moment to trevor's. "do go," she said; "it is all over. i have accepted the part that is not good, and you must forget me." chapter xli. the little mummy in london. two days later a little woman might have been seen paying a cabman at the door of no. , prince's mansions. she argued with him over the fare, but finally yielded to his terms, and then she tripped upstairs, throwing back her long widow's veil, which she always insisted on wearing. she reached the door which had been indicated to her as the one leading to florence's room. she tapped, but there was no answer. she tried to turn the handle: the door was locked. just as she was so engaged, a girl with a bright, keen face and resolute manner opened the next door and popped out her head. "pardon me," said mrs. aylmer the less, for of course it was she, "but can you tell me if my daughter florence is likely to be in soon?" "your daughter florence?" repeated the girl. "are you mrs. aylmer--florence's mother?" "that is my proud position, my dear. i am the mother of that extremely gifted girl." "she is out, but i daresay she will be in soon," said edith franks. "will you come into my room and wait for her?" "with pleasure. how very kind of you!" said mrs. aylmer. she tripped into the room, accepted the seat which edith pointed out to her near the fire, and untied her bonnet strings. "dear, dear!" she said, as she looked around her. "very comfortable indeed. and is _this_ what indicates the extreme poverty of those lady girls who toil?" "that is a remarkable sentence," said edith. "do you mind saying it again?" mrs. aylmer looked at her and smiled. "i won't say it again," she said, "for it does not fit the circumstance. you do not toil." "but indeed i do; i work extremely hard--often eight or nine hours a day." "good gracious! how crushing! but you don't look bad." "i have no intention of being bad, for i enjoy my work. i am studying to be a lady doctor." "oh, don't," said mrs. aylmer. she immediately drew down her veil and seated herself in such a position that the light should not fall on her face. "i have heard of those awful medical women," she said, after a pause, "and i assure you the mere idea of them makes me ill. i hope they will never become the fashion. you expect medical knowledge in a man, but not in a woman. my dear, pray don't stare at me; you may discover that i have some secret disease which i do not know of myself. i do not wish it found out even if it exists. please keep your eyes off me." "i am not going to diagnose your case, if that is what you mean," replied edith, with a smile. "i am by no means qualified: i have to pass my exams in america." "thank you." mrs. aylmer sighed again. "it is a relief to know that at present you understand but little of the subject. i hope some good man may marry you and prevent your becoming that monster--a woman doctor. but now to change the subject. i am extremely anxious for my daughter to return. i have bad news for her. can you tell me how she is?" "well, i think," replied edith. "you know her." "oh, yes, rather intimately. have you not heard our news?" "what news?" "she is engaged to my brother." "what?" cried mrs. aylmer. she sprang to her feet; she forgot in her excitement all fear of the embryo medical woman. she dropped her cloak and rushed forward to where edith was standing and seized both her hands. "my girl engaged to your brother! and pray who is your brother?" "a very rising journalist, a remarkably clever man. it is, let me tell you, mrs. aylmer, an excellent match for your daughter." "oh, that remains to be seen. i don't at all know that i countenance the engagement." "i am afraid you cannot help it now. florence is of age. i wonder she did not write to you." "i may not have received her letter. the fact is i have been away from home for the last day or two. but i wish she would return, as i have come on most urgent business. pray, miss--i do not even know your name." "franks," replied edith: "edith franks." "pray, miss franks, do not spread the story of my daughter's engagement to your brother just for a day or two. circumstances may alter matters, and until a girl has been really _led_ to the altar i never consider this sort of thing final. ah! whose step is that on the stairs? i believe it is my flo's." mrs. aylmer tripped to the door, flung it open, and stood in an expectant attitude. the next moment florence, accompanied by tom franks, appeared. mrs. aylmer looked at him, and in a flash said, under her breath: "the future son-in-law." then she went up to florence and kissed her. "oh, mother," said florence, looking by no means elated at this unexpected appearance of the little mummy on the scene, "what has brought you to town?" "most important business, dear. i must see you immediately in your room. i assure you nothing would induce me to spend the money i did were it not absolutely necessary that i should see you at once. this gentleman, you must tell him to go, florence; i have not a single moment to waste over him now." "let me introduce mr. franks to you, mother. tom, this is my mother. you know, mother, that i am engaged to mr. franks." "i know nothing of the kind," replied mrs. aylmer angrily. florence smiled. "but i wrote to you, mother; i told you everything." "perhaps so, dear, but i didn't receive the letter. i cannot acknowledge the engagement just now. i am very much agitated. mr. franks, you will, i hope, excuse me. of course i know the feelings of all young men under such circumstances, and i wish to do nothing rude or in any way impolite, but just now i _must_ see my daughter alone." "you had better go, tom," said florence. she took the key of her room out of her pocket, opened the door, and ushered her mother in. "now, mother," she said. "oh, dear, the fire is out." she walked to the hearth, stooped down, and began to light the fire afresh. mrs. aylmer sat near the window. "now, mother," said florence, just looking round her, "what have you come about?" "i thought you would give me a welcome," said mrs. aylmer the less; "you used to be an affectionate girl." "oh, used!" said florence. "but people change as they grow older. sometimes i think i have not any heart." "but you have engaged yourself to that man. i presume you love him." "no, i don't love him at all." "flo, it is impious to hear your talk; it is just on a par with those awfully clever papers of yours--those stories and those articles. you have made a terrible sensation at dawlish. you are becoming notorious, my dear. it is awful for a little widow like me to have a notorious daughter. you must stop it, flo; you really must!" "come, mother, i will get you a cup of tea. what does it matter what the dawlish people say? you will spend the night, of course?" "you and i, my dear, will spend some of the night in the train." "now, mother, what does this mean?" "listen, flo. yes, you may get me a cup of tea and a new-laid egg, if you have such a thing." "but i have not." "then a rasher of bacon done to a turn and a little bit of toast. i can toast the bread myself. you are not at all badly off in this nice room, but----" "go on, mother, go on; do explain why you have come." "it is your aunt, dear; she is very ill indeed. she is not expected to recover." "what, aunt susan?" "yes, she has had a serious illness and has taken a turn for the worse. it is double pneumonia, whatever that means. anyhow, it is frightfully fatal, and the doctors have no hope. i went to see her." "when you heard she was ill, mother?" "no, i didn't hear she was ill. i felt so desperate about you and the extraordinary sentiments you were casting wholesale upon the world that i could stand it no longer, and when you sent me that last cheque i thought i would make a final appeal to susan. so i put on my very best black silk----" florence now with a quick sigh resumed her duties as tea-maker. mrs. aylmer was fairly launched on her narrative. "i put on my very best black silk--the one that nice, charming, _clever_ miss keys sent to me--and i told sukey that i should be away for a couple of days and that she was to expect me when she heard from me, and she was _not_ to forward letters. i didn't expect any from you, and your letters lately have been the reverse of comforting, and i started off and got to aylmer's court yesterday evening. i took a cab and drove straight there, and when the man opened the door i said: 'i am mrs. aylmer; i have come to see my sister-in-law,' and of course there was nothing for it but to let me in, although the flunkey said: 'i don't think she is quite as bad as that, ma'am,' and i looked at him and said: 'what do you mean?' and i had scarcely uttered the words before miss keys, so elegantly dressed and looking such a perfect lady, tripped downstairs and said, in a kind tone: 'so you have come! i am glad you have come.' she did, florence; those were her very words. she said: 'i am glad you have come.' it was so refreshing to hear her, and she took me into one of the spacious reception-rooms--oh! my dear child, a room which ought to be yours by-and-by--and she made me sit down, and then she told me. there have been dreadful things happening, my dear florence, and that wicked young man whom i took such a fancy to has turned out to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. he broke my poor, dear, _warm-hearted_ sister-in-law's heart." "now, mother, why do you talk rubbish?" said florence. "you know aunt susan is not warm-hearted." "she has not been understood," said mrs. aylmer, beginning to sob. she took a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped away her tears. "the circumstances of her life have proved how warm her heart is," she continued. "she adopted that young man and he played her false." "he did not," said florence. "he did, flo; he did. she wanted him to marry--to make a most suitable match--and he refused her. bertha told me all about it. he was in love with some stupid, poor, plain girl, goodness knows where. bertha said there was no doubt of it, and he went away and broke with my poor sister, although she loved him so much and was better than twenty mothers to him. she had just offered him a thousand a year as pocket-money. you will scarcely believe it, flo, but the ungrateful wretch gave it all up for the sake of that girl. i never heard of such a man, and to think that i should have angled--yes, i did, dear--that you should know him!" "here is your tea, mother. can you not stop talking for a little? you will wear yourself out." "what a queer, stern, cold voice you have, florence! you are not half as interested as you used to be." "do drink your tea, mother." mrs. aylmer was not proof against the fragrant cup. she broke a piece of toast and put it into her mouth, she sipped her tea, but nothing could stop her narrative. "soon after he left, that wicked young man," she resumed, "poor susan fell ill. she got worse and worse, and what apparently was only a slight attack soon assumed serious dimensions, and there is little hope of her life, and bertha tells me that she has altered her will or is about to alter it. i cannot quite make out whether it is done or whether it is about to be done; but anyhow, flo, you and i go back to aylmer's court to-night. by hook or by crook we will show ourselves, my love, and i will take the responsibility of leading you into your aunt's room, and you shall go on your knees and beg her forgiveness. that is what i have come about, florence. it is not too late. poor bertha, i can see, is quite on our side. it is not too late, my love; we will catch the very next train." "you don't know what you are saying, mother. it is absolutely impossible for me to go." "my dearest flo, why?" "let me tell you something. you blame mr. trevor." "i always blame ungrateful people," said mrs. aylmer, putting on a most virtuous air. "and yet," said florence--"yes, i will speak. do you know who the worthless girl was for whom he gave up great wealth and a high position?" "how can i tell? i don't want to hear her name." "_i_ was that girl, mother." "what do you mean?" "and bertha knew it," continued florence; "she knew it well. oh, i dare not say much against bertha, but i won't have mr. trevor abused. he found out, mother, that, worthless as i am, he loved me. oh, mother, pity me! pity me!" poor florence suddenly fell on her knees. she bowed her head on the table and burst into tears. it was not often she cried. mrs. aylmer did not remember seeing florence weep since that dreadful morning when they had both fled from cherry court in disgrace. "flo," she said, "flo!" "pity me, mummy; pity me!" said florence. the next instant the little mummy's arms were round her. "oh, i am so glad you have a heart!" said the little mummy, "and of course i don't blame him for loving you, but i do not understand it. bertha could not have known. she said she was quite a low sort of person. oh, flo, my love, this is splendid! you will marry him, of course! i don't believe susan has altered her will. you will just get the riches in the very best possible way as his wife. i always said he was a _most_ charming young man. it was bertha who turned me against him. she is awfully clever, flo, and if i really thought----" "i dare not say anything against bertha, mother. but i cannot go to aylmer's court; you must not ask it. i am engaged now to tom franks, and i won't break my engagement off. i am a very, very unhappy girl." chapter xlii. bertha keys defeated. there is little doubt that mrs. aylmer was very ill. step by step an attack, which was apparently at first of little moment, became serious and then dangerous. the cold became pneumonia, the pneumonia became double pneumonia, and now there was a hard fight for life. nurses were summoned, doctors were requisitioned, everything that wealth could do was employed for the relief and the recovery of the sick woman. but there are times when death laughs at wealth, with all its contrivances and all its hopes: when death takes very little heed of what friends say or what doctors do. death has his own duty to perform, and mrs. aylmer's time had come. notwithstanding the most recent remedies for the fell disease, notwithstanding the care of the best nurses london could supply and the skill of the cleverest doctors, death entered that sick-chamber and stood by that woman's pillow and whispered to her that her hour had come. mrs. aylmer, propped up in her bed so that she might breathe better, her face ghastly with the terrible exertion, called bertha to her side. she could scarcely speak, but she managed to convey her meaning to the girl. "i am very bad; i know i shall not recover." "you have to make your will over again," said bertha, who was as cool as cool could be in this emergency. not one of the nurses could be more collected or calm than bertha. she herself would have made a splendid nurse, for she had tact and sympathy, and the sort of voice which never grated on the ear. the doctors were almost in love with her: they thought they had never seen so capable a girl, so grave, so quiet, so suitably dressed, so invaluable in all emergencies. mrs. aylmer could scarcely bear bertha out of her sight, and the doctors said to themselves: "small wonder!" on the afternoon of the day when mrs. aylmer the less went to see florence in london, mrs. aylmer the great went down another step in the dark valley. the doctor said that she might live for two or three days more, but that he did not think it likely. the disease was spreading, and soon it would be impossible for her to breathe. she was frightened. she had not spent a specially good life. she had given, it is true, large sums in charity, but she had not really ever helped the poor, and had not brought a smile to the lip or a tear of thankfulness to the eye. she had lived a hard life; she had thought far more of herself than of her neighbour, and now that she was about to die it seemed to her that she was not ready. for the first time, all the importance of money faded from her mind. no matter how rich she was and how great, she would have to leave the world with a naked, unclothed soul. she could not take any of her great possessions with her, nor could she offer to her maker a single thing which would satisfy him, when he made up the balance of her account. she was frightened about herself. "bertha," she said to her young companion, "come here, bertha." bertha bent over her. "is it true that i am not going to get better?" "you are very ill," said bertha; "you ought to make your will." "but i have made it: what do you mean?" "i thought," said bertha, "that"--she paused, then she said gravely: "you have not altered it since maurice trevor went away. i thought that you had made up your mind that he and florence aylmer were not to inherit your property." "of course i have," said the sick woman, a frightened, anxious look coming into her eyes. "not that it much matters," she added, after a pause. "florence is as good as another, and if maurice really cares for her----" "oh, impossible," said bertha; "you know you do not wish all your estates, your lands, your money, to pass into the hands of that wicked, deceitful girl." "i have heard," said mrs. aylmer, still speaking in that gasping voice, "that florence is doing great things for herself in london." "what do you mean?" "she is considered clever. she is writing very brilliantly. after all, there is such a thing as literary fame, and if at the eleventh hour she achieves it, why, she as well as another may inherit my wealth, and i am too tired, bertha, too tired to worry now." "you know she must _not_ have your property!" said bertha. "i will send for mr. wiltshire: you said you would alter the will: it is only to add a codicil to the last one, and the deed is done." "as you please," said mrs. aylmer. bertha hurried away. mr. wiltshire, mrs. aylmer's lawyer, lived in the nearest town, five miles distant. bertha wrote him a letter and sent a man on horseback to his house. the lawyer arrived about nine o'clock that evening. "you must see her at once: she may not live till the morning," said bertha. there was a pink spot on each of bertha's cheeks, and her eyes were very bright. "i made my client's will six months ago. all her affairs are in perfect order. what does this mean?" said mr. wiltshire. "mrs. aylmer and i have had a long conversation lately, and i know mrs. aylmer wants to alter her will," said bertha. "mr. trevor has offended her seriously: he has repudiated all her kindness and left the house." "dear, dear!" said the lawyer; "how sad!" "how ungrateful, you mean!" said bertha. "that is quite true. how different from your conduct, my dear young lady." as the lawyer spoke, he looked full into bertha's excited face. "ah!" said miss keys, with a sigh, "if i had that wealth i should know what to do with it; for instance, you, mr. wiltshire, should not suffer." now, mr. wiltshire was not immaculate. he had often admired bertha: he had thought her an extremely taking girl. it had even occurred to him that, under certain conditions, she might be a very suitable wife for him. he was a widower of ten years' standing. "i will see my client now that i have come," he said, rising. "perhaps you had better prepare her for my visit." "she knows you are coming. i will take you up at once." "but it may be too great a shock." "not at all; she is past all that sort of thing. come this way." bertha and the lawyer entered the heavily-curtained, softly carpeted room. their footsteps made no sound as they crossed the floor. the nurses withdrew and they approached the bedside. bertha had ink and paper ready to hand. the lawyer held out his hand to mrs. aylmer. "my dear, dear friend," he said, in that solemn voice which he thought befitting a death-bed and which he only used on these special occasions, "this is a most trying moment; but if i can do anything to relieve your mind, and to help you to a just disposition of the great wealth with which providence has endowed you, it may ease your last moments." "yes," said mrs. aylmer, in a choking voice, "they are my last moments; but i think all my affairs are settled." bertha looked at him and withdrew. her eyes seemed to say: "take my part, and you will not repent it." mr. wiltshire immediately took his cue. "i am given to understand that mr. trevor has offended you," he said; "is that so?" "he has, mortally; but i am too ill to worry now." "it will be easy to put a codicil to your will if you have any fresh desires with regard to your property," said mr. wiltshire. "i am dying, mr. wiltshire. when you come to face death, you don't much care about money. it cannot go with you, you know." "but it can stay behind you, my dear madam, and do good to others." "true, true." "i fear, i greatly fear that mr. trevor may squander it," said mr. wiltshire slowly. "i have no one else to leave it to." "there is that charming and excellent girl; but dare i suggest it?" "which charming and excellent girl?" "your secretary and companion, miss bertha keys." "ay," said mrs. aylmer, "but i should be extremely sorry that she should inherit my money." "indeed, and why? no one has been more faithful to you. i know she does not expect a farthing; it would be a graceful surprise. she has one of the longest heads for business i have ever come across; she is an excellent girl." "write a codicil and put her name into it," said mrs. aylmer fretfully; "i will leave her something." pleased even with this assent, somewhat ungraciously given, the lawyer now sat down and wrote some sentences rapidly. "the sum you will leave to her," he said: "ten, twenty, thirty, forty, shall we say _fifty_ thousand pounds, my dear mrs. aylmer?" "forty--fifty if you like--_anything_! oh, i am choking--i shall die!" cried mrs. aylmer. mr. wiltshire hastily inserted the words "fifty thousand pounds" in the codicil. he then took a pen, and called two of the nurses into the room. "you must witness this," he said. "please support the patient with pillows. now, my dear mrs. aylmer, just put your name there." the pen was put into the trembling hand. "i am giving my money back to--but what does this mean?" mrs. aylmer pushed the paper away. "sign, sign," said the lawyer; "it is according to your instructions; it is all right. sign it." "poor lady! it is a shame to worry her on the very confines of the grave," said one of the nurses angrily. "just write here; you know you have the strength. here is the pen." the lawyer put the pen into mrs. aylmer's hand. she held it limply for a minute and began to sign. the first letter of her christian name appeared in a jagged form, the next letter was about to begin when the hand fell and the pen was no longer grasped in the feeble fingers. "i am about to meet my maker," she said, with a great sob; "send for the clergyman. take that away." "i shall not allow the lady to be worried any longer," said one of the nurses, with flashing eyes. mr. wiltshire was defeated; so was bertha keys. the clergyman came and sat for a long time with the sick woman. she listened to what he had to say and then put a question to him. "i am stronger than i was earlier in the day. i can do what i could not do a few hours back. oh, i know well that i shall never recover, but before i go hence i want to give back what was entrusted to me." "what do you mean by that?" he asked. "i mean my money, my wealth; i wish to return it to god." "have you not made your will? it is always right that we should leave our affairs in perfect order." "i wish to make a fresh will, and at once. my lawyer, mr. wiltshire, has come and gone. he wanted me to sign a codicil which would have been wicked. god did not wish it, so he took my strength away. i could not sign the codicil, but now i can sign a fresh will which may be made. if i dictate a fresh will to you, and i put my proper signature, and two nurses sign it, will it be legal?" "quite legal," replied the clergyman. "i will tell you my wishes. get paper." the minister crossed the room, took a sheet of paper from a table which stood in the window, and prepared to write. mrs. aylmer's eyes were bright, her voice no longer trembling, and she spoke quickly. "i, susan aylmer, of aylmer's court, shropshire, being quite in my right mind, leave, with the exception of a small legacy of fifty pounds a year to my sister-in-law, mrs. aylmer, of dawlish, all the money i possess to two london hospitals to be chosen by my executor.--have you put _all_ the money i possess?" she enquired. "yes; but is your will fair?" he said. "have you no other relations to whom you ought to leave some of your wealth?" "i give all that i possess back to god. he gave me my wealth, and he shall have it again," repeated mrs. aylmer; and she doubtless thought she was doing a noble thing. this brief will was signed without any difficulty by the dying woman and attested by the two nurses. two hours later, the rich woman left her wealth behind her and went to meet her god. chapter xliii. mrs. aylmer's will. nothing would induce florence to go to aylmer's court and mrs. aylmer the less, in great distress of mind, was forced to remain with her in her flat that evening. florence gave her the very best that the flat contained, sleeping herself on the sofa in her sitting-room. mrs. aylmer sat up late and talked and talked until she could talk no longer. at last florence got her into bed, and then went to visit edith in her room. "you don't look well," said edith; "your engagement has not improved you. what is the matter?" "i don't exactly know what is the matter," said florence. "i am worried about mother's visit. my aunt, mrs. aylmer, is dying. she is a very rich woman. mother is under the impression that, if she and i went to aylmer's court, mrs. aylmer might leave me her property. i don't want it; i should hate to have it. i have learned in the last few months that money is not everything. i don't want to have aunt susan's money." "well," replied edith, staring her full in the face, "that is the most sensible speech you have made for a long time. i have closely studied the question of economics, and have long ago come to the conclusion that the person of medium income is the only person who is truly happy. i am even inclined to believe that living from hand to mouth is the most enviable state of existence. you never know how the cards will turn up; but the excitement is intense. when i am a doctor, i shall watch people's faces with intense interest, wondering whether, when their next illness comes on, they will send for me; then there will be the counting up of my earnings, and putting my little money by, and living _just_ within my means. and then i shall have such wide interests besides money: the cure of my patients, their love and gratitude to me afterwards. it is my opinion, florence, that the more we live _outside_ money, and the smaller place money takes in the pleasures of our lives, the happier we are; for, after all, money can do so little, and i don't think any other people can be so miserable as the vastly rich ones." "i agree with you," said florence. "it is more than tom does," replied edith, looking fixedly at her. "after all, florence, are you not in some ways too good for my brother?" "in some ways too good for him?" repeated florence. she turned very white. "you don't know me," she added. "i don't believe i do, and, it occurs to me, the more i am with you the less i know you. florence, is it true that you have a secret in your life?" "it is quite true," said florence, raising her big dark eyes and fixing them on the face of her future sister-in-law. "and is it a secret that tom knows nothing about?" "a secret, edith, as you say, that tom knows nothing about." "how very dreadful! and you are going to marry him holding that secret?" "yes; i shall not reveal it. if i did, he would not marry me." "but what is it, my dear? won't you even tell me?" "no, edith. tom marries me for a certain purpose. he gets what he wants. i do not feel that i am doing wrong in giving myself to him; but, wrong or right, the thing is arranged: why worry about it now?" "you are a strange girl. i am sorry you are going to marry my brother. i do not believe you will be at all happy, but, as i have said already, i have expressed my opinion." "the marriage is to take place quite quietly three weeks from now," said florence. "we have arranged everything. we are not going to have an ordinary wedding. i shall be married in my travelling-dress. tom says he can barely spend a week away from his editorial work, and he wants me to live in a flat with him at first." "oh, those flats are so detestable," said edith; "no air, and you are crushed into such a tiny space; but i suppose tom will sacrifice everything to the sitting-rooms." "he means to have a salon: he wants to get all the great and witty and wise around us. it ought to be an interesting future," said florence in a dreary tone. edith gazed at her again. "well," she said, after a pause, "i suppose great talent like yours does content one. you certainly are marvellously brilliant. i read your last story, and thought it the cleverest of the three. but i wish you were not so pessimistic. it is terrible not to help people. it seems to me you hinder people when you write as you do." "i must write as the spirit moves me," said florence, in a would-be flippant voice, "and tom likes my writing; he says it grows on him." "so much the worse for tom." "well, i will say good-night now, edith. i am tired, and mother will be disturbed if i go to bed too late." florence went into her own flat, shut and locked the door, and, lying down, tried to sleep. but she was excited and nervous, and no repose would come to her. up to the present time, since her engagement, she had managed to keep thought at bay; but now thoughts the most terrible, the most dreary, came in like a flood and banished sleep. towards morning she found herself silently crying. "oh, why cannot i break off my engagement with tom franks? why cannot i tell maurice trevor the truth?" she said to herself. early the next day mrs. aylmer the less received a telegram from bertha keys. this was to announce the death of the owner of aylmer's court. mrs. aylmer the less immediately became almost frantic with excitement. she wanted to insist on florence accompanying her at once to the court. florence stoutly refused to stir an inch. finally the widow was obliged to go off without her daughter. "there is little doubt," she said, "that we are both handsomely remembered. i, of course, have my fifty pounds a year--that was settled on me many years ago--but i shall have far more than that now, and you, my poor child, will have a nice tidy fortune, ten to twelve or twenty thousand pounds, and then if you will only marry maurice trevor, who inherits all the rest of the wealth, how comfortable you will be! i suppose you would like me to live with you at aylmer's court, would you not?" "oh, mother, don't," said poor florence. "i have a feeling which i cannot explain that mrs. aylmer will disappoint everyone. don't count on her wealth, mother. oh, mother, don't think so much of money, for it is not the most important thing in the world." "money not the most important thing in the world!" said mrs. aylmer, backing and looking at her daughter with bright eyes of horror. "flo, my poor child, you really are getting weak in your intellect." a few moments afterwards she left, sighing deeply as she did so, and florence, to her own infinite content, was left behind. the next few days passed without anything special occurring; then the news of mrs. aylmer's extraordinary will was given to florence in her mother's graphic language. "although she is dead, poor thing, she certainly always was a monster," wrote the widow. "i cannot explain to you what i feel. i have begged of mr. trevor to dispute the will; but, would you believe it?--unnatural man that he is, he seems more pleased than otherwise. "my little money is still to the fore, but no one else seems to have been remembered. as to that poor dear bertha keys, she has not been left a penny. if she had not saved two or three hundred pounds during the time of her companionship to that heathenish woman, she would now be penniless. it is a fearful blow, and i cannot think for which of our sins it has been inflicted on us. it is too terrible, and the way maurice trevor takes it is the worst of all." when florence read this letter, she could not help clapping her hands. "i cannot understand it," she said to herself; "but a great load seems to have rolled away from me. of course, i never expected aunt susan's money, but mother has been harping upon it as long as i can remember. i don't think maurice wanted it greatly. it seemed to me that that money brought a curse with it. i wonder if things are going to be happier now. oh, dear, i am glad--yes, i am glad that it has not been left to any of us." florence's feelings of rapture, however, were likely soon to be mitigated. her wedding-day was approaching. mrs. aylmer the less, who had at first told florence that she could not on any account marry for three or four months, owing to the sad death in the family, wrote now to say that the sooner she secured tom franks the better. "maurice trevor is a pauper," she said, "not worth any girl's serious consideration. marry mr. franks, my dear florence; he is not up to much, but doubtless he is the best you can get. you need not show the smallest respect to susan aylmer; the wedding need not be put off a single hour on her account." nor did flo nor tom intend to postpone the wedding. mrs. aylmer had not been loved by florence, and, as the couple were to be married quietly, there was not the least occasion why the ceremony should be delayed. florence had not a trousseau, in the ordinary sense of the word. "i have no money," she said, looking full at edith. tom franks happened to come into the room at the time. "what are you talking about?" he said. "by the way, here is a letter for you." as he spoke, he laid a letter on the table near florence's side. she glanced at it, saw that it was in the handwriting of bertha keys, and did not give it a further thought. "flo is thinking about her trousseau; all brides require trousseaux," said edith, who, although unorthodox in most things, did not think it seemly that a bride should go to the altar without fine clothes. "but why should we worry about a trousseau?" replied tom. "i take florence for what she is, not for her dress; and i can give you things in paris," he added, looking at her. "i have some peculiar ideas, and my own notions with regard to your future dress. you want a good deal of rich colour, and rich stuffs, and nothing too girlish. you are very young, but you will look still younger if you are dressed somewhat old, as i mean to dress you. we will get your evening dress in paris. i am not a rich man, but i have saved up money for the purpose." "i don't really care about clothes at all," said florence. "i know that; but you will change your mind. with your particular style, you must be careful how you dress. i will manage it. don't waste your money on anything now. i want you to come to me as you are." tom then sat down near florence, and began to give her particulars with regard to several flats which he had looked over. he was a keen man of business, and talked £. _s._ _d._ until the girl was tired of the subject. "i shall take the flat in fortescue mansions to-morrow morning," he said finally; "it will just suit us. there is a very fine reception-room, and, what is still better, all the reception-rooms open one into the other. we must begin to give our weekly salons as soon as ever you return from your wedding tour, florence." "surely you will wait until people call on florence?" interrupted edith. "you are too quick, tom, for anything. you must not transgress all the ordinary rules of society." tom looked at his sister, shut up his firm lips, and turned away; he did not even vouchsafe to answer. a moment later, he left the room. it was his custom when he met florence to kiss her coldly on the forehead, and to repeat this ceremony when he left her. he did not neglect this little attention on the present occasion. as his steps, in his patent-leather boots, were heard descending the stairs, edith saw florence raise her handkerchief to her forehead and rub the spot which tom's lips had touched. "how heartily you dislike him!" said edith. "i would not marry him if i were you." florence made no reply. she took up her letter and prepared to leave the room. "why do you go? there is a good fire here, and there is none in your room. sit by the fire, and make yourself comfy. i am going out for a little." chapter xliv. bertha changes her tone. edith pinned on her hat as she spoke, and a moment later left the flat. florence looked around her. she sank into an easy-chair, and opened the letter. it was, as she already knew, from bertha. she began to read it languidly, but soon its contents caused her to start; her eyes grew bright with a strange mixture of fear, relief, and apprehension. bertha had written as follows:-- "my dear florence-- "you will doubtless, long ere this, have been told of the fearful blow which the late mrs. aylmer of aylmer's court has inflicted on us all. kind as we have been to her, and faithfully as we have served her--i allude especially here to myself--we have been cut off without a farthing whereas two monstrous establishments have been left the benefit of her wealth. the clergyman, mr. edwards, is responsible for this act of what i call sacrilege. she made him write a will for her just after poor mr. wiltshire had departed. it is, i believe, quite in proper form, and there is not a loophole of escape. mr. edwards knew what he was about. mrs. aylmer gave her money, as she thought, back to god: a very queer way of doing charity--to leave those nearest to her to starve. "however, my dear florence, to come to the point, i, who have spent the last five years of my life absolutely devoted to this woman, serving her hand and foot, day and night, at all times and all seasons, have not even had a ten-pound note left to me for my pains. it is true that i shall receive my salary, which happens to be a very good one, up to the end of the present quarter. after that, as far as i am concerned, i might as well never have known aylmer's court nor its mistress. fortunately i was able to feather my nest to a very small extent while with her, and have a few hundred pounds with which to face the world. "now, florence, i hope you are somewhat prepared for what is about to follow. it is this: i shall be obliged in the future to use my talent for my own aggrandisement. i find that it is a very marketable commodity. a few months' use of it has placed you in great comfort; it has also brought you fame, and, further, a very excellent husband. what the said future husband will say when the _dénouement_ is revealed to him--as of course revealed it will be--is more than i can say. but you must face the fact that i can no longer supply you with stories or essays. i _myself_ will write my own stories, and send them _myself_ to the different papers, and the golden sovereigns, my dear, will roll into _my_ pocket, and not into _yours_. you will naturally say: 'how will you do this, and face the shame of your actions in the past?' but the fact is, i am not at all ashamed, nor do i mind confessing exactly what i have done. my talent is my own, and it is my opinion that the world will crowd after me all the more because i have done this daring thing, and you, my poor little understudy for the time being, will be my understudy no longer. i take the part of leading lady once for all _myself_. i am coming up to london to-morrow, and will call to see you, as, on consideration, i think that fourth story which you are preparing for the _argonaut_ might as well appear with my name to it. "yours very sincerely, "bertha keys." florence perused this letter two or three times; then she put it in her pocket and entered her bed-room. she did not quite know what she was doing. she felt a little giddy, but there was a queer, unaccountable sense of relief all over her. on her desk lay her own neat copy of the story which she was preparing for the _argonaut_. by the side of the desk also was quite a pile of letters from different publishers offering her work and good pay. these letters tom franks insisted on her either taking no notice of or merely writing to decline the advantageous offers. she took them up now. "messrs. so-and-so would be glad to see miss aylmer. they could offer her...." and then came terms which would have made the mouths of most girls water. or florence received a letter asking her if she would undertake to write three or four stories for such a paper, the terms to be what she herself liked to ask. she looked at them all wistfully. it is true she had not yet lighted a fire in her room, but she put a match to it now, in order to burn the publishers' letters. the story she was copying was about half-done. she had meant to finish it from bertha's manuscript before she went out. she smiled to herself as she looked. "i need never finish it now," she thought. just as this thought came to her she heard a tap at her door. it was a messenger with a note. she told him to wait, and opened it. it was from franks. "i quite forgot when i saw you an hour ago to ask you to let me have manuscript of the next story without fail this evening. can you send it now by messenger, or shall he call again for it within a couple of hours? this is urgent. "thomas franks." florence sat down and wrote a brief reply. "i am very sorry, but you cannot have manuscript to-night. "florence aylmer." the messenger departed with this note, and florence dressed herself to go out, and she went quickly downstairs. she walked until she saw the special omnibus which she was looking for. she was taken straight to hampstead, and she walked up the steep hill until she found the little cottage which she had visited months ago in the late summer-time. florence went to the door, and a neat servant with an apple-blossom face opened it. "is mrs. trevor in?" asked florence. "yes, miss; what name shall i say?" florence gave her name: "miss florence aylmer." she was immediately ushered into the snug drawing-room, bright with firelight. she shut her eyes, and a feeling of pain went through her heart. "the way of transgressors is very, very hard," she thought. "shall i ever keep straight? what a miserable character i must be!" just then mrs. trevor entered the room. she had not been pleased with florence; she had not been pleased with her manner to her son. mothers guess things quickly, and she had guessed maurice's secret many months ago. florence held out her hand wistfully, and looked full at the little widow. "i have come to speak to you," she said. "i want to know if you will"--her lips trembled--"advise me." "sit down, my dear," said mrs. trevor. she motioned florence to a seat, but the girl did not take it. "i have come to you, as the only one in all the world who can help me," continued florence. "i have something very terrible to say, and i thought perhaps you would listen, and perhaps you would advise. may i speak to you just because i am a very lonely girl and you are a woman?" "if you put it in that way, of course you may speak," said mrs. trevor. "to tell you the truth, i have been displeased with you; i have thought that you have not been fair." "to whom?" asked florence. "to my son maurice." florence coloured; then she put her hand to her heart. "you never replied to my letter, mrs. trevor." "what was there to say?" "will you tell me now what you thought of it?" mrs. trevor had seated herself by the fire. she held out her small hands to the grateful blaze; then she looked round at the girl. "sit down, child," she said; "take off your hat. if you wish to know what i really thought, i imagined that you were a little hysterical and that you had overstated things. girls of your age are apt to do so. i was very sorry, for maurice's sake, that you did not accept my offer; but otherwise i prefer to be alone." "i see. well, i must tell you now that i did not exaggerate. i have been bad through and through: quite unworthy of your attention and care: quite unworthy of mr. maurice's regard." "that is extremely likely," said the mother of mr. maurice, drawing herself up in a stately fashion. "oh, don't be unkind to me; do bear with me while i tell you. afterwards i shall go away somewhere, but i must relieve my soul. oh, it is so sinful!" "speak, child, speak. who am i that i should turn away from you?" "years ago," began florence, speaking in a dreary tone, "i was at a school called cherry court school. while there i was assailed by a very great temptation. the patron of the school, sir john wallis, offered a prize on certain conditions to the girls. the prize meant a great deal, and covered a wide curriculum. "it was a great opportunity, and i struggled hard to win; but sir john wallis, although he offered the prize to the school, in reality wanted a girl called kitty sharston, who was the daughter of his old friend, to get it. "kitty sharston was supposed to be most likely to win the prize, and she did win it in the end; but let me tell you how. in the school was a girl as pupil teacher, whose name was bertha keys." "what!" cried mrs. trevor: "the girl who has been companion to mrs. aylmer: whom my son has so often mentioned?" "the very same girl. oh, i don't want to abuse her too much, and yet i cannot tell my terrible story without mentioning her. she tempted me; she was very clever, and she tempted me mightily. she wrote the essay for me, the prize essay which was hers, not mine. oh, i know you are shocked, i feel your hand trembling; but let me hold it; don't draw it away. she wrote the essay, and it was read aloud before all the guests and all the other girls as mine, and i won the scholarship; yes, i won it through the essay written by bertha keys." "that was very terrible, my dear. how could you bear it? how could you?" "i went to london. you remember how i came to see you. i had very little money, just twenty pounds, and mother, who had only fifty pounds a year, could not help me, and i was so wretched that i did not know what to do. i went from one place to another offering myself as teacher, although i hated teaching and i could not teach well; but no one wanted me, and i was in despair, and i used to get so desperately _hungry_ too. oh, you cannot tell what it is to want a meal--just to have a good dinner, say, once a week, and bread-and-butter all the rest of the days. oh, you do feel so empty when you live on bread-and-butter and nothing else! then i had a letter from bertha, and she made me a proposal. she sent with the letter a manuscript. ah! i feel you start now." "this is terrible!" said mrs. trevor. she stood up in her excitement; she backed a little way from florence. "you guess all, but i must go on telling you," continued the poor girl. "she sent this manuscript, and she asked me to use it as my own. she said she did not want any of the money, and she spoke specious words, and i was tempted. but i struggled, i did struggle. it was miss franks who really was the innocent cause of pushing me over the gulf, for she read the manuscript and said it was very clever, and she showed it to her brother, the man i am now engaged to, and he said it was clever, and it was accepted for the _argonaut_ almost before i knew what i was doing; and that was the beginning of everything. i was famous. bertha was the person who wrote the stories and the essays. i was wearing borrowed plumes, and i was not a bit clever; and, oh, mrs. trevor, the end has come now, for mrs. aylmer has died and has left all her great wealth to the hospitals, and i have had a letter from bertha. you may read it, mrs. trevor: do read it. this is what bertha says." as florence spoke, she thrust bertha's letter into mrs. trevor's hand. "i will ring for a light," said the widow. she approached the bell, rang it, and the little rosy-faced servant appeared. "tea, mary, at once for two, and some hot cakes, and bring a lamp, please. "i am glad and i am sorry you have told me," she said. "i will read the letter when the lamp comes. now warm yourself. "you poor girl," she said. "i will not touch this letter until i see you looking better. "i will read this in another room," she said; "you would like to be alone for a little." she left the room softly with bertha's letter, and florence still sat on by the fire. she sat so for some time, and presently, soothed by the warmth, and weary from all the agony she had undergone, the tired-out girl dropped asleep. chapter xlv. "all the roses are dead." when she awoke she heard someone moving in the room. there was the rustling of a paper and the creak of a chair. "oh, mrs. trevor, have i told you everything?" she said, and she sprang to her feet, the color suffusing her cheeks and her eyes growing bright. "and are you going to send me out into the cold? are you never going to speak to me again? are you going to forsake me?" "no, no; sit down," said a voice, and then florence did indeed color painfully, for mrs. trevor was not in the room, but maurice trevor stood before the excited girl. "my mother has told me the whole story," he said. he looked perturbed, his voice shook with emotion, and his face was pale, and there was an angry scowl in his eyes. he took florence's hand and pushed her into a chair. "sit down," he said. she looked up at him drearily. "all the roses are dead," she said softly; "the time of roses is over." "no, it is not over; it will come back again at the proper season," said trevor; "and don't think that i--" "but do you know--" "i know," he answered gravely. he bowed his head; then he drew a chair forward. "i must speak to you," he said. "you know everything?" she repeated. "i do," he said. "i am glad you came to mother and told her. it is true i suspected much. you know that passage in miss keys's handwriting which i told you about some time ago, and the identically same passage in the newspaper article which was supposed to be yours?--to a great extent my eyes were opened at that time, but not completely." "you look very, very angry," she said. "i am angry," he answered; "but, i think i can say with truth, not with you." "with bertha?" "please do not mention her name." "but i have been to blame: i have been terribly weak." "you have been terribly weak; you have been worse. you have done wrong, great wrong; but, florence--may i call you by your christian name?--winter comes in every year, but it is followed by spring, and spring is followed by summer, and in summer the roses bloom again, and the time of roses comes back, florence, and it will come back even to you." "no, no," she said, and she began to sob piteously. "you have been so good, so more than good to me," she said. "if you had known you would have despised me." "if i had known i should have gone straight to miss keys and put a stop to this disgraceful thing," was the young man's answer. "i suppose, florence," he added, after a pause, "you, if you have time to think of me at all, pity me now because i am a penniless man." "oh, no, no," she replied; "it is not good for people to be too rich. i have quite come to be of that opinion." "thank god, then, we are both of one way of thinking because god, though he has not given you this special talent, has given you much." "much," she repeated, vaguely. "yes," he repeated, speaking earnestly: "he has given you attractiveness, great earnestness of purpose, and oh! a thousand other things. he has at least done this for you, florence: he has made you so that in all the wide world you are the only woman for me. i can love no one but you, florence--no one else--no one else, even though you did fall." "you cannot: it is impossible," answered florence. "you cannot love me now." "i have loved you all through, and this thing does not alter my love. you see, florence," he added, "it was not the girl who was famous that i cared for. i never did care a bit about the wonderful writing which was supposed to be yours. far from liking it, i hated it. i never wanted a wife who would be either famous or clever." "and tom franks," continued florence, "only wants me because he thinks me clever. but he will not wish to marry me now." "i only wanted you for yourself. will you wait for me and let me try to make a home for you, and when i have done that, will you come to me? i am going away to australia; i have heard of a good post there, and i am going out almost at once, and if things succeed, you and the mother can come to me, and in the meantime will you stay with her and comfort her?" "oh, you are too good," said poor florence; but she did not cry now. she clasped her hands and gazed straight into the fire; then she looked up at trevor with awe. "god must have forgiven me when he sent you to me," she said simply. the next moment he had clasped her in his arms. chapter xlvi. a denouement. tom franks was seated before his desk in his office. he was a good deal perturbed. his calm was for the time being destroyed, although it wanted but a week to his wedding-day. he did not look at all like a happy bride-groom. "it is a case of jilting," he said to himself, and he took up a letter which he had received from florence that morning. it was very short and ran as follows: "i cannot marry you, and you will soon know why. when you know the reason you won't want me. i am terribly sorry, but sorrow won't alter matters. please do not expect the manuscript. yours truly, "florence aylmer." "what does the girl mean?" he said to himself. "really, at the present moment, the most annoying part of all is the fact that i have not received the manuscript. the printers are waiting for it. the new number of the _argonaut_ will be nothing without it. the story was advertised in the last number, and all our readers will expect it." a clerk came in at that moment. "has miss aylmer's manuscript come, sir?" he said. "the printers are waiting for it." "the printers must wait, dawson; i shall be going to see miss aylmer and will bring the manuscript back. here, hand me a telegram form. i want to send a wire in a hurry." the clerk did so. franks dictated a few words aloud: "will call to see you at twelve o'clock. please remain in." he gave the man florence's address, and he departed with the telegram. franks looked up at the clock. he thought for a little longer. anderson opened the door of his room and called him. "is that you, franks?" "yes, sir." "may i speak to you for a moment?" "certainly," replied franks. he went into his chief's room and shut the door. "i have been thinking, franks," said mr. anderson, "whether we do well to encourage that extremely pessimistic writing which miss florence aylmer supplies us with." "do well to encourage it?" said franks, opening his eyes very wide. "i have hesitated to speak to you," continued mr. anderson, "because you are engaged to the young lady, and you naturally, and very justly, are proud of her abilities; but the strain in which she addresses her public is beginning to be noticed, and although her talent attracts, her morbidity and want of all hope will in the end tell against the _argonaut_, and even still more against the _general review_. i wish you would have a serious talk with her, franks, and tell her that unless she alters the tone of her writings--my dear fellow, i am sorry to pain you, but really i cannot accept them." franks uttered a bitter laugh. "you are very likely to have your wish, sir," he said. "i am even now writing for the manuscript for the fourth story which you know was advertised in the last _argonaut_." "i believe she will always write according to her convictions." "and that is what pains me so much," continued mr. anderson. "i have myself looked over her proofs, and have endeavoured to infuse a cheerful note into them; but cutting won't do it, nor will removing certain passages. the same miserable, unnatural outlook pervades every word she says. i believe her mind is made that way." "you are not very complimentary," said franks, almost losing his temper. he was quiet for a moment, then he said slowly: "we are very likely to have to do without miss aylmer. i begin to think that she is a very strange girl. she has offered to release me from my engagement; in fact, she has declared that she will not go on with it, and says that she cannot furnish us with any more manuscripts." "then, in the name of heaven, what are we to do for the next number?" said mr. anderson. "look through all available manuscripts at once, my dear fellow; there is not a moment to lose." "i'll do better than that," replied franks. "our public expect a story by miss aylmer in the next number, and if possible they must have it. i have already wired to say that i will call upon her, and with your permission, as the time is nearly up, i will go to prince's mansions now." "it may be best," said mr. anderson. he looked gloomy and anxious. "you can cut the new story a bit cannot you, franks?" "i will do my best, sir." the young man went out of the room. he was just crossing his own apartment when the door was opened and his clerk came in. "a lady to see you, sir: she says her business is pressing." "a lady to see me! say i am going out. i cannot see anyone at present. who is she? has she come by appointment?" "she has not come by appointment, sir; her name is miss keys--miss bertha keys." "i never heard of her. say that i am obliged to go out and cannot see her to-day; ask her to call another time. leave me now, dawson; i want to keep my appointment with miss aylmer." dawson left the room. he then crossed the room to the peg where he kept his coat and hat, and was preparing to put them on when once again dawson appeared. "miss keys says she has come about miss aylmer's business, and she thinks you will not lose any time if you see her, sir." bertha keys had quietly entered the apartment behind the clerk. "i have come on the subject of florence aylmer and the manuscript you expect her to send you," said bertha keys. "will you give me two or three moments of your valuable time?" dawson glanced at franks. franks nodded to him to withdraw, and the next moment miss keys and mr. franks found themselves alone. franks did not speak at all for a moment. bertha in the meantime was taking his measure. "may i sit down?" she said. "i am a little tired; i have come all the way from shropshire this morning." franks pushed a chair towards her, but still did not speak. she looked at him, and a faint smile dawned round her lips. "you are expecting florence aylmer's manuscript, are you not?" she said then. he nodded, but his manner was as much as to say: "what business is it of yours?" he was magnetized by the curious expression in her eyes; he thought he had never seen such clever eyes before. he was beginning to be interested in her. "i have come about florence's manuscript; but, all the same, you bitterly resent my intrusion. by the way, you are engaged to marry florence aylmer?" "i was," replied franks shortly; "but pardon me. i am extremely busy: if she has chosen you as her messenger to bring the manuscript, will you kindly give it to me and go?" "how polite!" said bertha, with a smile. "i have not brought any manuscript from florence aylmer; but i have brought a manuscript from myself." franks uttered an angry exclamation. "have you forced your way into my room about that?" he said. "i have. you have received and published three stories _purporting_ to be by the pen of florence aylmer. you have also published one or two articles by the same person. you are waiting for the fourth story, which was promised to the readers of the _argonaut_ in last month's number. the first three stories made a great sensation. you are impatient and disturbed because the fourth story has not come to hand. here it is." bertha hastily opened a small packet which she held in her hand and produced a manuscript. "look at it," she said; "read the opening sentence. i am not in the slightest hurry; take your own time, but read, if you will, the first page. if the style is not the style of the old stories, if the matter is not equal in merit to the stories already published, then i will own to you that i came here on a false errand and will ask you to forgive me." franks, with still that strange sense of being mesmerized, received the manuscript from bertha's long slim hand. he sank into his office chair and listlessly turned the pages. he read a sentence or two and then looked up at the clock. "i have wired to miss aylmer to expect me at twelve: it is past that hour now. i really must ask you to pardon me." "miss aylmer will not be in. miss aylmer has left prince's mansions. i happened to call there and know what i am saying. will you go on reading? you want your story. i believe your printers are waiting for it even now." franks fidgeted impatiently. once again his eyes lit upon the page. as he read, bertha's own eyes devoured his face. she knew each word of that first page. she had taken special and extra pains with it; it represented her best, her very best; it was strong, perfect in style, and her treatment of her subject was original; there was a note of passion and pathos, there was a deep undercurrent of human feeling in her words. franks read to the end. if he turned the page bertha felt that her victory would be won--if he closed the manuscript she had still to fight her battle. her heart beat quickly. she wondered what the fates had in store for her. franks at last came to the final word; he hesitated, half looked up, then his fingers trembled. he turned the page. bertha saw by the look on his face that he had absolutely forgotten her. she gave a brief sigh: the time of tension was over, the victory was won. she rose and approached him. "i can take that to another house," she said. "no, no," said franks; "there is stuff in this. it is quite up to the usual mark. so florence gave it to you to bring to me. now, you know, i do not quite like the tone nor does my chief; but the talent is unmistakable." "you will publish it, then?" "certainly. i see it is the usual length. if you will pardon me, as things are pressing, i will ring and give this to the printers." "one moment first. you think that manuscript has been written by florence aylmer?" "why not? of course it has!" he looked uneasily from the paper in his hand to the girl who stood before him. "what do you mean?" "i have something to tell you. you may be angry with me, but i do not much care. _i_ possess the genius, not florence aylmer; _i_ am the writer of that story. florence aylmer wrote one thing for you, a schoolgirl essay, which you returned. i wrote the papers which the public liked; _i_ wrote the stories which the public devoured. i am the woman of genius; i am the ghost behind florence aylmer; i am the real author. you can give up the false: the real has come to you at last." "you must be telling me an untruth," said franks. he staggered back, his face became green, his eyes flashed angrily. "i am telling you the truth; you have but to ask florence herself. has she not broken off her engagement with you?" "she has, and a good thing, too," he muttered under his breath. "ah! i heard those words, though you said them so low, and it is a good thing for you. you would never have been happy with a girl like florence. i know her well. i don't pretend that i played a very nice part; but still i am not ashamed. i want money now; i did not want money when i offered my productions to florence. i hoped that i should be a very rich woman. my hopes have fallen to the ground; therefore i take back that talent with which nature has endowed me. you can give _me_ orders for the _argonaut_ in the future. you will kindly pay _me_ for that story. now i think i have said what i meant to say, and i wish you good-morning." "but you must stay a moment, miss--i really forget your name." "my name is keys--bertha keys. other well-known magazines will pay me for all i can write for them; but i am willing to give you the _whole_ of my writings, say for three months, if you are willing to pay me according to my own ideas." "what are those?" "you must double your pay to me. you can, if you like, publish this little story about florence and myself in some of your society gossip--i do not mind at all--or you can keep it quiet. you have but to say in one of your issues that the _nom de plume_ under which your talented author wrote is, for reasons of her own, changed. you can give me a fresh title. the world will suspect mystery and run after me more than ever. i think that is the principal thing i have to say to you. now, may i wish you good-morning?" bertha rose as she spoke, dropped a light mocking curtsey in franks's direction, and let herself out of the room before he had time to realize that she was leaving. chapter xlvii. finis. it is, alas! true in this world that often the machinations of the wicked prosper. by all the laws of morality bertha keys ought to have come to condign punishment; she ought to have gone under; she ought to have disappeared from society; she ought to have been hooted and disliked wherever she showed her face. these things were by no means the case, however. bertha, playing a daring game, once more achieved success. by means of threatening to take her work elsewhere she secured admirable terms for her writing--quite double those which had been given to poor florence. she lived in the best rooms in prince's mansions, and before a year had quite expired she was engaged to tom franks. he married her, and report whispers that they are by no means a contented couple. it is known that franks is cowed, and at home at least obeys his wife. bertha rules with a rod of iron; but perhaps she is not happy, and perhaps her true punishment for her misdeeds has begun long ago. meanwhile florence, released from the dread of discovery, her conscience once more relieved from its burden of misery, bloomed out into happiness, and also into success. florence wrote weekly to trevor, and trevor wrote to her, and his love for her grew as the days and weeks went by. the couple had to wait some time before they could really marry, but during that time florence learned some of the best lessons in life. she was soon able to support herself, for she turned out, contrary to her expectations, a very excellent teacher. she avoided tom franks and his wife, and could not bear to hear the name of the _argonaut_ mentioned. for a time, indeed, she took a dislike to all magazines, and only read the special books which mrs. trevor indicated. kitty sharston was also her best friend during this time of humiliation and training, and when the hour at last arrived when she was to join trevor, kitty said to her father that she scarcely knew her old friend, so courageous was the light that shone in florence's eyes, and so happy and beaming was her smile. "i have gone down into the depths," she said to kitty, on the day when she sailed for australia; "it is a very good thing sometimes to see one's self just down to the very bottom. i have done that, and oh! i hope, i do hope that i shall not fall again." as to mrs. trevor, she also had a last word with kitty. "there was a time, my dear," she said, "when knowing all that had happened in the past, i was rather nervous as to what kind of wife my dear son would have in florence aylmer, but she is indeed now a daughter after my own heart--brave, steadfast, earnest." * * * * * always _ask for the_ donohue complete editions--the best for least money mrs. l. t. meade _series_ an excellent edition of the works of this very popular author of books for girls. printed from large type on an extra quality of paper, cover design stamped in three colors, large side title letterings, each book in glazed paper printed wrapper. each book with a beautiful colored frontispiece. printed wrapper, mo. cloth. bad little hannah bunch of cherries, a children's pilgrimage daddy's girl deb and the duchess francis kane's fortune gay charmer, a girl of the people, a girl in ten thousand, a girls of st. wodes, the girls of the true blue good luck heart of gold, the honorable miss, the light of the morning little mother to others merry girls of england miss nonentity modern tomboy, a out of fashion palace beautiful polly, a new-fashioned girl school favorite sweet girl graduate, a time of roses, the very naughty girl, a wild kitty world of girls young mutineer, the all of the above books may be had at the store where this book was bought, or will be sent postage prepaid to any address at c each, by the publishers m. a. donohue & co., - south dearborn st., chicago the lion and the mouse by charles klein a story of an american life novelized from the play by arthur hornblow "judges and senates have been bought for gold; love and esteem have never been sold." pope contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi the lion and the mouse chapter i there was unwonted bustle in the usually sleepy and dignified new york offices of the southern and transcontinental railroad company in lower broadway. the supercilious, well-groomed clerks who, on ordinary days, are far too preoccupied with their own personal affairs to betray the slightest interest in anything not immediately concerning them, now condescended to bestir themselves and, gathered in little groups, conversed in subdued, eager tones. the slim, nervous fingers of half a dozen haughty stenographers, representing as many different types of business femininity, were busily rattling the keys of clicking typewriters, each of their owners intent on reducing with all possible despatch the mass of letters which lay piled up in front of her. through the heavy plate-glass swinging doors, leading to the elevators and thence to the street, came and went an army of messengers and telegraph boys, noisy and insolent. through the open windows the hoarse shouting of news-venders, the rushing of elevated trains, the clanging of street cars, with the occasional feverish dash of an ambulance--all these familiar noises of a great city had the far-away sound peculiar to top floors of the modern sky-scraper. the day was warm and sticky, as is not uncommon in early may, and the overcast sky and a distant rumbling of thunder promised rain before night. the big express elevators, running smoothly and swiftly, unloaded every few moments a number of prosperous-looking men who, chatting volubly and affably, made their way immediately through the outer offices towards another and larger inner office on the glass door of which was the legend "directors room. private." each comer gave a patronizing nod in recognition of the deferential salutation of the clerks. earlier arrivals had preceded them, and as they opened the door there issued from the directors room a confused murmur of voices, each different in pitch and tone, some deep and deliberate, others shrill and nervous, but all talking earnestly and with animation as men do when the subject under discussion is of common interest. now and again a voice was heard high above the others, denoting anger in the speaker, followed by the pleading accents of the peace-maker, who was arguing his irate colleague into calmness. at intervals the door opened to admit other arrivals, and through the crack was caught a glimpse of a dozen directors, some seated, some standing near a long table covered with green baize. it was the regular quarterly meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad company, but it was something more than mere routine that had called out a quorum of such strength and which made to-day's gathering one of extraordinary importance in the history of the road. that the business on hand was of the greatest significance was easily to be inferred from the concerned and anxious expression on the directors' faces and the eagerness of the employes as they plied each other with questions. "suppose the injunction is sustained?" asked a clerk in a whisper. "is not the road rich enough to bear the loss?" the man he addressed turned impatiently to the questioner: "that's all you know about railroading. don't you understand that this suit we have lost will be the entering wedge for hundreds of others. the very existence of the road may be at stake. and between you and me," he added in a lower key, "with judge rossmore on the bench we never stood much show. it's judge rossmore that scares 'em, not the injunction. they've found it easy to corrupt most of the supreme court judges, but judge rossmore is one too many for them. you could no more bribe him than you could have bribed abraham lincoln." "but the newspapers say that he, too, has been caught accepting $ , worth of stock for that decision he rendered in the great northwestern case." "lies! all those stories are lies," replied the other emphatically. then looking cautiously around to make sure no one overheard, he added contemptuously, "the big interests fear him, and they're inventing these lies to try and injure him. they might as well try to blow up gibraltar. the fact is the public is seriously aroused this time and the railroads are in a panic." it was true. the railroad, which heretofore had considered itself superior to law, had found itself checked in its career of outlawry and oppression. the railroad, this modern octopus of steam and steel which stretches its greedy tentacles out over the land, had at last been brought to book. at first, when the country was in the earlier stages of its development, the railroad appeared in the guise of a public benefactor. it brought to the markets of the east the produce of the south and west. it opened up new and inaccessible territory and made oases of waste places. it brought to the city coal, lumber, food and other prime necessaries of life, taking back to the farmer and the woodsman in exchange, clothes and other manufactured goods. thus, little by little, the railroad wormed itself into the affections of the people and gradually became an indispensable part of the life it had itself created. tear up the railroad and life itself is extinguished. so when the railroad found it could not be dispensed with, it grew dissatisfied with the size of its earnings. legitimate profits were not enough. its directors cried out for bigger dividends, and from then on the railroad became a conscienceless tyrant, fawning on those it feared and crushing without mercy those who were defenceless. it raised its rates for hauling freight, discriminating against certain localities without reason or justice, and favouring other points where its own interests lay. by corrupting government officials and other unlawful methods it appropriated lands, and there was no escape from its exactions and brigandage. other roads were built, and for a brief period there was held out the hope of relief that invariably comes from honest competition. but the railroad either absorbed its rivals or pooled interests with them, and thereafter there were several masters instead of one. soon the railroads began to war among themselves, and in a mad scramble to secure business at any price they cut each other's rates and unlawfully entered into secret compacts with certain big shippers, permitting the latter to enjoy lower freight rates than their competitors. the smaller shippers were soon crushed out of existence in this way. competition was throttled and prices went up, making the railroad barons richer and the people poorer. that was the beginning of the giant trusts, the greatest evil american civilization has yet produced, and one which, unless checked, will inevitably drag this country into the throes of civil strife. from out of this quagmire of corruption and rascality emerged the colossus, a man so stupendously rich and with such unlimited powers for evil that the world has never looked upon his like. the famous croesus, whose fortune was estimated at only eight millions in our money, was a pauper compared with john burkett ryder, whose holdings no man could count, but which were approximately estimated at a thousand millions of dollars. the railroads had created the trust, the ogre of corporate greed, of which ryder was the incarnation, and in time the trust became master of the railroads, which after all seemed but retributive justice. john burkett ryder, the richest man in the world--the man whose name had spread to the farthest corners of the earth because of his wealth, and whose money, instead of being a blessing, promised to become not only a curse to himself but a source of dire peril to all mankind--was a genius born of the railroad age. no other age could have brought him forth; his peculiar talents fitted exactly the conditions of his time. attracted early in life to the newly discovered oil fields of pennsylvania, he became a dealer in the raw product and later a refiner, acquiring with capital, laboriously saved, first one refinery, then another. the railroads were cutting each other's throats to secure the freight business of the oil men, and john burkett ryder saw his opportunity. he made secret overtures to the road, guaranteeing a vast amount of business if he could get exceptionally low rates, and the illegal compact was made. his competitors, undersold in the market, stood no chance, and one by one they were crushed out of existence. ryder called these manouvres "business"; the world called them brigandage. but the colossus prospered and slowly built up the foundations of the extraordinary fortune which is the talk and the wonder of the world today. master now of the oil situation, ryder succeeded in his ambition of organizing the empire trading company, the most powerful, the most secretive, and the most wealthy business institution the commercial world has yet known. yet with all this success john burkett ryder was still not content. he was now a rich man, richer by many millions that he had dreamed he could ever be, but still he was unsatisfied. he became money mad. he wanted to be richer still, to be the richest man in the world, the richest man the world had ever known. and the richer he got the stronger the idea grew upon him with all the force of a morbid obsession. he thought of money by day, he dreamt of it at night. no matter by what questionable device it was to be procured, more gold and more must flow into his already overflowing coffers. so each day, instead of spending the rest of his years in peace, in the enjoyment of the wealth he had accumulated, he went downtown like any twenty-dollar-a-week clerk to the tall building in lower broadway and, closeted with his associates, toiled and plotted to make more money. he acquired vast copper mines and secured control of this and that railroad. he had invested heavily in the southern and transcontinental road and was chairman of its board of directors. then he and his fellow-conspirators planned a great financial coup. the millions were not coming in fast enough. they must make a hundred millions at one stroke. they floated a great mining company to which the public was invited to subscribe. the scheme having the endorsement of the empire trading company no one suspected a snare, and such was the magic of john ryder's name that gold flowed in from every point of the compass. the stock sold away above par the day it was issued. men deemed themselves fortunate if they were even granted an allotment. what matter if, a few days later, the house of cards came tumbling down, and a dozen suicides were strewn along wall street, that sinister thoroughfare which, as a wit has said, has a graveyard at one end and the river at the other! had ryder any twinges of conscience? hardly. had he not made a cool twenty millions by the deal? yet this commercial pirate, this napoleon of finance, was not a wholly bad man. he had his redeeming qualities, like most bad men. his most pronounced weakness, and the one that had made him the most conspicuous man of his time, was an entire lack of moral principle. no honest or honourable man could have amassed such stupendous wealth. in other words, john ryder had not been equipped by nature with a conscience. he had no sense of right, or wrong, or justice where his own interests were concerned. he was the prince of egoists. on the other hand, he possessed qualities which, with some people, count as virtues. he was pious and regular in his attendance at church and, while he had done but little for charity, he was known to have encouraged the giving of alms by the members of his family, which consisted of a wife, whose timid voice was rarely heard, and a son jefferson, who was the destined successor to his gigantic estate. such was the man who was the real power behind the southern and transcontinental railroad. more than anyone else ryder had been aroused by the present legal action, not so much for the money interest at stake as that any one should dare to thwart his will. it had been a pet scheme of his, this purchase for a song, when the land was cheap, of some thousand acres along the line, and it is true that at the time of the purchase there had been some idea of laying the land out as a park. but real estate values had increased in astonishing fashion, the road could no longer afford to carry out the original scheme, and had attempted to dispose of the property for building purposes, including a right of way for a branch road. the news, made public in the newspapers, had raised a storm of protest. the people in the vicinity claimed that the railroad secured the land on the express condition of a park being laid out, and in order to make a legal test they had secured an injunction, which had been sustained by judge rossmore of the united states circuit court. these details were hastily told and re-told by one clerk to another as the babel of voices in the inner room grew louder, and more directors kept arriving from the ever-busy elevators. the meeting was called for three o'clock. another five minutes and the chairman would rap for order. a tall, strongly built man with white moustache and kindly smile emerged from the directors room and, addressing one of the clerks, asked: "has mr. ryder arrived yet?" the alacrity with which the employe hastened forward to reply would indicate that his interlocutor was a person of more than ordinary importance. "no, senator, not yet. we expect him any minute." then with a deferential smile he added: "mr. ryder usually arrives on the stroke, sir." the senator gave a nod of acquiescence and, turning on his heel, greeted with a grasp of the hand and affable smile his fellow-directors as they passed in by twos and threes. senator roberts was in the world of politics what his friend john burkett ryder was in the world of finance--a leader of men. he started life in wisconsin as an errand boy, was educated in the public schools, and later became clerk in a dry-goods store, finally going into business for his own account on a large scale. he was elected to the legislature, where his ability as an organizer soon gained the friendship of the men in power, and later was sent to congress, where he was quickly initiated in the game of corrupt politics. in he entered the united states senate. he soon became the acknowledged leader of a considerable majority of the republican senators, and from then on he was a figure to be reckoned with. a very ambitious man, with a great love of power and few scruples, it is little wonder that only the practical or dishonest side of politics appealed to him. he was in politics for all there was in it, and he saw in his lofty position only a splendid opportunity for easy graft. he did not hesitate to make such alliances with corporate interests seeking influence at washington as would enable him to accomplish this purpose, and in this way he had met and formed a strong friendship with john burkett ryder. each being a master in his own field was useful to the other. neither was troubled with qualms of conscience, so they never quarrelled. if the ryder interests needed anything in the senate, roberts and his followers were there to attend to it. just now the cohort was marshalled in defence of the railroads against the attacks of the new rebate bill. in fact, ryder managed to keep the senate busy all the time. when, on the other hand, the senators wanted anything--and they often did--ryder saw that they got it, lower rates for this one, a fat job for that one, not forgetting themselves. senator roberts was already a very rich man, and although the world often wondered where he got it, no one had the courage to ask him. but the republican leader was stirred with an ambition greater than that of controlling a majority in the senate. he had a daughter, a marriageable young woman who, at least in her father's opinion, would make a desirable wife for any man. his friend ryder had a son, and this son was the only heir to the greatest fortune ever amassed by one man, a fortune which, at its present rate of increase, by the time the father died and the young couple were ready to inherit, would probably amount to over six billions of dollars. could the human mind grasp the possibilities of such a colossal fortune? it staggered the imagination. its owner, or the man who controlled it, would be master of the world! was not this a prize any man might well set himself out to win? the senator was thinking of it now as he stood exchanging banal remarks with the men who accosted him. if he could only bring off that marriage he would be content. the ambition of his life would be attained. there was no difficulty as far as john ryder was concerned. he favoured the match and had often spoken of it. indeed, ryder desired it, for such an alliance would naturally further his business interests in every way. roberts knew that his daughter kate had more than a liking for ryder's handsome young son. moreover, kate was practical, like her father, and had sense enough to realize what it would mean to be the mistress of the ryder fortune. no, kate was all right, but there was young ryder to reckon with. it would take two in this case to make a bargain. jefferson ryder was, in truth, an entirely different man from his father. it was difficult to realize that both had sprung from the same stock. a college-bred boy with all the advantages his father's wealth could give him, he had inherited from the parent only those characteristics which would have made him successful even if born poor--activity, pluck, application, dogged obstinacy, alert mentality. to these qualities he added what his father sorely lacked--a high notion of honour, a keen sense of right and wrong. he had the honest man's contempt for meanness of any description, and he had little patience with the lax so-called business morals of the day. for him a dishonourable or dishonest action could have no apologist, and he could see no difference between the crime of the hungry wretch who stole a loaf of bread and the coal baron who systematically robbed both his employes and the public. in fact, had he been on the bench he would probably have acquitted the human derelict who, in despair, had appropriated the prime necessary of life, and sent the over-fed, conscienceless coal baron to jail. "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." this simple and fundamental axiom jefferson ryder had adopted early in life, and it had become his religion--the only one, in fact, that he had. he was never pious like his father, a fact much regretted by his mother, who could see nothing but eternal damnation in store for her son because he never went to church and professed no orthodox creed. she knew him to be a good lad, but to her simple mind a conduct of life based merely on a system of moral philosophy was the worst kind of paganism. there could, she argued, be no religion, and assuredly no salvation, outside the dogmatic teachings of the church. but otherwise jefferson was a model son and, with the exception of this bad habit of thinking for himself on religious matters, really gave her no anxiety. when jefferson left college, his father took him into the empire trading company with the idea of his eventually succeeding him as head of the concern, but the different views held by father and son on almost every subject soon led to stormy scenes that made the continuation of the arrangement impossible. senator roberts was well aware of these unfortunate independent tendencies in john ryder's son, and while he devoutly desired the consummation of jefferson's union with his daughter, he quite realized that the young man was a nut which was going to be exceedingly hard to crack. "hello, senator, you're always on time!" disturbed in his reflections, senator roberts looked up and saw the extended hand of a red-faced, corpulent man, one of the directors. he was no favourite with the senator, but the latter was too keen a man of the world to make enemies uselessly, so he condescended to place two fingers in the outstretched fat palm. "how are you, mr. grimsby? well, what are we going to do about this injunction? the case has gone against us. i knew judge rossmore's decision would be for the other side. public opinion is aroused. the press--" mr. grimsby's red face grew more apoplectic as he blurted out: "public opinion and the press be d---d. who cares for public opinion? what is public opinion, anyhow? this road can manage its own affairs or it can't. if it can't i for one quit railroading. the press! pshaw! it's all graft, i tell you. it's nothing but a strike! i never knew one of these virtuous outbursts that wasn't. first the newspapers bark ferociously to advertise themselves; then they crawl round and whine like a cur. and it usually costs something to fix matters." the senator smiled grimly. "no, no, grimsby--not this time. it's more serious than that. hitherto the road has been unusually lucky in its bench decisions--" the senator gave a covert glance round to see if any long ears were listening. then he added: "we can't expect always to get a favourable decision like that in the cartwright case, when franchise rights valued at nearly five millions were at stake. judge stollmann proved himself a true friend in that affair." grimsby made a wry grimace as he retorted: "yes, and it was worth it to him. a supreme court judge don't get a cheque for $ , every day. that represents two years' pay." "it might represent two years in jail if it were found out," said the senator with a forced laugh. grimsby saw an opportunity, and he could not resist the temptation. bluntly he said: "as far as jail's concerned, others might be getting their deserts there too." the senator looked keenly at grimsby from under his white eyebrows. then in a calm, decisive tone he replied: "it's no question of a cheque this time. the road could not buy judge rossmore with $ , . he is absolutely unapproachable in that way." the apoplectic face of mr. grimsby looked incredulous. it was hard for these men who plotted in the dark, and cheated the widow and the orphan for love of the dollar, to understand that there were in the world, breathing the same air as they, men who put honour, truth and justice above mere money-getting. with a slight tinge of sarcasm he asked: "is there any man in our public life who is unapproachable from some direction or other?" "yes, judge rossmore is such a man. he is one of the few men in american public life who takes his duties seriously. in the strictest sense of the term, he serves his country instead of serving himself. i am no friend of his, but i must do him that justice." he spoke sharply, in an irritated tone, as if resenting the insinuation of this vulgarian that every man in public life had his price. roberts knew that the charge was true as far as he and the men he consorted with were concerned, but sometimes the truth hurts. that was why he had for a moment seemed to champion judge rossmore, which, seeing that the judge himself was at that very moment under a cloud, was an absurd thing for him to do. he had known rossmore years before when the latter was a city magistrate in new york. that was before he, roberts, had become a political grafter and when the decent things in life still appealed to him. the two men, although having few interests in common, had seen a good deal of one another until roberts went to washington when their relations were completely severed. but he had always watched rossmore's career, and when he was made a judge of the supreme court at a comparatively early age he was sincerely glad. if anything could have convinced roberts that success can come in public life to a man who pursues it by honest methods it was the success of james rossmore. he could never help feeling that rossmore had been endowed by nature with certain qualities which had been denied to him, above all that ability to walk straight through life with skirts clean which he had found impossible himself. to-day judge rossmore was one of the most celebrated judges in the country. he was a brilliant jurist and a splendid after-dinner speaker. he was considered the most learned and able of all the members of the judiciary, and his decisions were noted as much for their fearlessness as for their wisdom. but what was far more, he enjoyed a reputation for absolute integrity. until now no breath of slander, no suspicion of corruption, had ever touched him. even his enemies acknowledged that. and that is why there was a panic to-day among the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad. this honest, upright man had been called upon in the course of his duty to decide matters of vital importance to the road, and the directors were ready to stampede because, in their hearts, they knew the weakness of their case and the strength of the judge. grimsby, unconvinced, returned to the charge. "what about these newspaper charges? did judge rossmore take a bribe from the great northwestern or didn't he? you ought to know." "i do know," answered the senator cautiously and somewhat curtly, "but until mr. ryder arrives i can say nothing. i believe he has been inquiring into the matter. he will tell us when he comes." the hands of the large clock in the outer room pointed to three. an active, dapper little man with glasses and with books under his arm passed hurriedly from another office into the directors room. "there goes mr. lane with the minutes. the meeting is called. where's mr. ryder?" there was a general move of the scattered groups of directors toward the committee room. the clock overhead began to strike. the last stroke had not quite died away when the big swinging doors from the street were thrown open and there entered a tall, thin man, gray-headed, and with a slight stoop, but keen eyed and alert. he was carefully dressed in a well-fitting frock coat, white waistcoat, black tie and silk hat. it was john burkett ryder, the colossus. chapter ii at fifty-six, john burkett ryder was surprisingly well preserved. with the exception of the slight stoop, already noted, and the rapidly thinning snow-white hair, his step was as light and elastic, and his brain as vigorous and alert, as in a man of forty. of old english stock, his physical make-up presented all those strongly marked characteristics of our race which, sprung from anglo-saxon ancestry, but modified by nearly years of different climate and customs, has gradually produced the distinct and true american type, as easily recognizable among the family of nations as any other of the earth's children. tall and distinguished-looking, ryder would have attracted attention anywhere. men who have accomplished much in life usually bear plainly upon their persons the indefinable stamp of achievement, whether of good or evil, which renders them conspicuous among their fellows. we turn after a man in the street and ask, who is he? and nine times out of ten the object of our curiosity is a man who has made his mark--a successful soldier, a famous sailor, a celebrated author, a distinguished lawyer, or even a notorious crook. there was certainly nothing in john ryder's outward appearance to justify lombroso's sensational description of him: "a social and physiological freak, a degenerate and a prodigy of turpitude who, in the pursuit of money, crushes with the insensibility of a steel machine everyone who stands in his way." on the contrary, ryder, outwardly at least, was a prepossessing-looking man. his head was well-shaped, and he had an intellectual brow, while power was expressed in every gesture of his hands and body. every inch of him suggested strength and resourcefulness. his face, when in good humour, frequently expanded in a pleasant smile, and he had even been known to laugh boisterously, usually at his own stories, which he rightly considered very droll, and of which he possessed a goodly stock. but in repose his face grew stern and forbidding, and when his prognathous jaw, indicative of will-power and bull-dog tenacity, snapped to with a click-like sound, those who heard it knew that squalls were coming. but it was john ryder's eyes that were regarded as the most reliable barometer of his mental condition. wonderful eyes they were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing colour like a cat's. when their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly. his face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping. when this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time. but his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear. for they were his eyes of anger. on these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud. almost ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in john ryder's armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence--all were sacrificed. such was the colossus on whom all eyes were turned as he entered. instantly the conversations, stopped as by magic. the directors nudged each other and whispered. instinctively, ryder singled out his crony, senator roberts, who advanced with effusive gesture: "hello, senator!" "you're punctual as usual, mr. ryder. i never knew you to be late!" the great man chuckled, and the little men standing around, listening breathlessly, chuckled in respectful sympathy, and they elbowed and pushed one another in their efforts to attract ryder's notice, like so many cowardly hyenas not daring to approach the lordly wolf. senator roberts made a remark in a low tone to ryder, whereupon the latter laughed. the bystanders congratulated each other silently. the great man was pleased to be in a good humour. and as ryder turned with the senator to enter the directors room the light from the big windows fell full on his face, and they noticed that his eyes were of the softest blue. "no squalls to-day," whispered one. "wait and see," retorted a more experienced colleague. "those eyes are more fickle than the weather." outside the sky was darkening, and drops of rain were already falling. a flash of lightning presaged the coming storm. ryder passed on and into the directors room followed by senator roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes. the long room with its narrow centre table covered with green baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all talking at once with excited gesture. at the sight of ryder the chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as the directors took their places around the long table. with a nod here and there ryder took his place in the chairman's seat and rapped for order. then at a sign from the chair the dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the minutes of the previous meeting. no one listened, a few directors yawned. others had their eyes riveted on ryder's face, trying to read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all. he, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the past. could he do so again? but john ryder gave no sign. his eyes, still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching a spider marching with diabolical intent on a wretched fly that had become entangled in its web. and as the secretary ambled monotonously on, ryder watched and watched until he saw the spider seize its helpless prey and devour it. fascinated by the spectacle, which doubtless suggested to him some analogy to his own methods, ryder sat motionless, his eyes fastened on the ceiling, until the sudden stopping of the secretary's reading aroused him and told him that the minutes were finished. quickly they were approved, and the chairman proceeded as rapidly as possible with the regular business routine. that disposed of, the meeting was ready for the chief business of the day. ryder then calmly proceeded to present the facts in the case. some years back the road had acquired as an investment some thousands of acres of land located in the outskirts of auburndale, on the line of their road. the land was bought cheap, and there had been some talk of laying part of it out as a public park. this promise had been made at the time in good faith, but it was no condition of the sale. if, afterwards, owing to the rise in the value of real estate, the road found it impossible to carry out the original idea, surely they were masters of their own property! the people of auburndale thought differently and, goaded on by the local newspapers, had begun action in the courts to restrain the road from diverting the land from its alleged original purpose. they had succeeded in getting the injunction, but the road had fought it tooth and nail, and finally carried it to the supreme court, where judge rossmore, after reserving his opinion, had finally sustained the injunction and decided against the railroad. that was the situation, and he would now like to hear from the members of the board. mr. grimsby rose. self-confident and noisily loquacious, as most men of his class are in simple conversation, he was plainly intimidated at speaking before such a crowd. he did not know where to look nor what to do with his hands, and he shuffled uneasily on his feet, while streams of nervous perspiration ran down his fat face, which he mopped repeatedly with a big coloured handkerchief. at last, taking courage, he began: "mr. chairman, for the past ten years this road has made bigger earnings in proportion to its carrying capacity than any other railroad in the united states. we have had fewer accidents, less injury to rolling stock, less litigation and bigger dividends. the road has been well managed and"--here he looked significantly in ryder's direction--"there has been a big brain behind the manager. we owe you that credit, mr. ryder!" cries of "hear! hear!" came from all round the table. ryder bowed coldly, and mr. grimsby continued: "but during the last year or two things have gone wrong. there has been a lot of litigation, most of which has gone against us, and it has cost a heap of money. it reduced the last quarterly dividend very considerably, and the new complication--this auburndale suit, which also has gone against us--is going to make a still bigger hole in our exchequer. gentlemen, i don't want to be a prophet of misfortune, but i'll tell you this--unless something is done to stop this hostility in the courts you and i stand to lose every cent we have invested in the road. this suit which we have just lost means a number of others. what i would ask our chairman is what has become of his former good relations with the supreme court, what has become of his influence, which never failed us. what are these rumours regarding judge rossmore? he is charged in the newspapers with having accepted a present from a road in whose favour he handed down a very valuable decision. how is it that our road cannot reach judge rossmore and make him presents?" the speaker sat down, flushed and breathless. the expression on every face showed that the anxiety was general. the directors glanced at ryder, but his face was expressionless as marble. apparently he took not the slightest interest in this matter which so agitated his colleagues. another director rose. he was a better speaker than mr. grimsby, but his voice had a hard, rasping quality that smote the ears unpleasantly. he said: "mr. chairman, none of us can deny what mr. grimsby has just put before us so vividly. we are threatened not with one, but with a hundred such suits, unless something is done either to placate the public or to render its attacks harmless. rightly or wrongly, the railroad is hated by the people, yet we are only what railroad conditions compel us to be. with the present fierce competition, no fine question of ethics can enter into our dealings as a business organization. with an irritated public and press on one side, and a hostile judiciary on the other, the outlook certainly is far from bright. but is the judiciary hostile? is it not true that we have been singularly free from litigation until recently, and that most of the decisions were favourable to the road? judge rossmore is the real danger. while he is on the bench the road is not safe. yet all efforts to reach him have failed and will fail. i do not take any stock in the newspaper stories regarding judge rossmore. they are preposterous. judge rossmore is too strong a man to be got rid of so easily." the speaker sat down and another rose, his arguments being merely a reiteration of those already heard. ryder did not listen to what was being said. why should he? was he not familiar with every possible phase of the game? better than these men who merely talked, he was planning how the railroad and all his other interests could get rid of this troublesome judge. it was true. he who controlled legislatures and dictated to supreme court judges had found himself powerless when each turn of the legal machinery had brought him face to face with judge rossmore. suit after suit had been decided against him and the interests he represented, and each time it was judge rossmore who had handed down the decision. so for years these two men had fought a silent but bitter duel in which principle on the one side and attempted corruption on the other were the gauge of battle. judge rossmore fought with the weapons which his oath and the law directed him to use, ryder with the only weapons he understood--bribery and trickery. and each time it had been rossmore who had emerged triumphant. despite every manoeuvre ryder's experience could suggest, notwithstanding every card that could be played to undermine his credit and reputation, judge rossmore stood higher in the country's confidence than when he was first appointed. so when ryder found he could not corrupt this honest judge with gold, he decided to destroy him with calumny. he realized that the sordid methods which had succeeded with other judges would never prevail with rossmore, so he plotted to take away from this man the one thing he cherished most--his honour. he would ruin him by defaming his character, and so skilfully would he accomplish his work that the judge himself would realize the hopelessness of resistance. no scruples embarrassed ryder in arriving at this determination. from his point of view he was fully justified. "business is business. he hurts my interests; therefore i remove him." so he argued, and he considered it no more wrong to wreck the happiness of this honourable man than he would to have shot a burglar in self-defence. so having thus tranquillized his conscience he had gone to work in his usually thorough manner, and his success had surpassed the most sanguine expectations. this is what he had done. like many of our public servants whose labours are compensated only in niggardly fashion by an inconsiderate country, judge rossmore was a man of but moderate means. his income as justice of the supreme court was $ , a year, but for a man in his position, having a certain appearance to keep up, it little more than kept the wolf from the door. he lived quietly but comfortably in new york city with his wife and his daughter shirley, an attractive young woman who had graduated from vassar and had shown a marked taste for literature. the daughter's education had cost a good deal of money, and this, together with life insurance and other incidentals of keeping house in new york, had about taken all he had. yet he had managed to save a little, and those years when he could put by a fifth of his salary the judge considered himself lucky. secretly, he was proud of his comparative poverty. at least the world could never ask him "where he got it." ryder was well acquainted with judge rossmore's private means. the two men had met at a dinner, and although ryder had tried to cultivate the acquaintance, he never received much encouragement. ryder's son jefferson, too, had met miss shirley rossmore and been much attracted to her, but the father having more ambitious plans for his heir quickly discouraged all attentions in that direction. he himself, however, continued to meet the judge casually, and one evening he contrived to broach the subject of profitable investments. the judge admitted that by careful hoarding and much stinting he had managed to save a few thousand dollars which he was anxious to invest in something good. quick as the keen-eyed vulture swoops down on its prey the wily financier seized the opportunity thus presented. and he took so much trouble in answering the judge's inexperienced questions, and generally made himself so agreeable, that the judge found himself regretting that he and ryder had, by force of circumstances, been opposed to each other in public life so long. ryder strongly recommended the purchase of alaskan mining stock, a new and booming enterprise which had lately become very active in the market. ryder said he had reasons to believe that the stock would soon advance, and now there was an opportunity to get it cheap. a few days after he had made the investment the judge was surprised to receive certificates of stock for double the amount he had paid for. at the same time he received a letter from the secretary of the company explaining that the additional stock was pool stock and not to be marketed at the present time. it was in the nature of a bonus to which he was entitled as one of the early shareholders. the letter was full of verbiage and technical details of which the judge understood nothing, but he thought it very liberal of the company, and putting the stock away in his safe soon forgot all about it. had he been a business man he would have scented peril. he would have realized that he had now in his possession $ , worth of stock for which he had not paid a cent, and furthermore had deposited it when a reorganization came. but the judge was sincerely grateful for ryder's apparently disinterested advice and wrote two letters to him, one in which he thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and another in which he asked him if he was sure the company was financially sound, as the investment he contemplated making represented all his savings. he added in the second letter that he had received stock for double the amount of his investment, and that being a perfect child in business transactions he had been unable to account for the extra $ , worth until the secretary of the company had written him assuring him that everything was in order. these letters ryder kept. from that time on the alaskan mining company underwent mysterious changes. new capitalists gained control and the name was altered to the great northwestern mining company. then it became involved in litigation, and one suit, the outcome of which meant millions to the company, was carried to the supreme court, where judge rossmore was sitting. the judge had by this time forgotten all about the company in which he owned stock. he did not even recall its name. he only knew vaguely that it was a mine and that it was situated in alaska. could he dream that the great northwestern mining company and the company to which he had entrusted his few thousands were one and the same? in deciding on the merits of the case presented to him right seemed to him to be plainly with the northwestern, and he rendered a decision to that effect. it was an important decision, involving a large sum, and for a day or two it was talked about. but as it was the opinion of the most learned and honest judge on the bench no one dreamed of questioning it. but very soon ugly paragraphs began to appear in the newspapers. one paper asked if it were true that judge rossmore owned stock in the great northwestern mining company which had recently benefited so signally by his decision. interviewed by a reporter, judge rossmore indignantly denied being interested in any way in the company. thereupon the same paper returned to the attack, stating that the judge must surely be mistaken as the records showed a sale of stock to him at the time the company was known as the alaskan mining company. when he read this the judge was overwhelmed. it was true then! they had not slandered him. it was he who had lied, but how innocently--how innocently! his daughter shirley, who was his greatest friend and comfort, was then in europe. she had gone to the continent to rest, after working for months on a novel which she had just published. his wife, entirely without experience in business matters and somewhat of an invalid, was helpless to advise him. but to his old and tried friend, ex-judge stott, judge rossmore explained the facts as they were. stott shook his head. "it's a conspiracy!" he cried. "and john b. ryder is behind it." rossmore refused to believe that any man could so deliberately try to encompass another's destruction, but when more newspaper stories came out he began to realize that stott was right and that his enemies had indeed dealt him a deadly blow. one newspaper boldly stated that judge rossmore was down on the mining company's books for $ , more stock than he had paid for, and it went on to ask if this were payment for the favourable decision just rendered. rossmore, helpless, child-like as he was in business matters, now fully realized the seriousness of his position. "my god! my god!" he cried, as he bowed his head down on his desk. and for a whole day he remained closeted in his library, no one venturing near him. as john ryder sat there sphinx-like at the head of the directors' table he reviewed all this in his mind. his own part in the work was now done and well done, and he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph. the speaker, to whom he had paid such scant attention, resumed his seat, and there followed a pause and an intense silence which was broken only by the pattering of the rain against the big windows. the directors turned expectantly to ryder, waiting for him to speak. what could the colossus do now to save the situation? cries of "the chair! the chair!" arose on every side. senator roberts leaned over to ryder and whispered something in his ear. with an acquiescent gesture, john ryder tapped the table with his gavel and rose to address his fellow directors. instantly the room was silent again as the tomb. one might have heard a pin drop, so intense was the attention. all eyes were fixed on the chairman. the air itself seemed charged with electricity, that needed but a spark to set it ablaze. speaking deliberately and dispassionately, the master dissembler began. they had all listened carefully, he said, to what had been stated by previous speakers. the situation no doubt was very critical, but they had weathered worse storms and he had every reason to hope they would outlive this storm. it was true that public opinion was greatly incensed against the railroads and, indeed, against all organized capital, and was seeking to injure them through the courts. for a time this agitation would hurt business and lessen the dividends, for it meant not only smaller annual earnings but that a lot of money must be spent in washington. the eyes of the listeners, who were hanging on every word, involuntarily turned in the direction of senator roberts, but the latter, at that moment busily engaged in rummaging among a lot of papers, seemed to have missed this significant allusion to the road's expenses in the district of columbia. ryder continued: in his experience such waves of reform were periodical and soon wear themselves out, when things go on just as they did before. much of the agitation, doubtless, was a strike for graft. they would have to go down in their pockets, he supposed, and then these yellow newspapers and these yellow magazines that were barking at their heels would let them go. but in regard to the particular case now at issue--this auburndale decision--there had been no way of preventing it. influence had been used, but to no effect. the thing to do now was to prevent any such disasters in future by removing the author of them. the directors bent eagerly forward. had ryder really got some plan up his sleeve after all? the faces around the table looked brighter, and the directors cleared their throats and settled themselves down in their chairs as audiences do in the theatre when the drama is reaching its climax. the board, continued ryder with icy calmness, had perhaps heard, and also seen in the newspapers, the stories regarding judge rossmore and his alleged connection with the great northwestern company. perhaps they had not believed these stories. it was only natural. he had not believed them himself. but he had taken the trouble to inquire into the matter very carefully, and he regretted to say that the stories were true. in fact, they were no longer denied by judge rossmore himself. the directors looked at each other in amazement. gasps of astonishment, incredulity, satisfaction were heard all over the room. the rumours were true, then? was it possible? incredible! investigation, ryder went on, had shown that judge rossmore was not only interested in the company in whose favour, as judge of the supreme court, he had rendered an important decision, but what was worse, he had accepted from that company a valuable gift--that is, $ , worth of stock--for which he had given absolutely nothing in return unless, as some claimed, the weight of his influence on the bench. these facts were very ugly and so unanswerable that judge rossmore did not attempt to answer them, and the important news which he, the chairman, had to announce to his fellow-directors that afternoon, was that judge rossmore's conduct would be made the subject of an inquiry by congress. this was the spark that was needed to ignite the electrically charged air. a wild cry of triumph went up from this band of jackals only too willing to fatten their bellies at the cost of another man's ruin, and one director, in his enthusiasm, rose excitedly from his chair and demanded a vote of thanks for john ryder. ryder coldly opposed the motion. no thanks were due to him, he said deprecatingly, nor did he think the occasion called for congratulations of any kind. it was surely a sad spectacle to see this honoured judge, this devoted father, this blameless citizen threatened with ruin and disgrace on account of one false step. let them rather sympathize with him and his family in their misfortune. he had little more to tell. the congressional inquiry would take place immediately, and in all probability a demand would be made upon the senate for judge rossmore's impeachment. it was, he added, almost unnecessary for him to remind the board that, in the event of impeachment, the adverse decision in the auburndale case would be annulled and the road would be entitled to a new trial. ryder sat down, and pandemonium broke loose, the delighted directors tumbling over each other in their eagerness to shake hands with the man who had saved them. ryder had given no hint that he had been a factor in the working up of this case against their common enemy, in fact he had appeared to sympathise with him, but the directors knew well that he and he alone had been the master mind which had brought about the happy result. on a motion to adjourn, the meeting broke up, and everyone began to troop towards the elevators. outside the rain was now coming down in torrents and the lights that everywhere dotted the great city only paled when every few moments a vivid flash of lightning rent the enveloping gloom. ryder and senator roberts went down in the elevator together. when they reached the street the senator inquired in a low tone: "do you think they really believed rossmore was influenced in his decision?" ryder glanced from the lowering clouds overhead to his electric brougham which awaited him at the curb and replied indifferently: "not they. they don't care. all they want to believe is that he is to be impeached. the man was dangerous and had to be removed--no matter by what means. he is our enemy--my enemy--and i never give quarter to my enemies!" as he spoke his prognathous jaw snapped to with a click-like sound, and in his eyes now coal-black were glints of fire. at the same instant there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a terrific crash, and the splinters of the flag-pole on the building opposite, which had been struck by a bolt, fell at their feet. "a good or a bad omen?" asked the senator with a nervous laugh. he was secretly afraid of lightning but was ashamed to admit it. "a bad omen for judge rossmore!" rejoined ryder coolly, as he slammed to the door of the cab, and the two men drove rapidly off in the direction of fifth avenue. chapter iii of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the paris boulevards, formed by the angle of the boulevard des capucines and the place de l'opera. here, on the "terrace" of the cafe de la paix, with its white and gold facade and long french windows, and its innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few sous, undisturbed even by the tip-seeking garcon, and, if one happens to be a student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the world-types, representing every race and nationality under the sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless stream. the crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables, occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right, in the direction of the church of the madeleine, the other to the left heading toward the historic bastille, both really going nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly along enjoying the sights--and life! paris, queen of cities! light-hearted, joyous, radiant paris--the playground of the nations, the mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the city beautiful! paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always seductive, ever caressing! city of a thousand political convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil strife has scarred her monuments, the german conqueror insolently has bivouaced within her walls. yet, like a virgin undefiled, she shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent, matchless beauty dazzles the world! as the supreme reward of virtue, the good american is promised a visit to paris when he dies. those, however, of our sagacious fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage to see lutetia before crossing the river styx. most americans like paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent home--although it must be added that in their admiration they rarely include the frenchman. for that matter, we are not as a nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite willing to return the compliment. he gives the yankee credit for commercial smartness, which has built up america's great material prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists. is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior to its neighbour? if this were not so each would be jealous of the other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot have the moon to play with. happily, therefore, for the harmony of the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. the englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation, despises the frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the german, who shows open contempt for the italian, while the american, conscious of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities them all. the most serious fault which the american--whose one god is mammon and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his french brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and, what to the yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of playing dominoes during business hours. the frenchman retorts that his american brother, clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn. he has, he declares, no philosophy of life. it is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely lacking. he thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant of what life is. he admits it is not the american's fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life. one must be educated to that as everything else. all the american is taught is to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. in this mad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. so he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since he must one day die like all the rest? and what, asks the foreigner, has the american hustler accomplished that his slower-going continental brother has not done as well? are finer cities to be found in america than in europe, do americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more learned or more entertaining books, has america made greater progress in science? is it not a fact that the greatest inventors and scientists of our time--marconi, who gave to the world wireless telegraphy, professor curie, who discovered radium, pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, santos-dumont, who has almost succeeded in navigating the air, professor rontgen who discovered the x-ray--are not all these immortals europeans? and those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced and perfected in france before we in america woke up to appreciate their use? is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and still achieve? the logic of these arguments, set forth in le soir in an article on the new world, appealed strongly to jefferson ryder as he sat in front of the cafe de la paix, sipping a sugared vermouth. it was five o'clock, the magic hour of the aperitif, when the glutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an appetite for renewed gorging. the little tables were all occupied with the usual before-dinner crowd. there were a good many foreigners, mostly english and americans and a few frenchmen, obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real parisians. jefferson's acquaintance with the french language was none too profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article, but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. yes, it was quite true, he thought, the american idea of life was all wrong. what was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one life to live? how much saner the man who is content with enough and enjoys life while he is able to. these frenchmen, and indeed all the continental nations, had solved the problem. the gaiety of their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to all about them, were sufficient proofs of it. fascinated by the gay scene around him jefferson laid the newspaper aside. to the young american, fresh from prosaic money-mad new york, the city of pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful spectacle. how different, he mused, from his own city with its one fashionable thoroughfare--fifth avenue--monotonously lined for miles with hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animation except during the saturday afternoon parade when the activities of the smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting diversions as going to huyler's for soda, taking tea at the waldorf, and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. new york certainly was a dull place with all its boasted cosmopolitanism. there was no denying that. destitute of any natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical position between two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and that noisy monstrosity the elevated railroad, having no intellectual interests, no art interests, no interest in anything not immediately connected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly a city to live in. the millionaires were building white-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the native architects, and thus to some extent relieving the general ugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun to invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. but in spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and jefferson insisted that in this one important particular new york had no peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked tenderloin, and its rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, new york still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan paris. the boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only a snail-like progress. the clumsy three-horse omnibuses--madeleine-bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of fiacres which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way. as a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the paris cocher has no equal. he is unique, no one can approach him. he also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the world. if there is any possible way in which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesque expletives. but it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent opera house with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a june afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a splendid straight line to the famous palais royal, the almost dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets, the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar with at home that jefferson sat spellbound, delighted. yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the secret of enjoying life. there was assuredly something else in the world beyond mere money-getting. his father was a slave to it, but he would never be. he was resolved on that. yet, with all his ideas of emancipation and progress, jefferson was a thoroughly practical young man. he fully understood the value of money, and the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. only he would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. he was convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the rich and the impoverishment of the poor. he was familiar with the socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. he had read karl marx and other socialistic writers, and while his essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their programme for reorganizing the state, some of which seemed to him utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and the day was not far distant when in america, as to-day in germany and france, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with. but until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the world, the great stimulus to effort. money supplied not only the necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its possession. was life worth living without money? could one travel and enjoy the glorious spectacles nature affords--the rolling ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble rivers--without money? could the book-lover buy books, the art-lover purchase pictures? could one have fine houses to live in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort, without money? the philosophers declared contentment to be happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights? no, jefferson was no fool. he loved money for what pleasure, intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. his father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself nor respected by the world. he had toiled all his life to make his vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. the galley slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with john burkett ryder. baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated by state committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers, frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from being an enviable one. that is why jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. he had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in the empire trading company, and he had gone so far as to refuse also the private income his father offered to settle on him. he would earn his own living. a man who has his bread buttered for him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he was secretly pleased at his son's grit. jefferson was thoroughly in earnest. if needs be, he would forego the great fortune that awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business methods against which his whole manhood revolted. jefferson ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them more thought than would be expected of most young men with his opportunities. in fact, he was unusually serious for his age. he was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological questions of the hour. in personal appearance, he was the type of man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with smooth face and clean-cut features. he had the steel-blue eyes and the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed two even rows of very white teeth. he was popular with men, being manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by his grave and serious manner. the truth was that he was rather diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with them. he had never felt the slightest inclination for business. he had the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal tastes had little in common with wall street and its feverish stock manipulating. when he was younger, he had dreamed of a literary or art career. at one time he had even thought of going on the stage. but it was to art that he turned finally. from an early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and later a two years' course at the academy of design convinced him that this was his true vocation. he had begun by illustrating for the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. his drawings began to be accepted. they appeared first in one magazine, then in another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order from an important firm of publishers for six washdrawings to be used in illustrating a famous novel. this was the beginning of his real success. his illustrations were talked about almost as much as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. he was in great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist, who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in bryant park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and enjoying an income of little less than $ , a year. the money was all the sweeter to jefferson in that he felt he had himself earned every cent of it. this summer he was giving himself a well-deserved vacation, and he had come to europe partly to see paris and the other art centres about which his fellow students at the academy raved, but principally--although this he did not acknowledge even to himself--to meet in paris a young woman in whom he was more than ordinarily interested--shirley rossmore, daughter of judge rossmore, of the united states supreme court, who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new novel, "the american octopus," a book which was then the talk of two hemispheres. jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many american papers that afternoon at the new york herald's reading room in the avenue de l'opera, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how accurately this young woman had described his father. the book had been published under the pseudonym "shirley green," and he alone had been admitted into the secret of authorship. the critics all conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the commercial life of america. "although," wrote one reviewer, "the leading character in the book is given another name, there can be no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen portrait of john burkett ryder. she has succeeded in presenting a remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his time." he was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for miss rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned? there had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this. jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. he did not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man. jefferson had met shirley rossmore two years before at a meeting of the schiller society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to be discussed. he had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all the freak shows new york had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth. she was a writer, miss rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to the evening receptions of the schiller society. half apologetically she added that it was likely to be her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. but she explained that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in gathering material for literary use. she studied types and eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting ground. jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had known. her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served, when the affair broke up. this first meeting had been followed by a call at the rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up until jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex. the young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life, his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to shirley, whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those she had hitherto met. above all, she demanded in a man the refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of character and personal courage. that jefferson ryder came up to this standard she was soon convinced. he was certainly a gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his courage. she rightly guessed that this was no poseur trying to make an impression and gain her confidence. there was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than substantiated all her theories. and the more shirley let her mind dwell on jefferson ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or for herself. so their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and comradeship. further than that shirley promised herself it should never go. not that jefferson had given her the slightest hint that he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long before this shirley had made up her mind that she would never marry. firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by her literary work and she was practical enough to know that matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be fatal to any ambition of that kind. she liked jefferson immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she did not think any the less of him because of her resolve not to get entangled in the meshes of cupid. in any case he had not asked her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts. meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of embarrassing entanglements. when, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the guise of fiction the personality of john burkett ryder, the colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to jefferson for assistance. she wanted to write a book that would be talked about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying to enslave the nation. the book, she argued, would perform a public service in awakening all to the common danger. jefferson fully entered into her views and had furnished her with the information regarding his father that she deemed of value. the book had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and shirley had come to europe for a rest after the many weary months of work that it took to write it. the acquaintance of his son with the daughter of judge rossmore had not escaped the eagle eye of ryder, sr., and much to the financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained that jefferson was a frequent caller at the rossmore home. he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanity of immature minds," he had summoned jefferson peremptorily to his presence. he told his son that all idea of marriage in that quarter was out of the question for two reasons: one was that judge rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman of whom he, ryder, sr., could approve. he knew of such a woman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than miss rossmore. he alluded, of course, to kate roberts, the pretty daughter of his old friend, the senator. the family interests would benefit by this alliance, which was desirable from every point of view. jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finished and then grimly remarked that only one point of view had been overlooked--his own. he did not care for miss roberts; he did not think she really cared for him. the marriage was out of the question. whereupon ryder, sr., had fumed and raged, declaring that jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and ending with the threat that if his son married shirley rossmore without his consent he would disinherit him. jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called out in english: "hello! mr. ryder." he looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged, smiling at him from an open fiacre which had drawn up to the curb. jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling two nervous frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand. "why, miss rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked. "you know you and mrs. blake promised to dine with me to-night. i was coming round to the hotel in a few moments." mrs. blake was a younger sister of shirley's mother. her husband had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to europe she had decided to come to paris to meet her and incidentally to chaperone her. the two women were stopping at the grand hotel close by, while jefferson had found accommodations at the athenee. shirley explained. her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and she herself was most anxious to go to the luxembourg gardens to hear the music. would he take her? then they could meet mrs. blake at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. was he willing? was he? jefferson's face fairly glowed. he ran back to his table on the terrasse to settle for his vermouth, astonished the waiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed back to the carriage. a dirty little italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's attention to the younger of the american women, wheedled up to the carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in jefferson's face. "achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?" down went jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. then he turned inquiringly to shirley for instructions so he could direct the cocher. mrs. blake said she would get out here. her dressmaker was close by, in the rue auber, and she would walk back to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. jefferson assisted her to alight and escorted her as far as the porte-cochere of the modiste's, a couple of doors away. when he returned to the carriage, shirley had already told the coachman where to go. he got in and the fiacre started. "now," said shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with yourself all day." jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question. "doing?" he echoed with a smile, "i've been doing two things--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the notices of your book." chapter iv "tell me, what do the papers say?" settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, shirley questioned jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. she had been impatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so much depended on this first effort. she knew her book had been praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been received by the reviewers. in truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of her inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attention with her first book. the success almost threatened to turn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could never do that. she fully realized that it was the subject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world was talking of the money peril. had not president roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the state to curb the colossal fortunes of america, and was not her hero, john burkett ryder, the richest of them all? any way they looked at it, the success of the book was most gratifying. while she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, shirley rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. her features were irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed the harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. yet there was in her face something far more appealing--soul and character. the face of the merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. it presents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul within to have a key to. perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. one soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, because it is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum was ever uttered. the merely beautiful woman, who possesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for matters of greater importance. sensible men, as a rule, do not lose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. they enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. the marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble. shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed to attract attention. it was a thoughtful and interesting face, with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. she was fair in complexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by long dark lashes. her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a good nose. she wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman, suggesting good mentality. her mouth, however, was her strongest feature. it was well shaped, but there were firm lines about it that suggested unusual will power. yet it smiled readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. she was a little over medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. she dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one could never recall what she had on. at the special request of shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the latin quarter, the driver took a course down the avenue de l'opera, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the opera and ends at the theatre francais, and which, like many others that go to the beautifying of the capital, the parisians owe to the much-despised napoleon iii. the cab, jefferson told her, would skirt the palais royal and follow the rue de rivoli until it came to the chatelet, when it would cross the seine and drive up the boulevard st. michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached the luxembourg gardens. like most of his kind, the cocker knew less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad collisions. at times the fiacre lurched in such alarming fashion that shirley was visibly perturbed, but when jefferson assured her that all paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever happened, she was comforted. "tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?" "say?" he echoed. "why, simply that you've written the biggest book of the year, that's all!" "really! oh, do tell me all they said!" she was fairly excited now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. he tried to appear unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon. "isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. then she added quickly: "i wonder if your father has seen it?" jefferson grinned. he had something on his conscience, and this was a good opportunity to get rid of it. he replied laconically: "he probably has read it by this time. i sent him a copy myself." the instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for shirley's face had changed colour. "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus?'" she cried. "then he'll guess who wrote the book." "oh, no, he won't," rejoined jefferson calmly. "he has no idea who sent it to him. i mailed it anonymously." shirley breathed a sigh of relief. it was so important that her identity should remain a secret. as daughter of a supreme court judge she had to be most careful. she would not embarrass her father for anything in the world. but it was smart of jefferson to have sent ryder, sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked: "how do you know he got it? so many letters and packages are sent to him that he never sees himself." "oh, he saw your book all right," laughed jefferson. "i was around the house a good deal before sailing, and one day i caught him in the library reading it." they both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. jefferson noted his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him that this was the woman who was intended by nature to share his life. her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. but he was mistaken. not the slightest sentiment entered into shirley's thoughts of jefferson. she regarded him only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in no one else. to that extent and to that extent alone he was privileged above other men. suddenly he asked her: "have you heard from home recently?" a soft light stole into the girl's face. home! ah, that was all she needed to make her cup of happiness full. intoxicated with this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was only one thing lacking--home! she had left new york only a month before, and she was homesick already. her father she missed most. she was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had been. the playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser in womanhood, judge rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father. answering jefferson's question she said: "i had a letter from father last week. everything was going on at home as when i left. father says he misses me sadly, and that mother is ailing as usual." she smiled, and jefferson smiled too. they both knew by experience that nothing really serious ailed mrs. rossmore, who was a good deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed. the fiacre by this time had emerged from the rue de rivoli and was rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the historic conciergerie prison where marie antoinette was confined before her execution. presently they recrossed the seine, and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "boul' mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved quartier latin. on the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learned sorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the pantheon where rousseau, voltaire and hugo lay buried. like most of the principal arteries of the french capital, the boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and the sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little ouvrieres, these last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the work-girl class, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. there was also much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession. on either side of the boulevard were shops and cafes, mostly cafes, with every now and then a brasserie, or beer hall. seated in front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except serious study. they all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. a few of the more eccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds over their sharp-pointed boots. on their heads were queer plug hats with flat brims. shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodak to take back to america some idea of their grotesque appearance, and she listened with amused interest as jefferson explained that these men were notorious poseurs, aping the dress and manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the days of randolph and mimi and the other immortal characters of murger's bohemia. nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. shirley was astonished to see so many of them busily engaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, which jefferson told her was absinthe. "when do they read?" she asked. "when do they attend lectures?" "oh," laughed jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take their studies seriously. most of the men you see there are from the provinces, seeing paris for the first time, and having their fling. incidentally they are studying life. when they have sown their wild oats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and have any money left--they will begin to study books. you would be surprised to know how many of these young men, who have been sent to the university at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribe their names on the rolls." shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had a son she would pray god to spare her that grief and humiliation. she herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a college education for their children. her father had sent her to vassar. she was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given her. her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish the little she had. when she graduated her father had left her free to follow her own inclinations. she had little taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. for a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in english composition, she determined to try her hand at literature. she wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for their rejection. but shirley kept right on. she knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects were not suitable. so she adopted new tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one of the minor magazines. they would take the article offered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as miss rossmore could write. this success had been followed by other acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a well-known writer for the leading publications. her great ambition had been to write a book, and "the american octopus," published under an assumed name, was the result. the cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. it was the luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children playing. from the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band. the coachman drove up to the curb and jefferson jumped down, assisting shirley to alight. in spite of shirley's protest jefferson insisted on paying. "combien?" he asked the cocher. the jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two sacre foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of providence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered: "dix francs, monsieur!" and he held up ten fingers by way of illustration. jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when shirley indignantly interfered. she would not submit to such an imposition. there was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. so, in better french than was at jefferson's command, she exclaimed: "ten francs? pourquoi dix francs? i took your cab by the hour. it is exactly two hours. that makes four francs." then to jefferson she added: "give him a franc for a pourboire--that makes five francs altogether." jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. he saw that the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fully prepared to carry out his bluff. he started in to abuse the two americans whom in his ignorance he took for english. "ah, you sale anglais! you come to france to cheat the poor frenchman. you make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. not with this coco! i know my rights and i'll get them, too." all this was hurled at them in a patois french, almost unintelligible to shirley, and wholly so to jefferson. all he knew was that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist at shirley. but she saw jefferson's movement and laid her hand on his arm. "no, no, mr. ryder--no scandal, please. look, people are beginning to come up! leave him to me. i know how to manage him." with this the daughter of a united states supreme court judge proceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilised community. speaking with an air of authority, she said: "now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. i took your cab at . . it is now . . that makes two hours. the rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. we offer you five francs, and this includes a franc pourboire. if this settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argument can be continued." the man's jaw dropped. he was obviously outclassed. these foreigners knew the law as well as he did. he had no desire to accept shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would get little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc piece jefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off. proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. the band of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. many people were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre. the dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, that shirley wished they had more time to spend there. she was very fond of a good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. they were playing strauss's blue danube, and the familiar strains of the delightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire to get up and dance. there was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its many original and curious types. there were serious college professors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom nounous in their uniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, so different, thought the two americans, from the cheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own central park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance instead of a pleasure. here everyone belonged apparently to the better class; the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, the officers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter how one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere of good-breeding and refinement everywhere which shirley was not accustomed to see in public places at home. a sprinkling of workmen and people of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but they were in the decided minority. shirley, herself a daughter of the revolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles of democracy and of the equality of man before the law. but all other talk of equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. there could be no real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and others were uneducated and vulgar. shirley believed in an aristocracy of brains and soap. she insisted that no clean person, no matter how good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places to persons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. in america this foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing all classes, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, was positively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almost impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. in france--also a republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously the clap-trap "egalite, fraternite," they managed these things far better. the french lower classes knew their place. they did not ape the dress, nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. the distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had not prevented the son of a peasant from becoming president of the french republic. each district in paris had its own amusement, its own theatres, its own parks. it was not a question of capital refusing to fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons of refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows with the great unwashed. "isn't it delightful here?" said shirley. "i could stay here forever, couldn't you?" "with you--yes," answered jefferson, with a significant smile. shirley tried to look angry. she strictly discouraged these conventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex in her face. "now, you know i don't like you to talk that way, mr. ryder. it's most undignified. please be sensible." quite subdued, jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. presently he said: "i wish you wouldn't call me mr. ryder. i meant to ask you this before. you know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if you persist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of your book." shirley looked at him with amused curiosity. "what do you mean?" she asked. "what do you want me to call you?" "oh, i don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through. "why not call me jefferson? mr. ryder is so formal." shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two americans whom they took for sweethearts. after all, reasoned shirley, he was right. they had been together now nearly every hour in the day for over a month. it was absurd to call him mr. ryder. so, addressing him with mock gravity, she said: "you're right, mr. ryder--i mean jefferson. you're quite right. you are jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! no more such sentimental speeches as you made just now." jefferson beamed. he felt at least two inches taller, and at that moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. to hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out his watch and exclaimed: "why, it's a quarter past six. we shall have all we can do to get back to the hotel and dress for dinner." shirley rose at once, although loath to leave. "i had no idea it was so late," she said. "how the time flies!" then mockingly she added: "come, jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab." they passed out of the gardens by the gate facing the theatre de l'odeon, where there was a long string of fiacres for hire. they got into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the grand hotel. at the office they told shirley that her aunt had already come in and gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner while jefferson proceeded to the hotel de l'athenee on the same mission. he. had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed only ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead of going directly to his hotel, he sat down at the cafe de la paix. he was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth frappe he told the garcon to bring him also the american papers. the crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. the business offices and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employes, homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed this way and that. but jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. he was thinking of shirley. what singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? he, who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before, now desired it ardently, anxiously! yes, that was what his life lacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! he loved her--there was no doubt of that. his every thought, waking and sleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. he would win her if any man could. but did she care for him? ah, that was the cruel, torturing uncertainty! she appeared cold and indifferent, but perhaps she was only trying him. certainly she did not seem to dislike him. the waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. all he could find were the london times, which he pronounced t-e-e-m-s, and some issues of the new york herald. the papers were nearly a month old, but he did not care for that. jefferson idly turned over the pages of the herald. his thoughts were still running on shirley, and he was paying little attention to what he was reading. suddenly, however, his eyes rested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. it read as follows: judge rossmore impeached justice of the supreme court to be tried on bribery charges the despatch, which was dated washington two weeks back, went on to say that serious charges affecting the integrity of judge rossmore had been made the subject of congressional inquiry, and that the result of the inquiry was so grave that a demand for impeachment would be at once sent to the senate. it added that the charges grew out of the recent decision in the great northwestern mining company case, it being alleged that judge rossmore had accepted a large sum of money on condition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company. jefferson was thunderstruck. he read the despatch over again to make sure there was no mistake. no, it was very plain--judge rossmore of madison avenue. but how preposterous, what a calumny! the one judge on the bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction: "there goes an honest man!" and this judge was to be tried on a charge of bribery! what could be the meaning of it? something terrible must have happened since shirley's departure from home, that was certain. it meant her immediate return to the states and, of course, his own. he would see what could be done. he would make his father use his great influence. but how could he tell shirley? impossible, he could not! she would not believe him if he did. she would probably hear from home in some other way. they might cable. in any case he would say nothing yet. he paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress. it was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the grand hotel. shirley and mrs. blake were waiting for him. jefferson suggested having dinner at the cafe de paris, but shirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on the pavilion d'armonville where there was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the garden. they drove up the stately champs elysees, past the monumental arc de triomphe, and from there down to the bois. all were singularly quiet. mrs. blake was worrying about her new gown, shirley was tired, and jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just read. he avoided looking at shirley until the latter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in some way. she was more sorry than she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, jefferson was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness. they dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the french culinary art can perfect. a single glass of champagne had put shirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour to jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and preoccupied. finally losing patience she asked him bluntly: "jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? you've been sulky as a bear all evening." pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in regard to his name, jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically: "excuse me, i've been feeling a bit seedy lately. i think i need another sea voyage. that's the only time when i feel really first-class--when i'm on the water." the mention of the sea started shirley to talk about her future plans. she wasn't going back to america until september. she had arranged to make a stay of three weeks in london and then she would be free. some friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the mediterranean, including a run over to cairo. they had asked her and mrs. blake to go and she was sure they would ask jefferson, too. would he go? there was no way out of it. jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hanging over her head. it was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. they sat a little longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. very pointedly, shirley remarked: "i for one preferred the music this afternoon." "why?" inquired jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice. "because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly. this was their first misunderstanding, but jefferson said nothing. he could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him all night. soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but mrs. blake was tired and shirley, now quite irritated at what she considered jefferson's unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. but she could never remain angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely: "are you cross with me, jeff?" he turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn and grave. "cross--no. good-night. god bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping down a lump that rose in his throat. then grasping her hand he hurried away. completely mystified, shirley and her companion turned to the office to get the key of their room. as the man handed it to shirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come. she changed colour. she did not like telegrams. she always had a dread of them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news. could this, she thought, explain jefferson's strange behaviour? trembling, she tore open the envelope and read: come home at once, mother. chapter v. rolling, tumbling, splashing, foaming water as far as the eye could reach in every direction. a desolate waste, full of life, movement and colour, extending to the bleak horizon and like a vast ploughed field cut up into long and high liquid ridges, all scurrying in one direction in serried ranks and with incredible speed as if pursued by a fearful and unseen enemy. serenely yet boisterously, gracefully yet resistlessly, the endless waves passed on--some small, others monstrous, with fleecy white combs rushing down their green sides like toy niagaras and with a seething, boiling sound as when flame touches water. they went by in a stately, never ending procession, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, but full of dignity and importance, their breasts heaving with suppressed rage because there was nothing in their path that they might destroy. the dancing, leaping water reflected every shade and tint--now a rich green, then a deep blue and again a dirty gray as the sun hid for a moment behind a cloud, and as a gust of wind caught the top of the combers decapitating them at one mad rush, the spray was dashed high in the air, flashing out all the prismatic colours. here and yonder, the white caps rose, disappeared and came again, and the waves grew and then diminished in size. then others rose, towering, became larger, majestic, terrible; the milk-like comb rose proudly, soared a brief moment, then fell ignominiously, and the wave diminished passed on humiliated. over head, a few scattered cirrus clouds flitted lazily across the blue dome of heaven, while a dozen mother carey chickens screamed hoarsely as they circled in the air. the strong and steady western breeze bore on its powerful pinions the sweet and eternal music of the wind and sea. shirley stood at the rail under the bridge of the ocean greyhound that was carrying her back to america with all the speed of which her mighty engines were capable. all day and all night, half naked stokers, so grimed with oil and coal dust as to lose the slightest semblance to human beings, feverishly shovelled coal, throwing it rapidly and evenly over roaring furnaces kept at a fierce white heat. the vast boilers, shaken by the titanic forces generating in their cavern-like depths, sent streams of scalding, hissing steam through a thousand valves, cylinders and pistons, turning wheels and cranks as it distributed the tremendous power which was driving the steel monster through the seas at the prodigious speed of four hundred miles in the twenty-four hours. like a pulsating heart in some living thing, the mammoth engines throbbed and panted, and the great vessel groaned and creaked as she rose and fell to the heavy swell, and again lurched forward in obedience to each fresh propulsion from her fast spinning screws. out on deck, volumes of dense black smoke were pouring from four gigantic smoke stacks and spread out in the sky like some endless cinder path leading back over the course the ship had taken. they were four days out from port. two days more and they would sight sandy hook, and shirley would know the worst. she had caught the north german lloyd boat at cherbourg two days after receiving the cablegram from new york. mrs. blake had insisted on coming along in spite of her niece's protests. shirley argued that she had crossed alone when coming; she could go back the same way. besides, was not mr. ryder returning home on the same ship? he would be company and protection both. but mrs. blake was bent on making the voyage. she had not seen her sister for many years and, moreover, this sudden return to america had upset her own plans. she was a poor sailor, yet she loved the ocean and this was a good excuse for a long trip. shirley was too exhausted with worry to offer further resistance and by great good luck the two women had been able to secure at the last moment a cabin to themselves amidships. jefferson, less fortunate, was compelled, to his disgust, to share a stateroom with another passenger, a fat german brewer who was returning to cincinnati, and who snored so loud at night that even the thumping of the engines was completely drowned by his eccentric nasal sounds. the alarming summons home and the terrible shock she had experienced the following morning when jefferson showed her the newspaper article with its astounding and heart rending news about her father had almost prostrated shirley. the blow was all the greater for being so entirely unlooked for. that the story was true she could not doubt. her mother would not have cabled except under the gravest circumstances. what alarmed shirley still more was that she had no direct news of her father. for a moment her heart stood still--suppose the shock of this shameful accusation had killed him? her blood froze in her veins, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her flesh as she thought of the dread possibility that she had looked upon him in life for the last time. she remembered his last kind words when he came to the steamer to see her off, and his kiss when he said good-bye and she had noticed a tear of which he appeared to be ashamed. the hot tears welled up in her own eyes and coursed unhindered down her cheeks. what could these preposterous and abominable charges mean? what was this lie they had invented to ruin her father? that he had enemies she well knew. what strong man had not? indeed, his proverbial honesty had made him feared by all evil-doers and on one occasion they had gone so far as to threaten his life. this new attack was more deadly than all--to sap and destroy his character, to deliberately fabricate lies and calumnies which had no foundation whatever. of course, the accusation was absurd, the senate would refuse to convict him, the entire press would espouse the cause of so worthy a public servant. certainly, everything would be done to clear his character. but what was being done? she could do nothing but wait and wait. the suspense and anxiety were awful. suddenly she heard a familiar step behind her, and jefferson joined her at the rail. the wind was due west and blowing half a gale, so where they were standing--one of the most exposed parts of the ship--it was difficult to keep one's feet, to say nothing of hearing anyone speak. there was a heavy sea running, and each approaching wave looked big enough to engulf the vessel, but as the mass of moving water reached the bow, the ship rose on it, light and graceful as a bird, shook off the flying spray as a cat shakes her fur after an unwelcome bath, and again drove forward as steady and with as little perceptible motion as a railway train. shirley was a fairly good sailor and this kind of weather did not bother her in the least, but when it got very rough she could not bear the rolling and pitching and then all she was good for was to lie still in her steamer chair with her eyes closed until the water was calmer and the pitching ceased. "it's pretty windy here, shirley," shouted jefferson, steadying himself against a stanchion. "don't you want to walk a little?" he had begun to call her by her first name quite naturally, as if it were a matter of course. indeed their relations had come to be more like those of brother and sister than anything else. shirley was too much troubled over the news from home to have a mind for other things, and in her distress she had turned to jefferson for advice and help as she would have looked to an elder brother. he had felt this impulse to confide in him and consult his opinion and it had pleased him more than he dared betray. he had shown her all the sympathy of which his warm, generous nature was capable, yet secretly he did not regret that events had necessitated this sudden return home together on the same ship. he was sorry for judge rossmore, of course, and there was nothing he would not do on his return to secure a withdrawal of the charges. that his father would use his influence he had no doubt. but meantime he was selfish enough to be glad for the opportunity it gave him to be a whole week alone with shirley. no matter how much one may be with people in city or country or even when stopping at the same hotel or house, there is no place in the world where two persons, especially when they are of the opposite sex, can become so intimate as on shipboard. the reason is obvious. the days are long and monotonous. there is nowhere to go, nothing to see but the ocean, nothing to do but read, talk or promenade. seclusion in one's stuffy cabin is out of the question, the public sitting rooms are noisy and impossible, only a steamer chair on deck is comfortable and once there snugly wrapped up in a rug it is surprising how quickly another chair makes its appearance alongside and how welcome one is apt to make the intruder. thus events combined with the weather conspired to bring shirley and jefferson more closely together. the sea had been rough ever since they sailed, keeping mrs. blake confined to her stateroom almost continuously. they were, therefore, constantly in one another's company, and slowly, unconsciously, there was taking root in their hearts the germ of the only real and lasting love--the love born of something higher than mere physical attraction, the nobler, more enduring affection that is born of mutual sympathy, association and companionship. "isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed shirley ecstatically. "look at those great waves out there! see how majestically they soar and how gracefully they fall!" "glorious!" assented jefferson sharing her enthusiasm. "there's nothing to compare with it. it's nature's grandest spectacle. the ocean is the only place on earth that man has not defiled and spoiled. those waves are the same now as they were on the day of creation." "not the day of creation. you mean during the aeons of time creation was evolving," corrected shirley. "i meant that of course," assented jefferson. "when one says 'day' that is only a form of speech." "why not be accurate?" persisted shirley. "it was the use of that little word 'day' which has given the theologians so many sleepless nights." there was a roguish twinkle in her eye. she well knew that he thought as she did on metaphysical questions, but she could not resist teasing him. like jefferson, she was not a member of any church, although her nature was deeply religious. hers was the religion the soul inculcates, not that which is learned by rote in the temple. she was a christian because she thought christ the greatest figure in world history, and also because her own conduct of life was modelled upon christian principles and virtues. she was religious for religion's sake and not for public ostentation. the mystery of life awed her and while her intelligence could not accept all the doctrines of dogmatic religion she did not go so far as jefferson, who was a frank agnostic. she would not admit that we do not know. the longings and aspirations of her own soul convinced her of the existence of a supreme being, first cause, divine intelligence--call it what you will--which had brought out of chaos the wonderful order of the universe. the human mind was, indeed, helpless to conceive such a first cause in any form and lay prostrate before the unknown, yet she herself was an enthusiastic delver into scientific hypothesis and the teachings of darwin, spencer, haeckel had satisfied her intellect if they had failed to content her soul. the theory of evolution as applied to life on her own little planet appealed strongly to her because it accounted plausibly for the presence of man on earth. the process through which we had passed could be understood by every intelligence. the blazing satellite, violently detached from the parent sun starting on its circumscribed orbit--that was the first stage, the gradual subsidence of the flames and the cooling of the crust--the second stage: the gases mingling and forming water which covered the earth--the third stage; the retreating of the waters and the appearance of the land--the fourth stage; the appearance of vegetation and animal life--the fifth stage; then, after a long interval and through constant evolution and change the appearance of man, which was the sixth stage. what stages still to come, who knows? this simple account given by science was, after all, practically identical with the biblical legend! it was when shirley was face to face with nature in her wildest and most primitive aspects that this deep rooted religious feeling moved her most strongly. at these times she felt herself another being, exalted, sublimated, lifted from this little world with its petty affairs and vanities up to dizzy heights. she had felt the same sensation when for the first time she had viewed the glories of the snow clad matterhorn, she had felt it when on a summer's night at sea she had sat on deck and watched with fascinated awe the resplendent radiance of the countless stars, she felt it now as she looked at the foaming, tumbling waves. "it is so beautiful," she murmured as she turned to walk. the ship was rolling a little and she took jefferson's arm to steady herself. shirley was an athletic girl and had all the ease and grace of carriage that comes of much tennis and golf playing. barely twenty-four years old, she was still in the first flush of youth and health, and there was nothing she loved so much as exercise and fresh air. after a few turns on deck, there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks that was good to see and many an admiring glance was cast at the young couple as they strode briskly up and down past the double rows of elongated steamer chairs. they had the deck pretty much to themselves. it was only four o'clock, too early for the appetite-stimulating walk before dinner, and their fellow passengers were basking in the sunshine, stretched out on their chairs in two even rows like so many mummies on exhibition. some were reading, some were dozing. two or three were under the weather, completely prostrated, their bilious complexion of a deathly greenish hue. at each new roll of the ship, they closed their eyes as if resigned to the worst that might happen and their immediate neighbours furtively eyed each of their movements as if apprehensive of what any moment might bring forth. a few couples were flirting to their heart's content under the friendly cover of the life-boats which, as on most of the transatlantic liners, were more useful in saving reputations than in saving life. the deck steward was passing round tea and biscuits, much to the disgust of the ill ones, but to the keen satisfaction of the stronger stomached passengers who on shipboard never seem to be able to get enough to eat and drink. on the bridge, the second officer, a tall, handsome man with the points of his moustache trained upwards a la kaiser wilhelm, was striding back and forth, every now and then sweeping the horizon with his glass and relieving the monotony of his duties by ogling the better looking women passengers. "hello, shirley!" called out a voice from a heap of rugs as shirley and jefferson passed the rows of chairs. they stopped short and discovered mrs. blake ensconced in a cozy corner, sheltered from the wind. "why, aunt milly," exclaimed shirley surprised. "i thought you were downstairs. i didn't think you could stand this sea." "it is a little rougher than i care to have it," responded mrs. blake with a wry grimace and putting her hand to her breast as if to appease disturbing qualms. "it was so stuffy in the cabin i could not bear it. it's more pleasant here but it's getting a little cool and i think i'll go below. where have you children been all afternoon?" jefferson volunteered to explain. "the children have been rhapsodizing over the beauties of the ocean," he laughed. with a sly glance at shirley, he added, "your niece has been coaching me in metaphysics." shirley shook her finger at him. "now jefferson, if you make fun of me i'll never talk seriously with you again." "wie geht es, meine damen?" shirley turned on hearing the guttural salutation. it was captain hegermann, the commander of the ship, a big florid saxon with great bushy golden whiskers and a basso voice like edouard de reszke. he was imposing in his smart uniform and gold braid and his manner had the self-reliant, authoritative air usual in men who have great responsibilities and are accustomed to command. he was taking his afternoon stroll and had stopped to chat with his lady passengers. he had already passed mrs. blake a dozen times and not noticed her, but now her pretty niece was with her, which altered the situation. he talked to the aunt and looked at shirley, much to the annoyance of jefferson, who muttered things under his breath. "when shall we be in, captain?" asked mrs. blake anxiously, forgetting that this was one of the questions which according to ship etiquette must never be asked of the officers. but as long as he could ignore mrs. blake and gaze at shirley capt. hegermann did not mind. he answered amiably: "at the rate we are going, we ought to sight fire island sometime to-morrow evening. if we do, that will get us to our dock about o'clock friday morning, i fancy." then addressing shirley direct he said: "and you, fraulein, i hope you won't be glad the voyage is over?" shirley sighed and a worried, anxious look came into her face. "yes, captain, i shall be very glad. it is not pleasure that is bringing me back to america so soon." the captain elevated his eyebrows. he was sorry the young lady had anxieties to keep her so serious, and he hoped she would find everything all right on her arrival. then, politely saluting, he passed on, only to halt again a few paces on where his bewhiskered gallantry met with more encouragement. mrs. blake rose from her chair. the air was decidedly cooler, she would go downstairs and prepare for dinner. shirley said she would remain on deck a little longer. she was tired of walking, so when her aunt left them she took her chair and told jefferson to get another. he wanted nothing better, but before seating himself he took the rugs and wrapped shirley up with all the solicitude of a mother caring for her first born. arranging the pillow under her head, he asked: "is that comfortable?" she nodded, smiling at him. "you're a good boy, jeff. but you'll spoil me." "nonsense," he stammered as he took another chair and put himself by her side. "as if any fellow wouldn't give his boots to do a little job like that for you!" she seemed to take no notice of the covert compliment. in fact, she already took it as a matter of course that jefferson was very fond of her. did she love him? she hardly knew. certainly she thought more of him than of any other man she knew and she readily believed that she could be with him for the rest of her life and like him better every day. then, too, they had become more intimate during the last few days. this trouble, this unknown peril had drawn them together. yes, she would be sorry if she were to see jefferson paying attention to another woman. was this love? perhaps. these thoughts were running through her mind as they sat there side by side isolated from the main herd of passengers, each silent, watching through the open rail the foaming water as it rushed past. jefferson had been casting furtive glances at his companion and as he noted her serious, pensive face he thought how pretty she was. he wondered what she was thinking of and suddenly inspired no doubt by the mysterious power that enables some people to read the thoughts of others, he said abruptly: "shirley, i can read your thoughts. you were thinking of me." she was startled for a moment but immediately recovered her self possession. it never occurred to her to deny it. she pondered for a moment and then replied: "you are right, jeff, i was thinking of you. how did you guess?" he leaned over her chair and took her hand. she made no resistance. her delicate, slender hand lay passively in his big brown one and met his grasp frankly, cordially. he whispered: "what were you thinking of me--good or bad?" "good, of course. how could i think anything bad of you?" she turned her eyes on him in wonderment. then she went on: "i was wondering how a girl could distinguish between the feeling she has for a man she merely likes, and the feeling she has for a man she loves." jefferson bent eagerly forward so as to lose no word that might fall from those coveted lips. "in what category would i be placed?" he asked. "i don't quite know," she answered, laughingly. then seriously, she added: "jeff, why should we act like children? your actions, more than your words, have told me that you love me. i have known it all along. if i have appeared cold and indifferent it is because"--she hesitated. "because?" echoed jefferson anxiously, as if his whole future depended on that reason. "because i was not sure of myself. would it be womanly or honourable on my part to encourage you, unless i felt i reciprocated your feelings? you are young, one day you will be very rich, the whole world lies before you. there are plenty of women who would willingly give you their love." "no--no!" he burst out in vigorous protest, "it is you i want, shirley, you alone." grasping her hand more closely, he went on, passion vibrating in every note of his voice. "i love you, shirley. i've loved you from the very first evening i met you. i want you to be my wife." shirley looked straight up into the blue eyes so eagerly bent down on hers, so entreating in their expression, and in a gentle voice full of emotion she answered: "jefferson, you have done me the greatest honour a man can do a woman. don't ask me to answer you now. i like you very much--i more than like you. whether it is love i feel for you--that i have not yet determined. give me time. my present trouble and then my literary work---" "i know," agreed jefferson, "that this is hardly the time to speak of such matters. your father has first call on your attention. but as to your literary work. i do not understand." "simply this. i am ambitious. i have had a little success--just enough to crave for more. i realize that marriage would put an extinguisher on all aspirations in that direction." "is marriage so very commonplace?" grumbled jefferson. "not commonplace, but there is no room in marriage for a woman having personal ambitions of her own. once married her duty is to her husband and her children--not to herself." "that is right," he replied; "but which is likely to give you greater joy--a literary success or a happy wifehood? when you have spent your best years and given the public your best work they will throw you over for some new favorite. you'll find yourself an old woman with nothing more substantial to show as your life work than that questionable asset, a literary reputation. how many literary reputations to-day conceal an aching heart and find it difficult to make both ends meet? how different with the woman who married young and obeys nature's behest by contributing her share to the process of evolution. her life is spent basking in the affection of her husband and the chubby smiles of her dimpled babes, and when in the course of time she finds herself in the twilight of her life, she has at her feet a new generation of her own flesh and blood. isn't that better than a literary reputation?" he spoke so earnestly that shirley looked at him in surprise. she knew he was serious but she had not suspected that he thought so deeply on these matters. her heart told her that he was uttering the true philosophy of the ages. she said: "why, jefferson, you talk like a book. perhaps you are right, i have no wish to be a blue stocking and deserted in my old age, far from it. but give me time to think. let us first ascertain the extent of this disaster which has overtaken my father. then if you still care for me and if i have not changed my mind," here she glanced slyly at him, "we will resume our discussion." again she held out her hand which he had released. "is it a bargain?" she asked. "it's a bargain," he murmured, raising the white hand to his lips. a fierce longing rose within him to take her in his arms and kiss passionately the mouth that lay temptingly near his own, but his courage failed him. after all, he reasoned, he had not yet the right. a few minutes later they left the deck and went downstairs to dress for dinner. that same evening they stood again at the rail watching the mysterious phosphorescence as it sparkled in the moonlight. her thoughts travelling faster than the ship, shirley suddenly asked: "do you really think mr. ryder will use his influence to help my father?" jefferson set his jaw fast and the familiar ryder gleam came into his eyes as he responded: "why not? my father is all powerful. he has made and unmade judges and legislators and even presidents. why should he not be able to put a stop to these preposterous proceedings? i will go to him directly we land and we'll see what can be done." so the time on shipboard had passed, shirley alternately buoyed up with hope and again depressed by the gloomiest forebodings. the following night they passed fire island and the next day the huge steamer dropped anchor at quarantine. chapter vi. a month had passed since the memorable meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad in new york and during that time neither john burkett ryder nor judge rossmore had been idle. the former had immediately set in motion the machinery he controlled in the legislature at washington, while the judge neglected no step to vindicate himself before the public. ryder, for reasons of his own--probably because he wished to make the blow the more crushing when it did fall--had insisted on the proceedings at the board meeting being kept a profound secret and some time elapsed before the newspapers got wind of the coming congressional inquiry. no one had believed the stories about judge rossmore but now that a quasi-official seal had been set on the current gossip, there was a howl of virtuous indignation from the journalistic muck rakers. what was the country coming to? they cried in double leaded type. after the embezzling by life insurance officers, the rascality of the railroads, the looting of city treasuries, the greed of the trusts, the grafting of the legislators, had arisen a new and more serious scandal--the corruption of the judiciary. the last bulwark of the nation had fallen, the country lay helpless at the mercy of legalized sandbaggers. even the judges were no longer to be trusted, the most respected one among them all had been unable to resist the tempter. the supreme court, the living voice of the constitution, was honeycombed with graft. public life was rotten to the core! neither the newspapers nor the public stopped to ascertain the truth or the falsity of the charges against judge rossmore. it was sufficient that the bribery story furnished the daily sensation which newspaper editors and newspaper readers must have. the world is ever more prompt to believe ill rather than good of a man, and no one, except in rossmore's immediate circle of friends, entertained the slightest doubt of his guilt. it was common knowledge that the "big interests" were behind the proceedings, and that judge rossmore was a scapegoat, sacrificed by the system because he had been blocking their game. if rossmore had really accepted the bribe, and few now believed him spotless, he deserved all that was coming to him. senator roberts was very active in washington preparing the case against judge rossmore. the latter being a democrat and "the interests" controlling a republican majority in the house, it was a foregone conclusion that the inquiry would be against him, and that a demand would at once be made upon the senate for his impeachment. almost prostrated by the misfortune which had so suddenly and unexpectedly come upon him, judge rossmore was like a man demented. his reason seemed to be tottering, he spoke and acted like a man in a dream. naturally he was entirely incapacitated for work and he had applied to washington to be temporarily relieved from his judicial duties. he was instantly granted a leave of absence and went at once to his home in madison avenue, where he shut himself up in his library, sitting for hours at his desk wrestling with documents and legal tomes in a pathetic endeavour to find some way out, trying to elude this net in which unseen hands had entangled him. what an end to his career! to have struggled and achieved for half a century, to have built up a reputation year by year, as a man builds a house brick by brick, only to see the whole crumble to his feet like dust! to have gained the respect of the country, to have made a name as the most incorruptible of public servants and now to be branded as a common bribe taker! could he be dreaming? it was too incredible! what would his daughter say--his shirley? ah, the thought of the expression of incredulity and wonder on her face when she heard the news cut him to the heart like a knife thrust. yet, he mused, her very unwillingness to believe it should really be his consolation. ah, his wife and his child--they knew he had been innocent of wrong doing. the very idea was ridiculous. at most he had been careless. yes, he was certainly to blame. he ought to have seen the trap so carefully prepared and into which he had walked as if blindfolded. that extra $ , worth of stock, on which he had never received a cent interest, had been the decoy in a carefully thought out plot. they, the plotters, well knew how ignorant he was of financial matters and he had been an easy victim. who would believe his story that the stock had been sent to him with a plausibly-worded letter to the effect that it represented a bonus on his own investment? now he came to think of it, calmly and reasonably, he would not believe it himself. as usual, he had mislaid or destroyed the secretary's letter and there was only his word against the company's books to substantiate what would appear a most improbable if not impossible occurrence. it was his conviction of his own good faith that made his present dilemma all the more cruel. had he really been a grafter, had he really taken the stock as a bribe he would not care so much, for then he would have foreseen and discounted the chances of exposure. yes, there was no doubt possible. he was the victim of a conspiracy, there was an organized plot to ruin him, to get him out of the way. the "interests" feared him, resented his judicial decisions and they had halted at nothing to accomplish their purpose. how could he fight them back, what could he do to protect himself? he had no proofs of a conspiracy, his enemies worked in the dark, there was no way in which he could reach them or know who they were. he thought of john burkett ryder. ah, he remembered now. ryder was the man who had recommended the investment in alaskan stock. of course, why did he not think of it before? he recollected that at the time he had been puzzled at receiving so much stock and he had mentioned it to ryder, adding that the secretary had told him it was customary. oh, why had he not kept the secretary's letter? but ryder would certainly remember it. he probably still had his two letters in which he spoke of making the investment. if those letters could be produced at the congressional inquiry they would clear him at once. so losing no time, and filled with renewed hope he wrote to the colossus a strong, manly letter which would have melted an iceberg, urging mr. ryder to come forward now at this critical time and clear him of this abominable charge, or in any case to kindly return the two letters he must have in his possession, as they would go far to help him at the trial. three days passed and no reply from ryder. on the fourth came a polite but frigid note from mr. ryder's private secretary. mr. ryder had received judge rossmore's letter and in reply begged to state that he had a vague recollection of some conversation with the judge in regard to investments, but he did not think he had advised the purchase of any particular stock, as that was something he never did on principle, even with his most intimate friends. he had no wish to be held accountable in case of loss, etc. as to the letter which judge rossmore mentioned as having written to mr. ryder in regard to having received more stock than he had bought, of that mr. ryder had no recollection whatsoever. judge rossmore was probably mistaken as to the identity of his correspondent. he regretted he could not be of more service to judge rossmore, and remained his very obedient servant. it was very evident that no help was to be looked for in that quarter. there was even decided hostility in ryder's reply. could it be true that the financier was really behind these attacks upon his character, was it possible that one man merely to make more money would deliberately ruin his fellow man whose hand he had grasped in friendship? he had been unwilling to believe it when his friend ex-judge stott had pointed to ryder as the author of all his misfortunes, but this unsympathetic letter with its falsehoods, its lies plainly written all over its face, was proof enough. yes, there was now no doubt possible. john burkett ryder was his enemy and what an enemy! many a man had committed suicide when he had incurred the enmity of the colossus. judge rossmore, completely discouraged, bowed his head to the inevitable. his wife, a nervous, sickly woman, was helpless to comfort or aid him. she had taken their misfortune as a visitation of an inscrutable deity. she knew, of course, that her husband was wholly innocent of the accusations brought against him and if his character could be cleared and himself rehabilitated before the world, she would be the first to rejoice. but if it pleased the almighty in his wisdom to sorely try her husband and herself and inflict this punishment upon them it was not for the finite mind to criticise the ways of providence. there was probably some good reason for the apparent cruelty and injustice of it which their earthly understanding failed to grasp. mrs. rossmore found much comfort in this philosophy, which gave a satisfactory ending to both ends of the problem, and she was upheld in her view by the rector of the church which she had attended regularly each sunday for the past five and twenty years. christian resignation in the hour of trial, submission to the will of heaven were, declared her spiritual adviser, the fundamental principles of religion. he could only hope that mrs. rossmore would succeed in imbuing her husband with her christian spirit. but when the judge's wife returned home and saw the keen mental distress of the man who had been her companion for twenty-five long years, the comforter in her sorrows, the joy and pride of her young wifehood, she forgot all about her smug churchly consoler, and her heart went out to her husband in a spontaneous burst of genuine human sympathy. yes, they must do something at once. where men had failed perhaps a woman could do something. she wanted to cable at once for shirley, who was everything in their household--organizer, manager, adviser--but the judge would not hear of it. no, his daughter was enjoying her holiday in blissful ignorance of what had occurred. he would not spoil it for her. they would see; perhaps things would improve. but he sent for his old friend ex-judge stott. they were life-long friends, having become acquainted nearly thirty years ago at the law school, at the time when both were young men about to enter on a public career. stott, who was rossmore's junior, had begun as a lawyer in new york and soon acquired a reputation in criminal practice. he afterwards became assistant district attorney and later, when a vacancy occurred in the city magistrature, he was successful in securing the appointment. on the bench he again met his old friend rossmore and the two men once more became closely intimate. the regular court hours, however, soon palled on a man of judge stott's nervous temperament and it was not long before he retired to take up once more his criminal practice. he was still a young man, not yet fifty, and full of vigor and fight. he had a blunt manner but his heart was in the right place, and he had a record as clean as his close shaven face. he was a hard worker, a brilliant speaker and one of the cleverest cross-examiners at the bar. this was the man to whom judge rossmore naturally turned for legal assistance. stott was out west when he first heard of the proceedings against his old friend, and this indignity put upon the only really honest man in public life whom he knew, so incensed him that he was already hurrying back to his aid when the summons reached him. meantime, a fresh and more serious calamity had overwhelmed judge rossmore. everything seemed to combine to break the spirit of this man who had dared defy the power of organized capital. hardly had the news of the congressional inquiry been made public, than the financial world was startled by an extraordinary slump in wall street. there was nothing in the news of the day to justify a decline, but prices fell and fell. the bears had it all their own way, the big interests hammered stocks all along the line, "coppers" especially being the object of attack. the market closed feverishly and the next day the same tactics were pursued. from the opening, on selling orders coming from no one knew where, prices fell to nothing, a stampede followed and before long it became a panic. pandemonium reigned on the floor of the stock exchange. white faced, dishevelled brokers shouted and struggled like men possessed to execute the orders of their clients. big financial houses, which stood to lose millions on a falling market, rallied and by rush orders to buy, attempted to stem the tide, but all to no purpose. one firm after another went by the board unable to weather the tempest, until just before closing time, the stock ticker announced the failure of the great northwestern mining co. the drive in the market had been principally directed against its securities, and after vainly endeavoring to check the bear raid, it had been compelled to declare itself bankrupt. it was heavily involved, assets nil, stock almost worthless. it was probable that the creditors would not see ten cents on the dollar. thousands were ruined and judge rossmore among them. all the savings of a lifetime--nearly $ , were gone. he was practically penniless, at a time when he needed money most. he still owned his house in madison avenue, but that would have to go to settle with his creditors. by the time everything was paid there would only remain enough for a modest competence. as to his salary, of course he could not touch that so long as this accusation was hanging over his head. and if he were impeached it would stop altogether. the salary, therefore, was not to be counted on. they must manage as best they could and live more cheaply, taking a small house somewhere in the outskirts of the city where he could prepare his case quietly without attracting attention. stott thought this was the best thing they could do and he volunteered to relieve his friend by taking on his own hands all the arrangements of the sale of the house and furniture, which offer the judge accepted only too gladly. meantime, mrs. rossmore went to long island to see what could be had, and she found at the little village of massapequa just what they were looking for--a commodious, neatly-furnished two-story cottage at a modest rental. of course, it was nothing like what they had been accustomed to, but it was clean and comfortable, and as mrs. rossmore said, rather tactlessly, beggars cannot be choosers. perhaps it would not be for long. instant possession was to be had, so deposit was paid on the spot and a few days later the rossmores left their mansion on madison avenue and took up their residence in massapequa, where their advent created quite a fluster in local social circles. massapequa is one of the thousand and one flourishing communities scattered over long island, all of which are apparently modelled after the same pattern. each is an exact duplicate of its neighbour in everything except the name--the same untidy railroad station, the same sleepy stores, the same attractive little frame residences, built for the most part on the "why pay rent? own your own home" plan. a healthy boom in real estate imparts plenty of life to them all and massapequa is particularly famed as being the place where the cat jumped to when manhattan had to seek an outlet for its congested population and ever-increasing army of home seekers. formerly large tracts of flat farm lands, only sparsely shaded by trees, massapequa, in common with other villages of its kind, was utterly destitute of any natural attractions. there was the one principal street leading to the station, with a few scattered stores on either side, a church and a bank. happily, too, for those who were unable to survive the monotony of the place, it boasted of a pretty cemetery. there were also a number of attractive cottages with spacious porches hung with honeysuckle and of these the rossmores occupied one of the less pretentious kind. but although massapequa, theoretically speaking, was situated only a stone's throw from the metropolis, it might have been situated in the great sahara so far as its inhabitants took any active interest in the doings of gay gotham. local happenings naturally had first claim upon massapequa's attention--the prowess of the local baseball team, mrs. robinson's tea party and the highly exciting sessions of the local pinochle club furnishing food for unlimited gossip and scandal. the newspapers reached the village, of course, but only the local news items aroused any real interest, while the women folk usually restricted their readings to those pages devoted to daily hints for the home, mrs. sayre's learned articles on health and beauty and fay stanton's daily fashions. it was not surprising, therefore, that the fame of judge rossmore and the scandal in which he was at present involved had not penetrated as far as massapequa and that the natives were considerably mystified as to who the new arrivals in their midst might be. stott had been given a room in the cottage so that he might be near at hand to work with the judge in the preparation of the defence, and he came out from the city every evening. it was now june. the senate would not take action until it convened in december, but there was a lot of work to be done and no time to be lost. the evening following the day of their arrival they were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool evening air after dinner. the judge was smoking. he was not a slave to the weed, but he enjoyed a quiet pipe after meals, claiming that it quieted his nerves and enabled him to think more clearly. besides, it was necessary to keep at bay the ubiquitous long island mosquito. mrs. rossmore had remained for a moment in the dining-room to admonish eudoxia, their new and only maid-of-all-work, not to wreck too much of the crockery when she removed the dinner dishes. suddenly stott, who was perusing an evening paper, asked: "by the way, where's your daughter? does she know of this radical change in your affairs?" judge rossmore started. by what mysterious agency had this man penetrated his own most intimate thoughts? he was himself thinking of shirley that very moment, and by some inexplicable means--telepathy modern psychologists called it--the thought current had crossed to stott, whose mind, being in full sympathy, was exactly attuned to receive it. removing the pipe from his mouth the judge replied: "shirley's in paris. poor girl, i hadn't the heart to tell her. she has no idea of what's happened. i didn't want to spoil her holiday." he was silent for a moment. then, after a few more puffs he added confidentially in a low tone, as if he did not care for his wife to hear: "the truth is, stott, i couldn't bear to have her return now. i couldn't look my own daughter in the face." a sound as of a great sob which he had been unable to control cut short his speech. his eyes filled with tears and he began to smoke furiously as if ashamed of this display of emotion. stott, blowing his nose with suspicious vigor, replied soothingly: "you mustn't talk like that. everything will come out all right, of course. but i think you are wrong not to have told your daughter. her place is here at your side. she ought to be told even if only in justice to her. if you don't tell her someone else will, or, what's worse, she'll hear of it through the newspapers." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed the judge, visibly perturbed at the suggestion about the newspapers. "don't you agree with me?" demanded stott, appealing to mrs. rossmore, who emerged from the house at that instant. "don't you think your daughter should be informed of what has happened?" "most assuredly i do," answered mrs. rossmore determinedly. "the judge wouldn't hear of it, but i took the law into my own hands. i've cabled for her." "you cabled for shirley?" cried the judge incredulously. he was so unaccustomed to seeing his ailing, vacillating wife do anything on her own initiative and responsibility that it seemed impossible. "you cabled for shirley?" he repeated. "yes," replied mrs. rossmore triumphantly and secretly pleased that for once in her life she had asserted herself. "i cabled yesterday. i simply couldn't bear it alone any longer." "what did you say?" inquired the judge apprehensively. "i just told her to come home at once. to-morrow we ought to get an answer." stott meantime had been figuring on the time of shirley's probable arrival. if the cablegram had been received in paris the previous evening it would be too late to catch the french boat. the north german lloyd steamer was the next to leave and it touched at cherbourg. she would undoubtedly come on that. in a week at most she would be here. then it became a question as to who should go to meet her at the dock. the judge could not go, that was certain. it would be too much of an ordeal. mrs. rossmore did not know the lower part of the city well, and had no experience in meeting ocean steamships. there was only one way out--would stott go? of course he would and he would bring shirley back with him to massapequa. so during the next few days while stott and the judge toiled preparing their case, which often necessitated brief trips to the city, mrs. rossmore, seconded with sulky indifference by eudoxia, was kept busy getting a room ready for her daughter's arrival. eudoxia, who came originally from county cork, was an irish lady with a thick brogue and a husky temper. she was amiable enough so long as things went to her satisfaction, but when they did not suit her she was a termagant. she was neither beautiful nor graceful, she was not young nor was she very clean. her usual condition was dishevelled, her face was all askew, and when she dressed up she looked like a valentine. her greatest weakness was a propensity for smashing dishes, and when reprimanded she would threaten to take her traps and skidoo. this news of the arrival of a daughter failed to fill her with enthusiasm. firstly, it meant more work; secondly she had not bargained for it. when she took the place it was on the understanding that the family consisted only of an elderly gentleman and his wife, that there was practically no work, good wages, plenty to eat, with the privilege of an evening out when she pleased. instead of this millennium she soon found stott installed as a permanent guest and now a daughter was to be foisted on her. no wonder hard working girls were getting sick and tired of housework! as already hinted there was no unhealthy curiosity among massapequans regarding their new neighbors from the city but some of the more prominent people of the place considered it their duty to seek at least a bowing acquaintance with the rossmores by paying them a formal visit. so the day following the conversation on the porch when the judge and stott had gone to the city on one of their periodical excursions, mrs. rossmore was startled to see a gentleman of clerical appearance accompanied by a tall, angular woman enter their gate and ring the bell. the rev. percival pontifex beetle and his sister miss jane beetle prided themselves on being leaders in the best social circle in massapequa. the incumbent of the local presbyterian church, the rev. deetle, was a thin, sallow man of about thirty-five. he had a diminutive face with a rather long and very pointed nose which gave a comical effect to his physiognomy. theology was written all over his person and he wore the conventional clerical hat which, owing to his absurdly small face, had the unfortunate appearance of being several sizes too large for him. miss deetle was a gaunt and angular spinster who had an unhappy trick of talking with a jerk. she looked as if she were constantly under self-restraint and was liable at any moment to explode into a fit of rage and only repressed herself with considerable effort. as they came up the stoop, eudoxia, already instructed by mrs. rossmore, was ready for them. with her instinctive respect for the priestly garb she was rather taken back on seeing a clergyman, but she brazened it out: "mr. rossmore's not home." then shaking her head, she added: "they don't see no visitors." unabashed, the rev. deetle drew a card from a case and handing it to the girl said pompously: "then we will see mrs. rossmore. i saw her at the window as we came along. here, my girl, take her this card. tell her that the reverend pontifex deetle and miss deetle have called to present their compliments." brushing past eudoxia, who vainly tried to close the door, the rev. deetle coolly entered the house, followed by his sister, and took a seat in the parlour. "she'll blame me for this," wailed the girl, who had not budged and who stood there fingering the rev. deetle's card. "blame you? for what?" demanded the clerical visitor in surprise. "she told me to say she was out--but i can't lie to a minister of the gospel--leastways not to his face. i'll give her your card, sir." the reverend caller waited until eudoxia had disappeared, then he rose and looked around curiously at the books and pictures. "hum--not a bible or a prayer book or a hymn book, not a picture or anything that would indicate the slightest reverence for holy things." he picked up a few papers that were lying on the table and after glancing at them threw them down in disgust. "law reports--wall street reports--the god of this world. evidently very ordinary people, jane." he looked at his sister, but she sat stiffly and primly in her chair and made no reply. he repeated: "didn't you hear me? i said they are ordinary people." "i've no doubt," retorted miss deetle, "and as such they will not thank us for prying into their affairs." "prying, did you say?" said the parson, resenting this implied criticism of his actions. "just plain prying," persisted his sister angrily. "i don't see what else it is." the rev. pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied: "it is protecting my flock. as leader of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community." "these people are neither widows or orphans," objected miss deetle. "they are strangers," insisted the rev. pontifex, "and it is my duty to minister to them--if they need it. furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst. no less than three of the lady trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came." "the lady trustees are a pack of old busybodies," growled his sister. her brother raised his finger warningly. "jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy? these rossmore people have been here two weeks they have visited no one, no one visits them. they have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously. who are they? what are they hiding? is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock? it is not a bereavement, for they don't wear mourning. i'm afraid it may be some hidden scandal--" further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of mrs. rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible. "miss deetle--mr. deetle. i am much honoured," was her not too effusive greeting. the reverend pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. the idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him. "the honour is ours," he stammered. "i--er--we--er--my sister jane and i called to--" "won't you sit down?" said mrs. rossmore, waving him to a chair. he danced around her in a manner that made her nervous. "thank you so much," he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. he took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. finally his sister prompted him: "you wanted to see mrs. rossmore about the festival," she said. "oh, of course, i had quite forgotten. how stupid of me. the fact is, mrs. rossmore," he went on, "we are thinking of giving a festival next week--a festival with strawberries--and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and mr. rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity--so to speak--get better acquainted, and er--" another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. then turning on mrs. rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked: "do you like strawberries?" "it's very kind of you," interrupted mrs. rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. "indeed, i appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and i go nowhere, nowhere at all. you see we have met with reverses and--" "reverses," echoed the clerical visitor, with difficulty keeping his seat. this was the very thing he had come to find out and here it was actually thrown at him. he congratulated himself on his cleverness in having inspired so much confidence and thought with glee of his triumph when he returned with the full story to the lady trustees. simulating, therefore, the deepest sympathy he tried to draw his hostess out: "dear me, how sad! you met with reverses." turning to his sister, who was sitting in her corner like a petrified mummy, he added: "jane, do you hear? how inexpressibly sad! they have met with reverses!" he paused, hoping that mrs. rossmore would go on to explain just what their reverses had been, but she was silent. as a gentle hint he said softly: "did i interrupt you, madam?" "not at all, i did not speak," she answered. thus baffled, he turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling and said: "when reverses come we naturally look for spiritual consolation. my dear mrs. rossmore, in the name of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery i offer you that consolation." mrs. rossmore looked helplessly from one to the other embarrassed as to what to say. who were these strangers that intruded on her privacy offering a consolation she did not want? miss deetle, as if glad of the opportunity to joke at her brother's expense, said explosively: "my dear pontifex, you have already offered a strawberry festival which mrs. rossmore has been unable to accept." "well, what of it?" demanded mr. deetle, glaring at his sister for the irrelevant interruption. "you are both most kind," murmured mrs. rossmore; "but we could not accept in any case. my daughter is returning home from paris next week." "ah, your daughter--you have a daughter?" exclaimed mr. deetle, grasping at the slightest straw to add to his stock of information. "coming from paris, too! such a wicked city!" he had never been to paris, he went on to explain, but he had read enough about it and he was grateful that the lord had chosen massapequa as the field of his labours. here at least, life was sweet and wholesome and one's hopes of future salvation fairly reasonable. he was not a brilliant talker when the conversation extended beyond massapequa but he rambled on airing his views on the viciousness of the foreigner in general, until mrs. rossmore, utterly wearied, began to wonder when they would go. finally he fell back upon the weather. "we are very fortunate in having such pleasant weather, don't you think so, madam? oh, massapequa is a lovely spot, isn't it? we think it's the one place to live in. we are all one happy family. that's why my sister and i called to make your acquaintance." "you are very good, i'm sure. i shall tell my husband you came and he'll be very pleased." having exhausted his conversational powers and seeing that further efforts to pump mrs. rossmore were useless, the clerical visitor rose to depart: "it looks like rain. come, jane, we had better go. good-bye, madam, i am delighted to have made this little visit and i trust you will assure mr. rossmore that all souls unified baptismal presbytery always has a warm welcome for him." they bowed and mrs. rossmore bowed. the agony was over and as the door closed on them mrs. rossmore gave a sigh of relief. that evening stott and the judge came home earlier than usual and from their dejected appearance mrs. rossmore divined bad news. the judge was painfully silent throughout the meal and stott was unusually grave. finally the latter took her aside and broke it to her gently. in spite of their efforts and the efforts of their friends the congressional inquiry had resulted in a finding against the judge and a demand had already been made upon the senate for his impeachment. they could do nothing now but fight it in the senate with all the influence they could muster. it was going to be hard but stott was confident that right would prevail. after dinner as they were sitting in silence on the porch, each measuring the force of this blow which they had expected yet had always hoped to ward off, the crunching sound of a bicycle was heard on the quiet country road. the rider stopped at their gate and came up the porch holding out an envelope to the judge, who, guessing the contents, had started forward. he tore it open. it was a cablegram from paris and read as follows: am sailing on the kaiser wilhelm to-day. shirley. chapter vii. the pier of the north german lloyd steamship company, at hoboken, fairly sizzled with bustle and excitement. the kaiser wilhelm had arrived at sandy hook the previous evening and was now lying out in midstream. she would tie up at her dock within half an hour. employes of the line, baggage masters, newspaper reporters, custom house officers, policemen, detectives, truck drivers, expressmen, longshoremen, telegraph messengers and anxious friends of incoming passengers surged back and forth in seemingly hopeless confusion. the shouting of orders, the rattling of cab wheels, the shrieking of whistles was deafening. from out in the river came the deep toned blasts of the steamer's siren, in grotesque contrast with the strident tooting of a dozen diminutive tugs which, puffing and snorting, were slowly but surely coaxing the leviathan into her berth alongside the dock. the great vessel, spick and span after a coat of fresh paint hurriedly put on during the last day of the voyage, bore no traces of gale, fog and stormy seas through which she had passed on her , mile run across the ocean. conspicuous on the bridge, directing the docking operations, stood capt. hegermann, self satisfied and smiling, relieved that the responsibilities of another trip were over, and at his side, sharing the honours, was the grizzled pilot who had brought the ship safely through the dangers of gedney's channel, his shabby pea jacket, old slouch hat, top boots and unkempt beard standing out in sharp contrast with the immaculate white duck trousers, the white and gold caps and smart full dress uniforms of the ship's officers. the rails on the upper decks were seen to be lined with passengers, all dressed in their shore going clothes, some waving handkerchiefs at friends they already recognized, all impatiently awaiting the shipping of the gangplank. stott had come early. they had received word at massapequa the day before that the steamer had been sighted off fire island and that she would be at her pier the next morning at o'clock. stott arrived at . and so found no difficulty in securing a front position among the small army of people, who, like himself, had come down to meet friends. as the huge vessel swung round and drew closer, stott easily picked out shirley. she was scanning eagerly through a binocular the rows of upturned faces on the dock, and he noted that a look of disappointment crossed her face at not finding the object of her search. she turned and said something to a lady in black and to a man who stood at her side. who they might be stott had no idea. fellow passengers, no doubt. one becomes so intimate on shipboard; it seems a friendship that must surely last a lifetime, whereas the custom officers have not finished rummaging through your trunks when these easily-made steamer friends are already forgotten. presently shirley took another look and her glass soon lighted on him. instantly she recognized her father's old friend. she waved a handkerchief and stott raised his hat. then she turned quickly and spoke again to her friends, whereupon they all moved in the direction of the gangplank, which was already being lowered. shirley was one of the first to come ashore. stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. he had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. so far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. she had hoped to find her father on the dock. why had he not come? were things so bad then? she questioned judge stott anxiously, fearfully. he reassured her. both her mother and father were well. it was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered. "too long a trip," echoed shirley puzzled. "this is not far from our house. madison avenue is no distance. that could not have kept father away." "you don't live on madison avenue any longer. the house and its contents have been sold," replied stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was. shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. ah, this she had little dreamed of! yet why not? it was but logic. when wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. what would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? to be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! oh, the thought was unendurable! she herself could earn money, of course. if her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. she thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. henceforward, she did not belong to herself. her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. these reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of mrs. blake calling out: "shirley, where have you been? we lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since." her aunt, escorted by jefferson ryder, had gone direct to the customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. shirley introduced stott. "aunt milly, this is judge stott, a very old friend of father's. mrs. blake, my mother's sister. mother will be surprised to see her. they haven't met for ten years." "this visit is going to be only a brief one," said mrs. blake. "i really came over to chaperone shirley more than anything else." "as if i needed chaperoning with mr. ryder for an escort!" retorted shirley. then presenting jefferson to stott, she said: "this is mr. jefferson ryder--judge stott. mr. ryder has been very kind to me abroad." the two men bowed and shook hands. "any relation to j.b.?" asked stott good humouredly. "his son--that's all," answered jefferson laconically. stott now looked at the young man with more interest. yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the fighting jaw. but how on earth did judge rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of john burkett ryder's son? the more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated, shirley and her companions wrestled with the united states customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by uncle sam to punish americans for going abroad. shirley and mrs. blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who was fairly reasonable. of course, he did not for a moment believe their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner, but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in the world. jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint that jefferson controlled himself. he had no wish to create a scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed, long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such an opportunity for a "scare head". but when the fellow compelled him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire contents out on the dock, he interfered: "you are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "how dare you treat my things in this manner?" the drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and took jefferson in from tip to toe. he clenched his fist as if about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. so contenting himself with a sneer, he said: "this ain't no country for blooming english docks. you're not in england now you know. this is a free country. see?" "i see this," replied jefferson, furious, "that you are a drunken ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. i shall report your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the customs desk to lodge a complaint. he might have spared himself the trouble. the silver-haired, distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that jefferson's complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more than mildly reprimand him. when, therefore, he accompanied jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated with the officer, who made some insolent reply. seeing that it was useless to lose further time, jefferson repacked his trunks as best he could and got them on a cab. then he hurried over to shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier. "come and see us, jeff," whispered shirley as their cab drove through the gates. "where," he asked, "madison avenue?" she hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly: "no, we are stopping down on long island for the summer--at a cute little place called massapequa. run down and see us." he raised his hat and the cab drove on. there was greater activity in the rossmore cottage at massapequa than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to live there. since daybreak eudoxia had been scouring and polishing in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times mrs. rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it should be in the room which had been prepared for shirley. it was not, however, without a passage at arms that eudoxia consented to consider the idea of an addition to the family. mrs. rossmore had said to her the day before: "my daughter will be here to-morrow, eudoxia." a look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the classic features of the hireling. putting her broom aside and placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone: "and it's a dayther you've got now? so it's three in family you are! when i took the place it's two you tould me there was!" "well, with your kind permission," replied mrs. rossmore, "there will be three in future. there is nothing in the constitution of the united states that says we can't have a daughter without consulting our help, is there?" the sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits of the irish drudge. she relapsed into a dignified silence and a few minutes later was discovered working with some show of enthusiasm. the judge was nervous and fidgety. he made a pretence to read, but it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. he kept leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul. his thoughts were on the dock at hoboken. by noon every little detail had been attended to and there was nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of stott and shirley. they were to be expected any moment now. the passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. it would take at least two hours to get through the customs and out to massapequa. the judge and his wife sat on the porch counting the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of the train from new york. "i hope stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge. "i wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife. the judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. then he said: "i ought to have gone, martha, but i was afraid. i'm afraid to look my own daughter in the face and tell her that i am a disgraced man, that i am to be tried by the senate for corruption, perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if i were a criminal. shirley won't believe it, sometimes i can't believe it myself. i often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a dream, but when the morning comes it's still true--it's still true!" he smoked on in silence. then happening to look up he noticed that his wife was weeping. he laid his hand gently on hers. "don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. shirley must see no trace of tears." "i was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied mrs. rossmore, wiping her eyes. "fancy shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on the judge. "that's the least," answered his wife. "she's a fine, handsome girl, well educated and all the rest of it. she ought to make a good marriage." no matter what state of mind mrs. rossmore might be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things. "hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied the judge wearily. "who," he added, "would have the courage to marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?" both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing the past and speculating on the future. suddenly mrs. rossmore started. surely she could not be mistaken! no, the clanging of a locomotive bell was plainly audible. the train was in. from the direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels crunching over the stones. a moment later they saw coming round the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage. "here they are! here they are!" cried mrs. rossmore. "come, eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried down to the gate. the judge, fully as agitated as herself, only showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale and anxious. the cab stopped at the curb and stott alighted, first helping out mrs. blake. mrs. rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was almost comical. "milly!" she exclaimed. they embraced first and explained afterwards. then shirley got out and was in her mother's arms. "where's father?" was shirley's first question. "there--he's coming!" the judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from the porch towards the gate. shirley, with a cry of mingled grief and joy, precipitated herself on his breast. "father! father!" she cried between her sobs. "what have they done to you?" "there--there, my child. everything will be well--everything will be well." her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion. mrs. rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing her sister. mrs. blake explained that she had come chiefly for the benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on the same steamer. "so you see i shall bother you only a few days," she said. "you'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined mrs. rossmore. "happily we have just one bedroom left." then turning to eudoxia, who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions: "eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom adjoining miss shirley's. she is going to stop with us for a few days." taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, eudoxia looked at first defiance. she seemed on the point of handing in her resignation there and then. but evidently she thought better of it, for, taking a cue from mrs. rossmore, she asked in the sarcastic manner of her mistress: "four is it now, m'm? i suppose the constitootion of the united states allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. it's hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, m'm. the more the merrier!" with which broadside, she hung the bags all over herself and staggered off to the house. stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express. mrs. rossmore took him aside while mrs. blake joined shirley and the judge. "did you tell shirley?" asked mrs. rossmore. "how did she take it?" "she knows everything," answered stott, "and takes it very sensibly. we shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the senate," he added confidently. realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with shirley, mrs. rossmore invited mrs. blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while stott said he would be glad of a washup. when they had gone shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way. "i've just been longing to see you, father," she said. she turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "why, how you've changed! i can scarcely believe it's you. say something. let me hear the sound of your voice, father." the judge tried to smile. "why, my dear girl, i---" shirley threw her arms round his neck. "ah, yes, now i know it's you," she cried. "of course it is, shirley, my dear girl. of course it is. who else should it be?" "yes, but it isn't the same," insisted shirley. "there is no ring to your voice. it sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. and this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--" she glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. she had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she had not anticipated! she changed colour and her voice faltered. her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts. "it's the best we can afford, shirley," he said quietly. "the blow has been complete. i will tell you everything. you shall judge for yourself. my enemies have done for me at last." "your enemies?" cried shirley eagerly. "tell me who they are so i may go to them." "yes, dear, you shall know everything. but not now. you are tired after your journey. to-morrow sometime stott and i will explain everything." "very well, father, as you wish," said shirley gently. "after all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?" she drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. she looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face. "it's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "i've always wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. oh, if you only knew how tired i am of new york and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! we shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?" she spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. he understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter. "yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "there's not much room, though." "there's quite enough," she insisted. "let me see." she began to count on her fingers. "upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that three more--" "no," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?" "of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. oh, i can see that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. you know how i love camping out. and you have a piano, too." she went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses. shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything. "it's a little old," was her comment, "but i like these zither effects. it's just like the sixteenth-century spinet. i can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled. "what's that about mother dancing?" demanded mrs. rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. shirley arose and appealed to her: "isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on long island instead of madison avenue? why should manhattan island be a happier spot than long island? why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. and we do need each other. we never knew how much till to-day, did we? we must stand by each other now. father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? we're not helpless just because we are women. we're going to work, mother and i." "work?" echoed mrs. rossmore, somewhat scandalized. "work," repeated shirley very decisively. the judge interfered. he would not hear of it. "you work, shirley? impossible!" "why not? my book has been selling well while i was abroad. i shall probably write others. then i shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. it will add to our income." "your book--'the american octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested. "so well," replied shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. that means good royalties. i shall soon be a fashionable author. the publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "aren't you proud of me, dad?" the judge smiled indulgently. of course he was glad and proud. he always knew his shirley was a clever girl. but by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? it seemed like the retribution of heaven. neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. ryder could not dream that "shirley green", the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush. shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was ryder who had lured her father to his ruin. mrs. rossmore now insisted on shirley going to her room to rest. she must be tired and dusty. after changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. when she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. so leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride mrs. rossmore pointed out to shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after eudoxia and luncheon. when, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. she had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. she gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. she had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. while hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed. she compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for europe, the fine mansion on madison avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months! it was incredible, terrible, heart rending! and what of the future? what was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? he could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. he must be saved in the senate, but how--how? she dried her eyes and began to think. surely her woman's wit would find some way. she thought of jefferson. would he come to massapequa? it was hardly probable. he would certainly learn of the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. she loved jefferson. yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. she felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "take me, jefferson, take me away, where you will, for i love you! i love you!" but jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. if he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. he would not marry her now in any case. no self-respecting man would. she was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. she might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. no, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. if the trial in the senate were to go against him, then she could never see jefferson again. she would give up all idea of him and everything else. her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. they would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. once condemned by the senate, nothing could remove the stigma. she would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. but what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust! suddenly she thought of jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to massapequa to tell her of what he had done. she was sure of that. perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. why had she not told her father at once? it might have relieved his mind. john burkett ryder, the colossus, the man of unlimited power! he could save her father and he would. and the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. she was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of mr. ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. it was eudoxia. "please, miss, will you come down to lunch?" chapter viii a whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the american people--new york, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. this deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires' district, the boundaries of which are marked by carnegie hill on the north, fiftieth street on the south, and by fifth and madison avenues respectively on the west and east. there is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. no merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. it is, indeed, like a city of the dead. so it appeared to jefferson as he walked up fifth avenue, bound for the ryder residence, the day following his arrival from europe. although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. he felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to shirley and find what his father could do to help judge rossmore. he had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. the "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the republicans being in control in the senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. he had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen judge rossmore and he understood now the reason for shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on long island. the news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench. that was very evident. the "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as jefferson walked along central park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless american citizen. here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, america's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her coal, railroad, oil, gas and ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of steel, copper, and finance. each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a trust-ridden people. for every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand american men, women and children had starved and sorrowed. europe, thought jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to america's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! as a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. how many of them would bear the search-light of investigation? would his own father? how many millions could one man make by honest methods? america was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. the united states owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. it was the plain american citizen who had made the greatness of america, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. the plutocrats--these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. an organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. they were the money power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in america had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. it was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the labor unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. and the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence. meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the president of the united states. feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts--the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice--the trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. history had thus repeated itself. the armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century america by the tyranny of capital. yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the ryder residence, the american people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. forty years before abraham lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. in he wrote these words: "yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. it has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. the best blood of the flower of american youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. it has been indeed a trying hour for the republic, but i see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. as a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic is destroyed." truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the american people. money, money, _money_! was to-day the only standard, the only god! the whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. with the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft--treason in the senate--corruption in the legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in wall street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the beef and drug trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing--a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! what, thought jefferson, would be the outcome--socialism or anarchy? still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom--the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true american man and woman, the love for a "square deal" which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. the country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. there would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. the country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. america was lucky with her presidents. picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. such a president was theodore roosevelt. after beginning vigorous warfare on the trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. the amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped--a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the state. to have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought jefferson, ensure for theodore roosevelt a place among america's greatest and wisest statesmen. he and americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation. jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. a fine example of french renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost john burkett ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. it was one of the show places of the town, and when the "rubber neck" wagons approached the ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the "seeing new york"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world. only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server. not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. the explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the hon. fitzroy bagley, mr. ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door. indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. it had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. it was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but mr. ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in new york at this time, and mrs. ryder, who was one of the few american wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord. jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. the sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. but the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and jefferson was under his father's roof. "is my father in?" he demanded of the man. "no, sir," was the respectful answer. "mr. ryder has gone out driving, but mr. bagley is upstairs." then after a brief pause he added: "mrs. ryder is in, too." in this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife. jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. on the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing ajax and ulysses contending for the armour of achilles. to the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of john burkett ryder. the ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. when he reached this floor jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. it was mr. bagley giving instructions to the butler. the honourable fitzroy bagley, a younger son of a british peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of america's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. his job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these american plebeians the signal honour which a fitzroy, son of a british peer, did them in deigning to remain in their "blarsted" country. in mr. ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by mrs. ryder. the latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the british aristocracy. it would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful english accent. moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his burke backwards--altogether an accomplished and invaluable person. jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. he believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. nor was his estimate of the english secretary far wrong. the man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich american girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. he was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, senator roberts. the senator and miss roberts were frequently at the ryder house and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. a flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed "a good time," kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with mr. bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. after all, she argued, he was of noble birth. if his two brothers died he would be peer of england, and she had enough money for both. he might not make a bad husband. but she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. she knew that his heart was set on her marrying jefferson ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. she herself liked jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction--and she knew all about his attentions to miss rossmore--she was not going to break her heart about it. so she continued to flirt secretly with the honourable fitzroy while she still led the ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in jefferson. "jorkins," mr. bagley was saying to the butler, "mr. ryder will occupy the library on his return. see that he is not disturbed." "yes, sir," replied the butler respectfully. the man turned to go when the secretary called him back. "and, jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address mr. ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. mr. ryder was furious. these things must not happen again, jorkins. i shall hold you responsible." "very good, sir." the butler bowed and went downstairs. the secretary looked up and saw jefferson. his face reddened and his manner grew nervous. "hello! back from europe, jefferson? how jolly! your mother will be delighted. she's in her room upstairs." declining to take the hint, and gathering from bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, jefferson lingered purposely. when the butler had disappeared, he said: "this house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. you've got men all over the place. one can't move a step without falling over one." mr. bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority. "your father's personality demands the utmost precaution," he replied. "we cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble." "what rabble?" inquired jefferson, amused. "the common rabble--the lower class--the riff-raff," explained mr. bagley. "pshaw!" laughed jefferson. "if our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses." mr. bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "your father has warned me against your socialistic views." then, with a lofty air, he added: "for four years i was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of england's queen. i know my responsibilities." "but you are not groom of the bedchamber here," retorted jefferson. "whatever i am," said mr. bagley haughtily, "i am answerable to your father alone." "by the way, bagley," asked jefferson, "when do you expect father to return? i want to see him." "i'm afraid it's quite impossible," answered the secretary with studied insolence. "he has three important people to see before dinner. there's the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington--all here by appointment. it's quite impossible." "i didn't ask you if it were possible. i said i wanted to see him and i will see him," answered jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. "i'll go and leave word for him on his desk," he added. he started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way. "there's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "someone waiting for your father." "is there?" replied jefferson coolly. "i'll see who it is," with which he brushed past mr. bagley and entered the library. he had guessed aright. a woman was there. it was kate roberts. "hello, kate! how are you?" they called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. at one time jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known shirley rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. yet kate had her good qualities. she was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $ , in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. he had evidently disturbed an interesting tete-a-tete. he decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil mr. bagley's game and save kate from her own folly. on hearing his voice kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise. "why, is it you, jeff? i thought you were in europe." "i returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. he crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while mr. bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to kate. "i fear i intrude here," said jefferson pointedly. "oh, dear no, not at all," replied kate in some confusion. "i was waiting for my father. how is paris?" she asked. "lovely as ever," he answered. "did you have a good time?" she inquired. "i enjoyed it immensely. i never had a better one." "you probably were in good company," she said significantly. then she added: "i believe miss rossmore was in paris." "yes, i think she was there," was his non-committal answer. to change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and glanced at the title. it was "the american octopus." "is father still reading this?" he asked. "he was at it when i left." "everybody is reading it," said kate. "the book has made a big sensation. do you know who the hero is?" "who?" he asked with an air of the greatest innocence. "why, no less a personage than your father--john burkett ryder himself! everybody says it's he--the press and everybody that's read it. he says so himself." "really?" he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. "i must read it." "it has made a strong impression on mr. ryder," chimed in mr. bagley. "i never knew him to be so interested in a book before. he's trying his best to find out who the author is. it's a jolly well written book and raps you american millionaires jolly well--what?" "whoever wrote the book," interrupted kate, "is somebody who knows mr. ryder exceedingly well. there are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know." "phew!" jefferson whistled softly to himself. he was treading dangerous ground. to conceal his embarrassment, he rose. "if you'll excuse me, i'll go and pay my filial respects upstairs. i'll see you again." he gave kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at mr. bagley left the room. the couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared. then kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps. when she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on mr. bagley indignantly. "you see what you expose me to. jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous." "well, it was to a certain extent," replied the secretary unabashed. "didn't you ask me to see you here?" "yes," said kate, taking a letter from her bosom, "i wanted to ask you what this means?" "my dear miss roberts--kate--i"--stammered the secretary. "how dare you address me in this manner when you know i and mr. ryder are engaged?" no one knew better than kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this englishman who made such bold love to her. "miss roberts," replied mr. bagley loftily, "in that note i expressed my admiration--my love for you. your engagement to mr. jefferson ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact." there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape kate. "you must not judge from appearances," she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. "jeff and i may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. all lovers are not demonstrative, you know." the absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined. "then why did you remain here with me when the senator went out with mr. ryder, senior?" he demanded. "to tell you that i cannot listen to your nonsense any longer," retorted the girl. "what?" he cried, incredulously. "you remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. kate, your coldness is not convincing." "you mean you think i want to listen to you?" she demanded. "i do," he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms. "mr. bagley!" she exclaimed, recoiling. "a week ago," he persisted, "you called me fitzroy. once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me fitz." "you hadn't asked me to marry you then," she laughed mockingly. then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: "good-bye, mr. bagley, i am going upstairs to mrs. ryder. i will await my father's return in her room. i think i shall be safer." he ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. the door slammed in his face and she was gone. meantime jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. he knocked. "come in!" called out the familiar voice. he entered. mrs. ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts. "hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son. "jefferson!" she exclaimed when he released her. "my dear boy, when did you arrive?" "only yesterday. i slept at the studio last night. you're looking bully, mother. how's father?" mrs. ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. in her heart she was glad jefferson had turned out as he had. her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. answering his question she said: "your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. he's considerably worried just now over that new book 'the american octopus.' how dare they make him out such a monster? he's no worse than other successful business men. he's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. he's out driving now with senator roberts. kate is somewhere in the house--in the library, i think." "yes, i found her there," replied jefferson dryly. "she was with that cad, bagley. when is father going to find that fellow out?" "oh, jefferson," protested his mother, "how can you talk like that of mr. bagley. he is such a perfect gentleman. his family connections alone should entitle him to respect. he is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. i'm sure i don't know what we should do without him. he knows everything that a gentleman should." "and a good deal more, i wager," growled jefferson. "he wasn't groom of the backstairs to england's queen for nothing." then changing the topic, he said suddenly: "talking about kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. this talk about my marrying her must stop. i intend to take the matter up with father to-day." "oh, of course, more trouble!" replied his mother in a resigned tone. she was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. "we heard of your goings on in paris. that miss rossmore was there, was she not?" "that has got nothing to do with it," replied jefferson warmly. he resented shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. then more calmly he went on: "now, mother, be reasonable, listen. i purpose to live my own life. i have already shown my father that i will not be dictated to, and that i can earn my own living. he has no right to force this marriage on me. there has never been any misunderstanding on kate's part. she and i understand each other thoroughly." "well, jefferson, you may be right from your point of view," replied his mother weakly. she invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. "you are of age, of course. your parents have only a moral right over you. only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. his interests are your interests. don't do anything to jeopardize them. of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. he had set his heart on this match. he knows all about your infatuation for miss rossmore and it has made him furious. i suppose you've heard about her father?" "yes, and it's a dastardly outrage," blurted out jefferson. "it's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and i mean to ferret out and expose the authors. i came here to-day to ask father to help me." "you came to ask your father to help you?" echoed his mother incredulously. "why not?" demanded jefferson. "is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?" "you've come to the wrong house, jeff. you ought to know that. your father is far from being judge rossmore's friend. surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finger to help him. one is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter." jefferson sat as if struck dumb. he had not thought of that. yes, it was true. his father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. how was help to be expected from the head of those "interests" which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! he broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said: "yes, i see now, mother. you are right." then he added bitterly: "that has always been the trouble at home. no matter where i turn, i am up against a stone wall--the money interests. one never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! oh, i am sick of it. i don't want any of it. i am going away where i'll hear no more of it." his mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "don't talk that way, jefferson. your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. his life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. he is only what his life has made him. he has a good heart. and he loves you--his only son. but his business enemies--ah! those he never forgives." jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house. "what's that?" exclaimed jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door. "oh, that's nothing," smiled his mother. "we have had that put in since you went away. your father must have just come in. those bells announce the fact. it was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely." "oh," laughed jefferson, "he's afraid some one will kidnap him? certainly he would be a rich prize. i wouldn't care for the job myself, though. they'd be catching a tartar." his speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "may i come in to say good-bye?" asked a voice which they recognized as kate's. she had successfully escaped from mr. bagley's importunities and was now going home with the senator. she smiled amiably at jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. he was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the american mind! he thought it would be a kindness to warn her against bagley. "don't be foolish, kate," he said. "i was not blind just now in the library. that man is no good." as is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. she knew he hated mr. bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. she stiffened up and replied coldly: "i think i am able to look after myself, jefferson. thanks, all the same." he shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. she said good-bye to mrs. ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where senator roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. the senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law. "come and see us, jefferson," he said. "come to dinner any evening. we are always alone and kate and i will be glad to see you." "jefferson has so little time now, father. his work and--his friends keep him pretty busy." jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. he smiled and the senator raised his hat. as the carriage drove off the young man noticed that kate glanced at one of the upper windows where mr. bagley stood behind a curtain watching. jefferson returned to the house. the psychological moment had arrived. he must go now and confront his father in the library. chapter ix the library was the most important room in the ryder mansion, for it was there that the colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. but john burkett ryder never rested. there could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. like macbeth, he could sleep no more. when the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower broadway, then his real work began. the day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions. here the money moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. corrupt senators, grafting congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the "system." here were made and unmade governors of states, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the national elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests." here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the trust. here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put wall street on the verge of panic. half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the "system." here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people--the conspiring of the trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life--meat, coal, oil, ice, gas--wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. in short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls. it was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. the lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. in the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of george washington. the room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of shakespeare, goethe and voltaire. it was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs. when jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to mr. bagley. mr. ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. they were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the colossus so unceremoniously. but when he saw who it was, mr. ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably. "why, jeff, my boy, is that you? just a moment, until i get rid of bagley, and i'll be with you." jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary. "now, bagley. come, quick. what is it?" he spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. john ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one. "governor rice called. he wants an appointment," said mr. bagley, holding out a card. "i can't see him. tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "who else?" he demanded. "where's your list?" mr. bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over. "general abbey telephoned. he says you promised--" "yes, yes," interrupted ryder impatiently, "but not here. down town, to-morrow, any time. next?" the secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said: "there are some people downstairs in the reception room. they are here by appointment." "who are they?" "the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington," replied mr. bagley. "who was here first?" demanded the financier. "sergeant ellison, sir." "then i'll see him first, and the committee afterwards. but let them all wait until i ring. i wish to speak with my son." he waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand. "well, jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?" "yes, sir, thank you. such a trip is a liberal education in itself." "ready for work again, eh? i'm glad you're back, jefferson. i'm busy now, but one of these days i want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. this artist business is all very well--for a pastime. but it's not a career--surely you can appreciate that--for a young man with such prospects as yours. have you ever stopped to think of that?" jefferson was silent. he did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. there must be an understanding sooner or later. why not now? "the truth is, sir," he began timidly, "i'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time." ryder, sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. then he said with a smile: "well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, i can't--but--i will. come, what is it?" then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, "i've had a very busy day, jeff. what with trans-continental and trans-atlantic and southern pacific, and wall street, and rate bills, and washington i feel like atlas shouldering the world." "the world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir," rejoined jefferson calmly. his father looked at him in amazement. it was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said. "why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. "julius caesar carried it. napoleon carried it--to a certain extent. however, that's neither here nor there. what is it, boy?" unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while jefferson was thinking what to say. the last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly: "that's just it, sir. you forget that i'm no longer a boy. it's time to treat me as if i were a man." ryder, sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "a man at twenty-eight? that's an excellent joke. do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?" "i want you to take me seriously," persisted jefferson. ryder, sr., was not a patient man. his moments of good humour were of brief duration. anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. the smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively: "go on--damn it all! be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. but understand one thing. i want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. no tolstoi--he's a great thinker, and you're not. no bernard shaw--he's funny, and you're not. now go ahead." this beginning was not very encouraging, and jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. but he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in. "i should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "i often--" "if i let you?" interrupted his father. "do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? you asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and i told you that i worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. thinking is a harder game than any. you must think or you won't know. napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. i know more about money than any man living to-day. the man who knows is the man who wins. the man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. that's why i never take yours. come, don't be a fool, jeff--give up this art nonsense. come back to the trading company. i'll make you vice-president, and i'll teach you the business of making millions." jefferson shook his head. it was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured: "it's impossible, father. i am devoted to my work. i even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. it will help me considerably." ryder, sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently: "don't be obstinate, jeff. listen to me. i know the world better than you do. you mustn't go away. you are the only flesh and blood i have." he stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. seeing that his words had made no effect, ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried: "you see my weakness. you see that i want you with me, and now you take advantage--you take advantage--" "no, father, i don't," protested jefferson; "but i want to go away. although i have my studio and am practically independent, i want to go where i shall be perfectly free--where my every move will not be watched--where i can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where i shall not be pointed out as the son of ready money ryder. i want to make a reputation of my own as an artist." "why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered ryder. then, more amiably, he said: "no, my lad, you stay here. study my interests--study the interests that will be yours some day." "no," said jefferson doggedly, "i'd rather go--my work and my self-respect demand it." "then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "i'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." he rose from his seat and began to pace the room. "father," exclaimed jefferson starting forward, "you do me an injustice." "an injustice?" echoed mr. ryder turning round. "ye gods! i've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say i've done you an injustice!" "yes--we are rich," said jefferson bitterly. "but at what a cost! you do not go into the world and hear the sneers that i get everywhere. you may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. people laugh when they hear the name ryder--when they do not weep. all your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. you try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?" ryder laughed cynically. he went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied: "jefferson, you are young. it is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. when you are as old as i am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world--money. the man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most." he stopped to pick up a book. it was "the american octopus." turning again to his son, he went on: "do you see this book? it is the literary sensation of the year. why? because it attacks me--the richest man in the world. it holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing--money; having but one passion--the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. that is the portrait they draw of your father." jefferson said nothing. he was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. but ryder, sr., continued: "do i care? the more they attack me the more i like it. their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. what i am, the conditions of my time made me. when i started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, i had but one goal--success; i had but one aim--to get rich. i was lucky. i made a little money, and i soon discovered that i could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. railroad conditions helped me. the whole country was money mad. a wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and i was carried along on its crest. i grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. i branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day--the wonder of the twentieth century. what do i care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? what respect can i have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? i am the real ruler of the united states--not the so-called government at washington. they are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. this power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes." "i never want it, father," said jefferson firmly. "to me your words savour of treason. i couldn't imagine that american talking that way." he pointed to the mantel, at the picture of george washington. ryder, sr., laughed. he could not help it if his son was an idealist. there was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: "all right, jeff. we'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. just at present you're in the clouds. but you spoke of my doing you an injustice. how can my love of power do you an injustice?" "because," replied jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. you think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. you robbed me of my right to think. ever since i was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since i was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. you have chosen that i should marry kate roberts. that is the one thing i wished to speak to you about. the marriage is impossible." ryder, sr., half sprang from his seat. he had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the ryder interests--that was inconceivable. leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted jefferson. "so," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? you are going to welsh on your word? you are going to jilt the girl?" "i never gave my word," answered jefferson hotly. "nor did kate understand that an engagement existed. you can't expect me to marry a girl i don't care a straw about. it would not be fair to her." "have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered his father. his face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. he paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly: "don't be a fool, jeff. i don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. i did not interfere when you threw up the position i made for you in the trading company and took that studio. i realized that you were restless under the harness, so i gave you plenty of rein. but i know so much better than you what is best for you. believe me i do. don't--don't be obstinate. this marriage means a great deal to my interests--to your interests. kate's father is all powerful in the senate. he'll never forgive this disappointment. hang it all, you liked the girl once, and i made sure that--" he stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him. "it isn't that rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. his face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "i told you some time ago how i felt about her. if i thought that it was rossmore's daughter! you know what's going to happen to him, don't you?" thus appealed to, jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to shirley. so, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered: "i am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him. needless to say, i consider him entirely innocent. what's more, i firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. and i'm going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. i came to ask you to help me. will you?" for a moment ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. then, as he realized the significance of his son's words and their application to himself he completely lost control of himself. his face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the room. "i will see him in hell first!" he cried. "damn him! he has always opposed me. he has always defied my power, and now his daughter has entrapped my son. so it's her you want to go to, eh? well, i can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but i can prevent you throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly disgraced, and, by god, i will." "poor old rossmore," said jefferson bitterly. "if the history of every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape public disgrace? would you?" he cried. ryder, sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. he made a movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled himself. "no, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. i think you'd be glad; on my soul, i do!" then calming down once more, he added: "jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. i don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head. give me your hand on it." jefferson reluctantly held out his hand. "if i thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, i'd have rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. listen, boy. this man is my enemy, and i show no mercy to my enemies. there are more reasons than one why you cannot marry miss rossmore. if she knew one of them she would not marry you." "what reasons?" demanded jefferson. "the principal one," said ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made for her father's impeachment." "ah," cried jefferson, "then i guessed aright! oh, father, how could you have done that? if you only knew him!" ryder, sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly enough. "jefferson, i don't have to make any apologies to you for the way i conduct my business. the facts contained in the charge were brought to my attention. i did not see why i should spare him. he never spared me. i shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be impeached. senator roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty. you see yourself how impossible a marriage with miss rossmore would be, don't you?" "yes, father, i see now. i have nothing more to say." "do you still intend going away?" "yes," replied jefferson bitterly. "why not? you have taken away the only reason why i should stay." "think it well over, lad. marry kate or not, as you please, but i want you to stay here." "it's no use. my mind is made up," answered jefferson decisively. the telephone rang, and jefferson got up to go. mr. ryder took up the receiver. "hallo! what's that? sergeant ellison? yes, send him up." putting the telephone down, ryder, sr., rose, and crossing the room accompanied his son to the door. "think it well over, jeff. don't be hasty." "i have thought it over, sir, and i have decided to go." a few moments later jefferson left the house. ryder, sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought. for the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own. he who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless to rule his own son. at all costs, he mused, the boy's infatuation for judge rossmore's daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken the girl's character as well as the father's, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of the country. he had not lost sight of his victim since the carefully prepared crash in wall street, and the sale of the rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the great northwestern mining company. his agents had reported their settlement in the quiet little village on long island, and he had also learned of miss rossmore's arrival from europe, which coincided strangely with the home-coming of his own son. he decided, therefore, to keep a closer watch on massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day's call of sergeant ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so ready a welcome. the door opened, and mr. bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired english secretary. "take a seat, sergeant," said mr. ryder, cordially motioning his visitor to a chair. the man sat down gingerly on one of the rich leather-upholstered chairs. his manner was nervous and awkward, as if intimidated in the presence of the financier. "are the republican committee still waiting?" demanded mr. ryder. "yes, sir," replied the secretary. "i'll see them in a few minutes. leave me with sergeant ellison." mr. bagley bowed and retired. "well, sergeant, what have you got to report?" he opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the detective. "take a cigar," he said amiably. the man took a cigar, and also the match which mr. ryder held out. the financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him. "thanks. this is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed. "we don't often get a chance at such as these." "it ought to be good," laughed ryder. "they cost two dollars apiece." the detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. it was like burning money. ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business. "well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded. "have you found the author of 'the american octopus'?" "no, sir, i have not. i confess i'm baffled. the secret has been well kept. the publishers have shut up like a clam. there's only one thing that i'm pretty well sure of." "what's that?" demanded ryder, interested. "that no such person as shirley green exists." "oh," exclaimed, the financier, "then you think it is a mere nom de plume?" "yes, sir." "and what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?" "well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. it gives some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about launching it under his or her real name. at least that's my theory, sir." "and a good one, no doubt," said mr. ryder. then he added: "that makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is. i would willingly give this moment a check for $ , to know who wrote it. whoever it is, knows me as well as i know myself. we must find the author." the sleuth was silent for a moment. then he said: "there might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into the open. suppose you write to her in care of the publishers. they would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be. if she does not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain in the background. if, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she will answer the letter." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ryder. "it's a good idea. i'll write such a letter at once. it shall go to-night." he unhooked the telephone and asked mr. bagley to come up. a few seconds later the secretary entered the room. "bagley," said mr. ryder, "i want you to write a letter for me to miss shirley green, author of that book 'the american octopus. we will address it care of her publishers, littleton & co. just say that if convenient i should like a personal interview with her at my office, no. broadway, in relation to her book, 'the american octopus.' see that it is mailed to-night. that's all." mr. bagley bowed and retired. mr. ryder turned to the secret service agent. "there, that's settled. we'll see how it works. and now, sergeant, i have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you will not find me unappreciative. do you know a little place on long island called massapequa?" "yes," grinned the detective, "i know it. they've got some fine specimens of 'skeeters' there." paying no attention to this jocularity, mr. ryder continued: "judge rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case in the senate. his daughter has just arrived from europe. my son jefferson came home on the same ship. they are a little more friendly than i care to have them. you understand. i want to know if my son visits the rossmores, and if he does i wish to be kept informed of all that's going on. you understand?" "perfectly, sir. you shall know everything." mr. ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up. then handing it to the detective, he said: "here is $ for you. spare neither trouble or expense." "thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "leave it to me." "that's about all, i think. regarding the other matter, we'll see how the letter works." he touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the interview was at an end. mr. bagley entered. "sergeant ellison is going," said mr. ryder. "have him shown out, and send the republican committee up." chapter x "what!" exclaimed shirley, changing colour, "you believe that john burkett ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against father?" it was the day following her arrival at massapequa, and shirley, the judge and stott were all three sitting on the porch. until now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings had been avoided by everyone. the previous afternoon and evening had been spent listening to an account of shirley's experiences in europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the picturesque paris student with their long hair and peg-top trousers, while stott simply roared with laughter. ah, it was good to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! but while shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of enlisting the aid of john burkett ryder. the great financier was certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? so, to-day, after mrs. rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to make some purchases shirley timidly broached the matter. she asked stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing. she wanted to hear the worst. stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as judge of the supreme court had to render decisions, several of which were adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and how since that time these powerful interests had used all their influence to get him put off the bench. he told her about the transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously tangled up in the great northern mining company, and of the scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the congressional inquiry. then he told her about the panic in wall street, the sale of the house on madison avenue and the removal to long island. "that is the situation," said stott when he had finished. "we are waiting now to see what the senate will do. we hope for the best. it seems impossible that the senate will condemn a man whose whole life is like an open book, but unfortunately the senate is strongly republican and the big interests are in complete control. unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be prepared for anything." support from some unexpected quarter! stott's closing words rang in shirley's head. was that not just what she had to offer? unable to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from suppressed emotion, she cried: "we'll have that support! we'll have it! i've got it already! i wanted to surprise you! father, the most powerful man in the united states will save you from being dishonoured!" the two men leaned forward in eager interest. what could the girl mean? was she serious or merely jesting? but shirley was never more serious in her life. she was jubilant at the thought that she had arrived home in time to invoke the aid of this powerful ally. she repeated enthusiastically: "we need not worry any more. he has but to say a word and these proceedings will be instantly dropped. they would not dare act against his veto. did you hear, father, your case is as good as won!" "what do you mean, child? who is this unknown friend?" "surely you can guess when i say the most powerful man in the united states? none other than john burkett ryder!" she stopped short to watch the effect which this name would have on her hearers. but to her surprise neither her father nor stott displayed the slightest emotion or even interest. puzzled at this cold reception, she repeated: "did you hear, father--john burkett ryder will come to your assistance. i came home on the same ship as his son and he promised to secure his father's aid." the judge puffed heavily at his pipe and merely shook his head, making no reply. stott explained: "we can't look for help from that quarter, shirley. you don't expect a man to cut loose his own kite, do you?" "what do you mean?" demanded shirley, mystified. "simply this--that john burkett ryder is the very man who is responsible for all your father's misfortunes." the girl sank back in her seat pale and motionless, as if she had received a blow. was it possible? could jefferson's father have done them such a wrong as this? she well knew that ryder, sr., was a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his purpose--this she had demonstrated conclusively in her book--but she had never dreamed that his hand would ever be directed against her own flesh and blood. decidedly some fatality was causing jefferson and herself to drift further and further apart. first, her father's trouble. that alone would naturally have separated them. and now this discovery that jefferson's father had done hers this wrong. all idea of marriage was henceforth out of the question. that was irrevocable. of course, she could not hold jefferson to blame for methods which he himself abhorred. she would always think as much of him as ever, but whether her father emerged safely from the trial in the senate or not--no matter what the outcome of the impeachment proceedings might be, jefferson could never be anything else than a ryder and from now on there would be an impassable gulf between the rossmores and the ryders. the dove does not mate with the hawk. "do you really believe this, that john ryder deliberately concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my father?" demanded shirley when she had somewhat recovered. "there is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered stott. "the trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. ryder was the man who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. ryder was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his transcontinental railroad. ryder, i am convinced, is the chief conspirator." "but can such things be in a civilized community?" cried shirley indignantly. "cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?" "it sounds easy, but it isn't," replied stott. "i have had a heap of experience with the law, my child, and i know what i'm talking about. they're too clever to be caught tripping. they've covered their tracks well, be sure of that. as to the newspapers--when did you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?" "and you, father--do you believe ryder did this?" "i have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "i think john ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to help me. his answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that he was the arch plotter." "what letters do you refer to?" demanded shirley. "the letters i wrote to him in regard to my making an investment. he advised the purchase of certain stock. i wrote him two letters at the time, which letters if i had them now would go a long way to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed that i regarded the transaction as a bona fide investment. since this trouble began i wrote to ryder asking him to return me these letters so i might use them in my defence. the only reply i got was an insolent note from his secretary saying that mr. ryder had forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the letters i referred to." "couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked shirley. "we could never get at him," interrupted stott. "the man is guarded as carefully as the czar." "still," objected shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost the letters or even never received them." "oh, he has them safe enough," replied stott. "a man like ryder keeps every scrap of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful some day. the letters are lying somewhere in his desk. besides, after the transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd have judge rossmore off the bench inside of a year." "and it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge. shirley relapsed into silence. her brain was in a whirl. it was true then. this merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business deals! ah, why had she spared him in her book? she felt now that she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently pitiless. such a man was entitled to no mercy. yes, it was all clear enough now. john burkett ryder, the head of "the system," the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared attack the judiciary, the corner stone of the constitution, the one safeguard of the people's liberty. where would it end? how long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? the capitalists, banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. the appalling degradation of the working classes, the sordidness and demoralizing squalor in which they passed their lives, the curse of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--all which evils in our social system she had seen as a settlement worker, were directly traceable to centralized wealth. the labor unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to control the prices of the necessaries of life. the trusts could at pleasure create famine or plenty. they usually willed to make it famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and expensive establishments at newport. food was ever dearer and of poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher. she thought of the horrors in the packing houses at chicago recently made the subject of a sensational government report--putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they could make more money. and while our public gasped in disgust at the sickening revelations of the beef scandal and foreign countries quickly cancelled their contracts for american prepared meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame. these and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the nation had ended by exasperating the people. there must be a limit somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate class of nouveaux riches. the day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be the colossus. but while waiting for the people to rise in their righteous wrath, ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that he had instituted these impeachment proceedings her father had little chance. what could be done? they could not sit and wait, as stott had said, for the action of the senate. if it were true that ryder controlled the senate as he controlled everything else her father was doomed. no, they must find some other way. and long after the judge and stott had left for the city shirley sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to find some way out of the darkness. and when presently her mother and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and preoccupied. if they only had those two letters, she thought. they alone might save her father. but how could they be got at? mr. ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. he would not give them up. she wondered how it would be to go boldly to him and appeal to whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent within him. no, such a man would not know what the terms "honour," "fairness" meant. she pondered upon it all day and at night when she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off to sleep. the following morning broke clear and fine. it was one of those glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing, champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when nature dons her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the grass greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. days that make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of god. shirley went out for a long walk. she preferred to go alone so she would not have to talk. hers was one of those lonely, introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter when preoccupied with serious thoughts. long island was unknown territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting, but she loved the country, and found keen delight in the fresh, pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay waited from the surrounding fields. in her soft, loosefitting linen dress, her white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace parasol, she made an attractive picture and every passer-by--with the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and whose stylish appearance suggested fifth avenue rather than the commonplace purlieus of massapequa. every now and then shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of jefferson. had he come, after all? the blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. she wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said. she could realize now what mr. ryder's reply had been. then she wondered what her future life would be. she could do nothing, of course, until the senate had passed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get to work. in a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling. she might get other commissions. if she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach. it was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. all the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work remained. as she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of the letter carrier approaching the gate. instantly she thought of jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man. perhaps he had written instead of coming. "miss shirley rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively. "that's i," said shirley. the postman handed her a letter and passed on. shirley glanced quickly at the superscription. no, it was not from jefferson; she knew his handwriting too well. the envelope, moreover, bore the firm name of her publishers. she tore it open and found that it merely contained another letter which the publishers had forwarded. this was addressed to miss shirley green and ran as follows: dear madam.--if convenient, i should like to see you at my office, no. broadway, in relation to your book "the american octopus." kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which i may expect you. yours truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement. at first she was alarmed--the name john burkett ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had. she hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas. she had been wondering how she could get at mr. ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him. evidently he had not the slightest idea of her identity, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address. the more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father. yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office. she would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found. she decided to act immediately. no time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows: mr. john burkett ryder, dear sir.--i do not call upon gentlemen at their business office. yours, etc., shirley green. her letter was abrupt and at first glance seemed hardly calculated to bring about what she wanted--an invitation to call at the ryder home, but she was shrewd enough to see that if ryder wrote to her at all it was because he was most anxious to see her and her abruptness would not deter him from trying again. on the contrary, the very unusualness of anyone thus dictating to him would make him more than ever desirous of making her acquaintance. so shirley mailed the letter and awaited with confidence for ryder's reply. so certain was she that one would come that she at once began to form her plan of action. she would leave massapequa at once, and her whereabouts must remain a secret even from her own family. as she intended to go to the ryder house in the assumed character of shirley green, it would never do to run the risk of being followed home by a ryder detective to the rossmore cottage. she would confide in one person only--judge stott. he would know where she was and would be in constant communication with her. but, otherwise, she must be alone to conduct the campaign as she judged fit. she would go at once to new york and take rooms in a boarding house where she would be known as shirley green. as for funds to meet her expenses, she had her diamonds, and would they not be filling a more useful purpose if sold to defray the cost of saving her father than in mere personal adornment? so that evening, while her mother was talking with the judge, she beckoned stott over to the corner where she was sitting: "judge stott," she began, "i have a plan." he smiled indulgently at her. "another friend like that of yesterday?" he asked. "no," replied the girl, "listen. i am in earnest now and i want you to help me. you said that no one on earth could resist john burkett ryder, that no one could fight against the money power. well, do you know what i am going to do?" there was a quiver in her voice and her nostrils were dilated like those of a thoroughbred eager to run the race. she had risen from her seat and stood facing him, her fists clenched, her face set and determined. stott had never seen her in this mood and he gazed at her half admiringly, half curiously. "what will you do?" he asked with a slightly ironical inflection in his voice. "i am going to fight john burkett ryder!" she cried. stott looked at her open-mouthed. "you?" he said. "yes, i," said shirley. "i'm going to him and i intend to get those letters if he has them." stott shook his head. "my dear child," he said, "what are you talking about? how can you expect to reach ryder? we couldn't." "i don't know just how yet," replied shirley, "but i'm going to try. i love my father and i'm going to leave nothing untried to save him." "but what can you do?" persisted stott. "the matter has been sifted over and over by some of the greatest minds in the country." "has any woman sifted it over?" demanded shirley. "no, but--" stammered stott. "then it's about time one did," said the girl decisively. "those letters my father speaks of--they would be useful, would they not?" "they would be invaluable." "then i'll get them. if not--" "but i don't understand how you're going to get at ryder," interrupted stott. "this is how," replied shirley, passing over to him the letter she had received that afternoon. as stott recognized the well-known signature and read the contents, the expression of his face changed. he gasped for breath and sank into a chair from sheer astonishment. "ah, that's different!" he cried, "that's different!" briefly shirley outlined her plan, explaining that she would go to live in the city immediately and conduct her campaign from there. if she was successful, it might save her father and if not, no harm could come of it. stott demurred at first. he did not wish to bear alone the responsibility of such an adventure. there was no knowing what might happen to her, visiting a strange house under an assumed name. but when he saw how thoroughly in earnest she was and that she was ready to proceed without him, he capitulated. he agreed that she might be able to find the missing letters or if not, that she might make some impression on ryder himself. she could show interest in the judge's case as a disinterested outsider and so might win his sympathies. from being a skeptic, stott now became enthusiastic. he promised to cooperate in every way and to keep shirley's whereabouts an absolute secret. the girl, therefore, began to make her preparations for departure from home by telling her parents that she had accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with an old college chum in new york. that same evening her mother, the judge, and stott went for a stroll after dinner and left her to take care of the house. they had wanted shirley to go, too, but she pleaded fatigue. the truth was that she wanted to be alone so she could ponder undisturbed over her plans. it was a clear, starlit night, with no moon, and shirley sat on the porch listening to the chirping of the crickets and idly watching the flashes of the mysterious fireflies. she was in no mood for reading and sat for a long time rocking herself, engrossed in her thoughts. suddenly she heard someone unfasten the garden gate. it was too soon for the return of the promenaders; it must be a visitor. through the uncertain penumbra of the garden she discerned approaching a form which looked familiar. yes, now there was no doubt possible. it was, indeed, jefferson ryder. she hurried down the porch to greet him. no matter what the father had done she could never think any the less of the son. he took her hand and for several moments neither one spoke. there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech and this was one of them. the gentle grip of his big strong hand expressed more tenderly than any words, the sympathy that lay in his heart for the woman he loved. shirley said quietly: "you have come at last, jefferson." "i came as soon as i could," he replied gently. "i saw father only yesterday." "you need not tell me what he said," shirley hastened to say. jefferson made no reply. he understood what she meant. he hung his head and hit viciously with his walking stick at the pebbles that lay at his feet. she went on: "i know everything now. it was foolish of me to think that mr. ryder would ever help us." "i can't help it in any way," blurted out jefferson. "i have not the slightest influence over him. his business methods i consider disgraceful--you understand that, don't you, shirley?" the girl laid her hand on his arm and replied kindly: "of course, jeff, we know that. come up and sit down." he followed her on the porch and drew up a rocker beside her. "they are all out for a walk," she explained. "i'm glad," he said frankly. "i wanted a quiet talk with you. i did not care to meet anyone. my name must be odious to your people." both were silent, feeling a certain awkwardness. they seemed to have drifted apart in some way since those delightful days in paris and on the ship. then he said: "i'm going away, but i couldn't go until i saw you." "you are going away?" exclaimed shirley, surprised. "yes," he said, "i cannot stand it any more at home. i had a hot talk with my father yesterday about one thing and another. he and i don't chin well together. besides this matter of your father's impeachment has completely discouraged me. all the wealth in the world could never reconcile me to such methods! i'm ashamed of the role my own flesh and blood has played in that miserable affair. i can't express what i feel about it." "yes," sighed shirley, "it is hard to believe that you are the son of that man!" "how is your father?" inquired jefferson. "how does he take it?" "oh, his heart beats and he can see and hear and speak," replied shirley sadly, "but he is only a shadow of what he once was. if the trial goes against him, i don't think he'll survive it." "it is monstrous," cried jefferson. "to think that my father should be responsible for this thing!" "we are still hoping for the best," added shirley, "but the outlook is dark." "but what are you going to do?" he asked. "these surroundings are not for you--" he looked around at the cheap furnishings which he could see through the open window and his face showed real concern. "i shall teach or write, or go out as governess," replied shirley with a tinge of bitterness. then smiling sadly she added: "poverty is easy; it is unmerited disgrace which is hard." the young man drew his chair closer and took hold of the hand that lay in her lap. she made no resistance. "shirley," he said, "do you remember that talk we had on the ship? i asked you to be my wife. you led me to believe that you were not indifferent to me. i ask you again to marry me. give me the right to take care of you and yours. i am the son of the world's richest man, but i don't want his money. i have earned a competence of my own--enough to live on comfortably. we will go away where you and your father and mother will make their home with us. do not let the sins of the fathers embitter the lives of the children." "mine has not sinned," said shirley bitterly. "i wish i could say the same of mine," replied jefferson. "it is because the clouds are dark about you that i want to come into your life to comfort you." the girl shook her head. "no, jefferson, the circumstances make such a marriage impossible. your family and everybody else would say that i had inveigled you into it. it is even more impossible now than i thought it was when i spoke to you on the ship. then i was worried about my father's trouble and could give no thought to anything else. now it is different. your father's action has made our union impossible for ever. i thank you for the honour you have done me. i do like you. i like you well enough to be your wife, but i will not accept this sacrifice on your part. your offer, coming at such a critical time, is dictated only by your noble, generous nature, by your sympathy for our misfortune. afterwards, you might regret it. if my father were convicted and driven from the bench and you found you had married the daughter of a disgraced man you would be ashamed of us all, and if i saw that it would break my heart." emotion stopped her utterance and she buried her face in her hands weeping silently. "shirley," said jefferson gently, "you are wrong. i love you for yourself, not because of your trouble. you know that. i shall never love any other woman but you. if you will not say 'yes' now, i shall go away as i told my father i would and one day i shall come back and then if you are still single i shall ask you again to be my wife." "where are you going?" she asked. "i shall travel for a year and then, may be, i shall stay a couple of years in paris, studying at the beaux arts. then i may go to rome. if i am to do anything worth while in the career i have chosen i must have that european training." "paris! rome!" echoed shirley. "how i envy you! yes, you are right. get away from this country where the only topic, the only thought is money, where the only incentive to work is dollars. go where there are still some ideals, where you can breathe the atmosphere of culture and art." forgetting momentarily her own troubles, shirley chatted on about life in the art centres of europe, advised jefferson where to go, with whom to study. she knew people in paris, rome and munich and she would give him letters to them. only, if he wanted to perfect himself in the languages, he ought to avoid americans and cultivate the natives. then, who could tell? if he worked hard and was lucky, he might have something exhibited at the salon and return to america a famous painter. "if i do," smiled jefferson, "you shall be the first to congratulate me. i shall come and ask you to be my wife. may i?" he added. shirley smiled gravely. "get famous first. you may not want me then." "i shall always want you," he whispered hoarsely, bending over her. in the dim light of the porch he saw that her tear-stained face was drawn and pale. he rose and held out his hand. "good-bye," he said simply. "good-bye, jefferson." she rose and put her hand in his. "we shall always be friends. i, too, am going away." "you going away--where to?" he asked surprised. "i have work to do in connection with my father's case," she said. "you?" said jefferson puzzled. "you have work to do--what work?" "i can't say what it is, jefferson. there are good reasons why i can't. you must take my word for it that it is urgent and important work." then she added: "you go your way, jefferson; i will go mine. it was not our destiny to belong to each other. you will become famous as an artist. and i--" "and you--" echoed jefferson. "i--i shall devote my life to my father. it's no use, jefferson--really--i've thought it all out. you must not come back to me--you understand. we must be alone with our grief--father and i. good-bye." he raised her hand to his lips. "good-bye, shirley. don't forget me. i shall come back for you." he went down the porch and she watched him go out of the gate and down the road until she could see his figure no longer. then she turned back and sank into her chair and burying her face in her handkerchief she gave way to a torrent of tears which afforded some relief to the weight on her heart. presently the others returned from their walk and she told them about the visitor. "mr. ryder's son, jefferson, was here. we crossed on the same ship. i introduced him to judge stott on the dock." the judge looked surprised, but he merely said: "i hope for his sake that he is a different man from his father." "he is," replied shirley simply, and nothing more was said. two days went by, during which shirley went on completing the preparations for her visit to new york. it was arranged that stott should escort her to the city. shortly before they started for the train a letter arrived for shirley. like the first one it had been forwarded by her publishers. it read as follows: miss shirley green, dear madam.--i shall be happy to see you at my residence--fifth avenue--any afternoon that you will mention. yours very truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley smiled in triumph as, unseen by her father and mother, she passed it over to stott. she at once sat down and wrote this reply: mr. john burkett ryder, dear sir.--i am sorry that i am unable to comply with your request. i prefer the invitation to call at your private residence should come from mrs. ryder. yours, etc., shirley green. she laughed as she showed this to stott: "he'll write me again," she said, "and next time his wife will sign the letter." an hour later she left massapequa for the city. chapter xi the hon. fitzroy bagley had every reason to feel satisfied with himself. his affaire de coeur with the senator's daughter was progressing more smoothly than ever, and nothing now seemed likely to interfere with his carefully prepared plans to capture an american heiress. the interview with kate roberts in the library, so awkwardly disturbed by jefferson's unexpected intrusion, had been followed by other interviews more secret and more successful, and the plausible secretary had contrived so well to persuade the girl that he really thought the world of her, and that a brilliant future awaited her as his wife, that it was not long before he found her in a mood to refuse him nothing. bagley urged immediate marriage; he insinuated that jefferson had treated her shamefully and that she owed it to herself to show the world that there were other men as good as the one who had jilted her. he argued that in view of the senator being bent on the match with ryder's son it would be worse than useless for him, bagley, to make formal application for her hand, so, as he explained, the only thing which remained was a runaway marriage. confronted with the fait accompli, papa roberts would bow to the inevitable. they could get married quietly in town, go away for a short trip, and when the senator had gotten over his first disappointment they would be welcomed back with open arms. kate listened willingly enough to this specious reasoning. in her heart she was piqued at jefferson's indifference and she was foolish enough to really believe that this marriage with a british nobleman, twice removed, would be in the nature of a triumph over him. besides, this project of an elopement appealed strangely to her frivolous imagination; it put her in the same class as all her favourite novel heroines. and it would be capital fun! meantime, senator roberts, in blissful ignorance of this little plot against his domestic peace, was growing impatient and he approached his friend ryder once more on the subject of his son jefferson. the young man, he said, had been back from europe some time. he insisted on knowing what his attitude was towards his daughter. if they were engaged to be married he said there should be a public announcement of the fact. it was unfair to him and a slight to his daughter to let matters hang fire in this unsatisfactory way and he hinted that both himself and his daughter might demand their passports from the ryder mansion unless some explanation were forthcoming. ryder was in a quandary. he had no wish to quarrel with his useful washington ally; he recognized the reasonableness of his complaint. yet what could he do? much as he himself desired the marriage, his son was obstinate and showed little inclination to settle down. he even hinted at attractions in another quarter. he did not tell the senator of his recent interview with his son when the latter made it very plain that the marriage could never take place. ryder, sr., had his own reasons for wishing to temporize. it was quite possible that jefferson might change his mind and abandon his idea of going abroad and he suggested to the senator that perhaps if he, the senator, made the engagement public through the newspapers it might have the salutary effect of forcing his son's hand. so a few mornings later there appeared among the society notes in several of the new york papers this paragraph: "the engagement is announced of miss katherine roberts, only daughter of senator roberts of wisconsin, to jefferson ryder, son of mr. john burkett ryder." two persons in new york happened to see the item about the same time and both were equally interested, although it affected them in a different manner. one was shirley rossmore, who had chanced to pick up the newspaper at the breakfast table in her boarding house. "so soon?" she murmured to herself. well, why not? she could not blame jefferson. he had often spoken to her of this match arranged by his father and they had laughed over it as a typical marriage of convenience modelled after the continental pattern. jefferson, she knew, had never cared for the girl nor taken the affair seriously. some powerful influences must have been at work to make him surrender so easily. here again she recognized the masterly hand of ryder, sr., and more than ever she was eager to meet this extraordinary man and measure her strength with his. her mind, indeed, was too full of her father's troubles to grieve over her own however much she might have been inclined to do so under other circumstances, and all that day she did her best to banish the paragraph from her thoughts. more than a week had passed since she left massapequa and what with corresponding with financiers, calling on editors and publishers, every moment of her time had been kept busy. she had found a quiet and reasonable priced boarding house off washington square and here stott had called several times to see her. her correspondence with mr. ryder had now reached a phase when it was impossible to invent any further excuses for delaying the interview asked for. as she had foreseen, a day or two after her arrival in town she had received a note from mrs. ryder asking her to do her the honour to call and see her, and shirley, after waiting another two days, had replied making an appointment for the following day at three o'clock. this was the same day on which the paragraph concerning the ryder-roberts engagement appeared in the society chronicles of the metropolis. directly after the meagre meal which in new york boarding houses is dignified by the name of luncheon, shirley proceeded to get ready for this portentous visit to the ryder mansion. she was anxious to make a favourable impression on the financier, so she took some pains with her personal appearance. she always looked stylish, no matter what she wore, and her poverty was of too recent date to make much difference to her wardrobe, which was still well supplied with paris-made gowns. she selected a simple close-fitting gown of gray chiffon cloth and a picture hat of leghorn straw heaped with red roses, shirley's favourite flower. thus arrayed, she sallied forth at two o'clock--a little gray mouse to do battle with the formidable lion. the sky was threatening, so instead of walking a short way up fifth avenue for exercise, as she had intended doing, she cut across town through ninth street, and took the surface car on fourth avenue. this would put her down at madison avenue and seventy-fourth street, which was only a block from the ryder residence. she looked so pretty and was so well dressed that the passers-by who looked after her wondered why she did not take a cab instead of standing on a street corner for a car. but one's outward appearance is not always a faithful index to the condition of one's pocketbook, and shirley was rapidly acquiring the art of economy. it was not without a certain trepidation that she began this journey. so far, all her plans had been based largely on theory, but now that she was actually on her way to mr. ryder all sorts of misgivings beset her. suppose he knew her by sight and roughly accused her of obtaining access to his house under false pretences and then had her ejected by the servants? how terrible and humiliating that would be! and even if he did not how could she possibly find those letters with him watching her, and all in the brief time of a conventional afternoon call? it had been an absurd idea from the first. stott was right; she saw that now. but she had entered upon it and she was not going to confess herself beaten until she had tried. and as the car sped along madison avenue, gradually drawing nearer to the house which she was going to enter disguised as it were, like a burglar, she felt cold chills run up and down her spine--the same sensation that one experiences when one rings the bell of a dentist's where one has gone to have a tooth extracted. in fact, she felt so nervous and frightened that if she had not been ashamed before herself she would have turned back. in about twenty minutes the car stopped at the corner of seventy-fourth street. shirley descended and with a quickened pulse walked towards the ryder mansion, which she knew well by sight. there was one other person in new york who, that same morning, had read the newspaper item regarding the ryder-roberts betrothal, and he did not take the matter so calmly as shirley had done. on the contrary, it had the effect of putting him into a violent rage. this was jefferson. he was working in his studio when he read it and five minutes later he was tearing up-town to seek the author of it. he understood its object, of course; they wanted to force his hand, to shame him into this marriage, to so entangle him with the girl that no other alternative would be possible to an honourable man. it was a despicable trick and he had no doubt that his father was at the back of it. so his mind now was fully made up. he would go away at once where they could not make his life a burden with this odious marriage which was fast becoming a nightmare to him. he would close up his studio and leave immediately for europe. he would show his father once for all that he was a man and expected to be treated as one. he wondered what shirley was doing. where had she gone, what was this mysterious work of which she had spoken? he only realized now, when she seemed entirely beyond his reach, how much he loved her and how empty his life would be without her. he would know no happiness until she was his wife. her words on the porch did not discourage him. under the circumstances he could not expect her to have said anything else. she could not marry into john ryder's family with such a charge hanging over her own father's head, but, later, when the trial was over, no matter how it turned out, he would go to her again and ask her to be his wife. on arriving home the first person he saw was the ubiquitous mr. bagley, who stood at the top of the first staircase giving some letters to the butler. jefferson cornered him at once, holding out the newspaper containing the offending paragraph. "say, bagley," he cried, "what does this mean? is this any of your doing?" the english secretary gave his employer's son a haughty stare, and then, without deigning to reply or even to glance at the newspaper, continued his instructions to the servant: "here, jorkins, get stamps for all these letters and see they are mailed at once. they are very important." "very good, sir." the man took the letters and disappeared, while jefferson, impatient, repeated his question: "my doing?" sneered mr. bagley. "really, jefferson, you go too far! do you suppose for one instant that i would condescend to trouble myself with your affairs?" jefferson was in no mood to put up with insolence from anyone, especially from a man whom he heartily despised, so advancing menacingly he thundered: "i mean--were you, in the discharge of your menial-like duties, instructed by my father to send that paragraph to the newspapers regarding my alleged betrothal to miss roberts? yes or no?" the man winced and made a step backward. there was a gleam in the ryder eye which he knew by experience boded no good. "really, jefferson," he said in a more conciliatory tone, "i know absolutely nothing about the paragraph. this is the first i hear of it. why not ask your father?" "i will," replied jefferson grimly, he was turning to go in the direction of the library when bagley stopped him. "you cannot possibly see him now," he said. "sergeant ellison of the secret service is in there with him, and your father told me not to disturb him on any account. he has another appointment at three o'clock with some woman who writes books." seeing that the fellow was in earnest, jefferson did not insist. he could see his father a little later or send him a message through his mother. proceeding upstairs he found mrs. ryder in her room and in a few energetic words he explained the situation to his mother. they had gone too far with this matchmaking business, he said, his father was trying to interfere with his personal liberty and he was going to put a stop to it. he would leave at once for europe. mrs. ryder had already heard of the projected trip abroad, so the news of this sudden departure was not the shock it might otherwise have been. in her heart she did not blame her son, on the contrary she admired his spirit, and if the temporary absence from home would make him happier, she would not hold him back. yet, mother like, she wept and coaxed, but nothing would shake jefferson in his determination and he begged his mother to make it very plain to his father that this was final and that a few days would see him on his way abroad. he would try and come back to see his father that afternoon, but otherwise she was to say good-bye for him. mrs. ryder promised tearfully to do what her son demanded and a few minutes later jefferson was on his way to the front door. as he went down stairs something white on the carpet attracted his attention. he stooped and picked it up. it was a letter. it was in bagley's handwriting and had evidently been dropped by the man to whom the secretary had given it to post. but what interested jefferson more than anything else was that it was addressed to miss kate roberts. under ordinary circumstances, a king's ransom would not have tempted the young man to read a letter addressed to another, but he was convinced that his father's secretary was an adventurer and if he were carrying on an intrigue in this manner it could have only one meaning. it was his duty to unveil a rascal who was using the ryder roof and name to further his own ends and victimize a girl who, although sophisticated enough to know better, was too silly to realize the risk she ran at the hands of an unscrupulous man. hesitating no longer, jefferson tore open the envelope and read: my dearest wife that is to be: i have arranged everything. next wednesday--just a week from to-day--we will go to the house of a discreet friend of mine where a minister will marry us; then we will go to city hall and get through the legal part of it. afterwards, we can catch the four o'clock train for buffalo. meet me in the ladies' room at the holland house wednesday morning at a.m. i will come there with a closed cab. your devoted fitz. "phew!" jefferson whistled. a close shave this for senator roberts, he thought. his first impulse was to go upstairs again to his mother and put the matter in her hands. she would immediately inform his father, who would make short work of mr. bagley. but, thought jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing? he could afford to wait a day or two. there was no hurry. he could allow bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot at the eleventh hour. he would even let this letter go to kate, there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and imitating the handwriting--and when bagley was just preparing to go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap. such a cad deserved no mercy. the scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would see of the aristocratic english secretary. jefferson put the letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing. while the foregoing incidents were happening john burkett ryder was secluded in his library. the great man had come home earlier than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment that afternoon. one was sergeant ellison, who had to report on his mission to massapequa; the other was miss shirley green, the author of "the american octopus," who had at last deigned to honour him with a visit. pending the arrival of these visitors the financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand. the plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of papers. between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals. every now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick calculations on scraps of paper. then if the result pleased him, a smile overspread his saturnine features. he rose from his chair and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking deeply. "five millions," he muttered, "not a cent more. if they won't sell we'll crush them--" mr. bagley entered. mr. ryder looked up quickly. "well, bagley?" he said interrogatively. "has sergeant ellison come?" "yes, sir. but mr. herts is downstairs. he insists on seeing you about the philadelphia gas deal. he says it is a matter of life and death." "to him--yes," answered the financier dryly. "let him come up. we might as well have it out now." mr. bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in appearance. he looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest promoters in the country, and a big man in wall street. there was only one bigger man and that was john ryder. but, to-day, mr. herts was not in good condition. his face was pale and his manner flustered and nervous. he was plainly worried. "mr. ryder," he began with excited gesture, "the terms you offer are preposterous. it would mean disaster to the stockholders. our gas properties are worth six times that amount. we will sell out for twenty millions--not a cent less." ryder shrugged his shoulders. "mr. herts," he replied coolly, "i am busy to-day and in no mood for arguing. we'll either buy you out or force you out. choose. you have our offer. five millions for your gas property. will you take it?" "we'll see you in hell first!" cried his visitor exasperated. "very well," replied ryder still unruffled, "all negotiations are off. you leave me free to act. we have an offer to buy cheap the old germantown gas company which has charter rights to go into any of the streets of philadelphia. we shall purchase that company, we will put ten millions new capital into it, and reduce the price of gas in philadelphia to sixty cents a thousand. where will you be then?" the face of the colossus as he uttered this stand and deliver speech was calm and inscrutable. conscious of the resistless power of his untold millions, he felt no more compunction in mercilessly crushing this business rival than he would in trampling out the life of a worm. the little man facing him looked haggard and distressed. he knew well that this was no idle threat. he was well aware that ryder and his associates by the sheer weight of the enormous wealth they controlled could sell out or destroy any industrial corporation in the land. it was plainly illegal, but it was done every day, and his company was not the first victim nor the last. desperate, he appealed humbly to the tyrannical money power: "don't drive us to the wall, mr. ryder. this forced sale will mean disaster to us all. put yourself in our place--think what it means to scores of families whose only support is the income from their investment in our company." "mr. herts," replied ryder unmoved, "i never allow sentiment to interfere with business. you have heard my terms. i refuse to argue the matter further. what is it to be? five millions or competition? decide now or this interview must end!" he took out his watch and with his other hand touched a bell. beads of perspiration stood on his visitor's forehead. in a voice broken with suppressed emotion he said hoarsely: "you're a hard, pitiless man, john ryder! so be it--five millions. i don't know what they'll say. i don't dare return to them." "those are my terms," said ryder coldly. "the papers," he added, "will be ready for your signature to-morrow at this time, and i'll have a cheque ready for the entire amount. good-day." mr. bagley entered. ryder bowed to herts, who slowly retired. when the door had closed on him ryder went back to his desk, a smile of triumph on his face. then he turned to his secretary: "let sergeant ellison come up," he said. the secretary left the room and mr. ryder sank comfortably in his chair, puffing silently at his long black cigar. the financier was thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who had come to make his report. he was thinking of the book "the american octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a very few minutes. he glanced at the clock. a quarter to three. she would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women seldom are, he reflected. what kind of a woman could she be, this shirley green, to dare cross swords with a man whose power was felt in two hemispheres? no ordinary woman, that was certain. he tried to imagine what she looked like, and he pictured a tall, gaunt, sexless spinster with spectacles, a sort of nightmare in the garb of a woman. a sour, discontented creature, bitter to all mankind, owing to disappointments in early life and especially vindictive towards the rich, whom her socialistic and even anarchistical tendencies prompted her to hate and attack. yet, withal, a brainy, intelligent woman, remarkably well informed as to political and industrial conditions--a woman to make a friend of rather than an enemy. and john ryder, who had educated himself to believe that with gold he could do everything, that none could resist its power, had no doubt that with money he could enlist this shirley green in his service. at least it would keep her from writing more books about him. the door opened and sergeant ellison entered, followed by the secretary, who almost immediately withdrew. "well, sergeant," said mr. ryder cordially, "what have you to tell me? i can give you only a few minutes. i expect a lady friend of yours." the plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his subordinates. "a lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled. "yes--miss shirley green, the author," replied the financier, enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "that suggestion of yours worked out all right. she's coming here to-day." "i'm glad you've found her, sir." "it was a tough job," answered ryder with a grimace. "we wrote her half a dozen times before she was satisfied with the wording of the invitation. but, finally, we landed her and i expect her at three o'clock. now what about that rossmore girl? did you go down to massapequa?" "yes, sir, i have been there half a dozen times. in fact, i've just come from there. judge rossmore is there, all right, but his daughter has left for parts unknown." "gone away--where?" exclaimed the financier. this was what he dreaded. as long as he could keep his eye on the girl there was little danger of jefferson making a fool of himself; with her disappeared everything was possible. "i could not find out, sir. their neighbours don't know much about them. they say they're haughty and stuck up. the only one i could get anything out of was a parson named deetle. he said it was a sad case, that they had reverses and a daughter who was in paris--" "yes, yes," said ryder impatiently, "we know all that. but where's the daughter now?" "search me, sir. i even tried to pump the irish slavey. gee, what a vixen! she almost flew at me. she said she didn't know and didn't care." ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had when he wished to emphasize a point. "sergeant, i don't like the mysterious disappearance of that girl. you must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all the sleuths in the country. had my son been seen there?" "the parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description sitting on the porch of the rossmore cottage the evening before the girl disappeared, but he didn't know who he was and hasn't seen him since." "that was my son, i'll wager. he knows where the girl is. perhaps he's with her now. maybe he's going to marry her. that must be prevented at any cost. sergeant, find that rossmore girl and i'll give you $ , ." the detective's face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so liberal a reward. rising he said: "i'll find her, sir. i'll find her." mr. bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence. but before he could open his mouth mr. ryder said: "bagley, when did you see my son, jefferson, last?" "to-day, sir. he wanted to see you to say good-bye. he said he would be back." ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said: "it's not so bad as i thought." then turning again to his secretary he asked: "well, bagley, what is it?" "there's a lady downstairs, sir--miss shirley green." the financier half sprang from his seat. "oh, yes. show her up at once. good-bye, sergeant, good-bye. find that rossmore woman and the $ , is yours." the detective went out and a few moments later mr. bagley reappeared ushering in shirley. the mouse was in the den of the lion. chapter xii mr. ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his visitor entered. he pretended to be busily preoccupied with his papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving strangers. this frigid reception invariably served its purpose, for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which usually was little enough. for several minutes shirley stood still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. she gave a little conventional cough, and ryder looked up. what he saw so astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he was smoking and rose from his seat. he had expected a gaunt old maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. there was surely some mistake. this slip of a girl could not have written "the american octopus." he advanced to greet shirley. "you wish to see me, madame?" he asked courteously. there were times when even john burkett ryder could be polite. "yes," replied shirley, her voice trembling a little in spite of her efforts to keep cool. "i am here by appointment. three o'clock, mrs. ryder's note said. i am miss green." "you--miss green?" echoed the financier dubiously. "yes, i am miss green--shirley green, author of 'the american octopus.' you asked me to call. here i am." for the first time in his life, john ryder was nonplussed. he coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw his cigar. shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease. "oh, please go on smoking," she said; "i don't mind it in the least." ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his visitor. "so you are shirley green, eh?" "that is my nom-de-plume--yes," replied the girl nervously. she was already wishing herself back at massapequa. the financier eyed her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat near his desk, he said: "won't you sit down?" "thank you," murmured shirley. she sat down, and he took his seat at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face. again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her cheeks burn, ryder said: "i rather expected--" he stopped for a moment as if uncertain what to say, then he added: "you're younger than i thought you were, miss green, much younger." "time will remedy that," smiled shirley. then, mischievously, she added: "i rather expected to see mrs. ryder." there was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on his desk and replied: "yes--she wrote you, but i--wanted to see you about this." shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear unconcerned as she answered: "oh, my book--have you read it?" "i have," replied ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "no doubt your time is valuable, so i'll come right to the point. i want to ask you, miss green, where you got the character of your central figure--the octopus, as you call him--john broderick?" "from imagination--of course," answered shirley. ryder opened the book, and shirley noticed that there were several passages marked. he turned the leaves over in silence for a minute or two and then he said: "you've sketched a pretty big man here--" "yes," assented shirley, "he has big possibilities, but i think he makes very small use of them." ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading the book, he continued: "on page you call him 'the world's greatest individualized potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence to-day.' and you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of his marvellous success. am i right?" he looked at her questioningly. "quite right," answered shirley. ryder proceeded: "on page you say 'the machinery of his money-making mind typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. it must go on, relentlessly, resistlessly, ruthlessly making money-making money and continuing to make money. it cannot stop until the machinery crumbles.'" laying the book down and turning sharply on shirley, he asked her bluntly: "do you mean to say that i couldn't stop to-morrow if i wanted to?" she affected to not understand him. "you?" she inquired in a tone of surprise. "well--it's a natural question," stammered ryder, with a nervous little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just as every woman sees herself in the heroine. we're all heroes and heroines in our own eyes. but tell me what's your private opinion of this man. you drew the character. what do you think of him as a type, how would you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied shirley without a moment's hesitation. the financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment. "criminal?" he echoed. "yes, criminal," repeated shirley decisively. "he is avarice, egotism, and ambition incarnate. he loves money because he loves power, and he loves power more than his fellow man." ryder laughed uneasily. decidedly, this girl had opinions of her own which she was not backward to express. "isn't that rather strong?" he asked. "i don't think so," replied shirley. then quickly she asked: "but what does it matter? no such man exists." "no, of course not," said ryder, and he relapsed into silence. yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor closely from under his thick eyebrows. she seemed supremely unconscious of his scrutiny. her aristocratic, thoughtful face gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently very hostile attitude against him. that he was in her mind when she drew the character of john broderick there was no doubt possible. no matter how she might evade the identification, he was convinced he was the hero of her book. why had she attacked him so bitterly? at first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future silence. yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. then he remembered, too, that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself. no, she was no blackmailer. more probably she was a dreamer--one of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness of feeling. as such, she might prove more to be feared than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. he knew he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry. it was a cut-throat game at best. competition was the soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal for that. but all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do him any good. one day the people might take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. he took up the book again and ran over the pages. this certainly was no ordinary girl. she knew more and had a more direct way of saying things than any woman he had ever met. and as he watched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her; how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. if he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and literature of this kind might become a real peril to his interests. money could do anything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. but how could he employ her? suddenly an inspiration came to him. for some years he had been collecting material for a history of the empire trading company. she could write it. it would practically be his own biography. would she undertake it? embarrassed by the long silence, shirley finally broke it by saying: "but you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what i thought of my own work." "no," replied ryder slowly, "i want you to do some work for me." he opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. shirley's heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. were her father's among them? she wondered what kind of work john burkett ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was. some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind. if it was well paid, why should she not accept? there would be nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way. she was a professional writer in the market to be employed by whoever could pay the price. besides, such work might give her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in search. gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from the drawer, mr. ryder said: "i want you to put my biography together from this material. but first," he added, taking up "the american octopus," "i want to know where you got the details of this man's life." "oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines," replied shirley carelessly. "you know the american millionaire is a very overworked topic just now--and naturally i've read--" "yes, i understand," he said, "but i refer to what you haven't read--what you couldn't have read. for example, here." he turned to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "as an evidence of his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful indian girl tattooed just above the forearm." ryder leaned eagerly forward as he asked her searchingly: "now who told you that i had my arm tattooed when i was a boy?" "have you?" laughed shirley nervously. "what a curious coincidence!" "let me read you another coincidence," said ryder meaningly. he turned to another part of the book and read: "the same eternal long black cigar always between his lips..." "general grant smoked, too," interrupted shirley. "all men who think deeply along material lines seem to smoke." "well, we'll let that go. but how about this?" he turned back a few pages and read: "john broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl who lived in vermont, but circumstances separated them." he stopped and stared at shirley a moment and then he said: "i loved a girl when i was a lad and she came from vermont, and circumstances separated us. that isn't coincidence, for presently you make john broderick marry a young woman who had money. i married a girl with money." "lots of men marry for money," remarked shirley. "i said with money, not for money," retorted ryder. then turning again to the book, he said: "now, this is what i can't understand, for no one could have told you this but i myself. listen." he read aloud: "with all his physical bravery and personal courage, john broderick was intensely afraid of death. it was on his mind constantly." "who told you that?" he demanded somewhat roughly. "i swear i've never mentioned it to a living soul." "most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied shirley with outward composure, "for death is about the only thing that can separate them from their money." ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere nor hearty. it was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven out of heaven. "you're quite a character!" he laughed again, and shirley, catching the infection, laughed, too. "it's me and it isn't me," went on ryder flourishing the book. "this fellow broderick is all right; he's successful and he's great, but i don't like his finish."' "it's logical," ventured shirley. "it's cruel," insisted ryder. "so is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour instead of loving him," retorted shirley. she spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. so far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. she was fast becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away. "um!" grunted ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you interest me!" he took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them over to her. "here," he said, "i want you to make as clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own imagination." shirley turned the papers over carelessly. "so you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked with a tinge of irony. "isn't it?" he demanded. the girl looked him square in the face. "suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all wanted to be the richest, the most powerful personage in the world?" "well--what then?" he demanded. "i think it would postpone the era of the brotherhood of man indefinitely, don't you?" "i never thought of it from that point of view," admitted the billionaire. "really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl. why, you can't be more than twenty--or so." "i'm twenty-four--or so," smiled shirley. ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. he admired this girl's pluck and ready wit. he grew more amiable and tried to gain her confidence. in a coaxing tone he said: "come, where did you get those details? take me into your confidence." "i have taken you into my confidence," laughed shirley, pointing at her book. "it cost you $ . !" turning over the papers he had put before her she said presently: "i don't know about this." "you don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with some asperity. "it might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as to its commercial or literary value. then she said frankly: "to tell you the honest truth, i don't consider mere genius in money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print. you see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral." ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her: "you can name your own price if you will do the work," he said. "two, three or even five thousand dollars. it's only a few months' work." "five thousand dollars?" echoed shirley. "that's a lot of money." smiling, she added: "it appeals to my commercial sense. but i'm afraid the subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic standpoint." ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make five thousand dollars. he knew that writers do not run across such opportunities every day. "upon my word," he said, "i don't know why i'm so anxious to get you to do the work. i suppose it's because you don't want to. you remind me of my son. ah, he's a problem!" shirley started involuntarily when ryder mentioned his son. but he did not notice it. "why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested. "oh, no, i wish he were," said ryder. "fallen in love with the wrong woman, i suppose," she said. "something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked ryder surprised. shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently. "so many boys do that. besides," she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "i can hardly imagine that any woman would be the right one unless you selected her yourself!" ryder made no answer. he folded his arms and gazed at her. who was this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, who never made a mistake? after a silence he said: "do you know you say the strangest things?" "truth is strange," replied shirley carelessly. "i don't suppose you hear it very often." "not in that form," admitted ryder. shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her, and was perusing them one after another. "all these letters from washington consulting you on politics and finance--they won't interest the world." "my secretary picked them out," explained ryder. "your artistic sense will tell you what to use." "does your son still love this girl? i mean the one you abject to?" inquired shirley as she went on sorting the papers. "oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered ryder hastily. "yes, he does; he still loves her," said shirley positively. "how do you know?" asked ryder amazed. "from the way you say he doesn't," retorted shirley. ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with astonishment. "you are right again," he said. "the idiot does love the girl." "bless his heart," said shirley to herself. aloud she said: "i hope they'll both outwit you." ryder laughed in spite of himself. this young woman certainly interested him more than any other he had ever known. "i don't think i ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he said. "what's the objection to the girl?" demanded shirley. "every objection. i don't want her in my family." "anything against her character?" to better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn the conversation had taken, shirley pretended to be more busy than ever with the papers. "yes--that is no--not that i know of," replied ryder. "but because a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a desirable match, does it?" "it's a point in her favor, isn't it?" "yes--but--" he hesitated as if uncertain what to say. "you know men well, don't you, mr. ryder?" "i've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied. "why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "that would enable you to understand a great many things that i don't think are quite clear to you now." ryder laughed good humouredly. it was decidedly a novel sensation to have someone lecturing him. "i'm studying you," he said, "but i don't seem to make much headway. a woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit has great possibilities--great possibilities. do you know you're the first woman i ever took into my confidence--i mean at sight?" again he fixed her with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him how to read men. he continued: "i'm acting on sentiment--something i rarely do, but i can't help it. i like you, upon my soul i do, and i'm going to introduce you to my wife--my son--" he took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it. "what a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is for you to command," exclaimed shirley in a burst of admiration that was half real, half mocking. "i suppose you always tell people what they are to do and how they are to do it. you are a born general. you know i've often thought that napoleon and caesar and alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. i'm sure of it now." ryder listened to her in amazement. he was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not. "well, of all--" he began. then interrupting himself he said amiably: "won't you do me the honour to meet my family?" shirley smiled sweetly and bowed. "thank you, mr. ryder, i will." she rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gave her. she was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of her search. ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to his secretary in another room, while shirley, who was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters. "is that you, bagley? what's that? general dodge? get rid of him. i can't see him to-day. tell him to come to-morrow. what's that? my son wants to see me? tell him to come to the phone." at that instant shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried to suppress. ryder looked up. "what's the matter?" he demanded startled. "nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "i pricked myself with a pin. don't mind me." she had just come across her father's missing letters, which had got mixed up, evidently without ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers he had handed her. prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like a shock. now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? could she conceal them? would he miss them? she tried to slip them in her bosom while ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. she still held the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone: "hallo, jefferson, boy! you want to see me. can you wait till i'm through? i've got a lady here. going away? nonsense! determined, eh? well, i can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. you want to say good-bye. come up in about five minutes and i'll introduce you to a very interesting person." he laughed and hung up the receiver. shirley was all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain she was under, she said: "you want me to come here?" she looked up from the letters she was reading across to ryder, who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. he caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said: "yes, i don't want these papers to get--" his eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. he stopped short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her. "what have you got there?" he exclaimed. he took the letters and she made no resistance. it would be folly to force the issue now, she thought. another opportunity would present itself. ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speaking to shirley: "how on earth did they get among my other papers?" "from judge rossmore, were they not?" said shirley boldly. "how did you know it was judge rossmore?" demanded ryder suspiciously. "i didn't know that his name had been mentioned." "i saw his signature," she said simply. then she added: "he's the father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?" "yes, he's the----" a cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jaws snapped and he clenched his fist. "how you must hate him!" said shirley, who observed the change. "not at all," replied ryder recovering his self-possession and suavity of manner. "i disagree with his politics and his methods, but--i know very little about him except that he is about to be removed from office." "about to be?" echoed shirley. "so his fate is decided even before he is tried?" the girl laughed bitterly. "yes," she went on, "some of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of which he is accused." "do they?" said ryder indifferently. "yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side." she planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank: "whose side are you on--really and truly?" ryder winced. what right had this woman, a stranger both to judge rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? he restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied: "whose side am i on? oh, i don't know that i am on any side. i don't know that i give it much thought. i--" "do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded. she had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her self-possession. "why do you ask? what is your interest in this matter?" "i don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me, that's all. its rather romantic. your son loves this man's daughter. he is in disgrace--many seem to think unjustly." her voice trembled with emotion as she continued: "i have heard from one source or another--you know i am acquainted with a number of newspaper men--i have heard that life no longer has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and daughter are in despair. tell me, do you think he deserves such a fate?" ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied: "no, i do not--no--" thinking that she had touched his sympathies, shirley followed up her advantage: "oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, so powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will--save this man from humiliation and disgrace!" ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as if the subject had begun to bore him. "my dear girl, you don't understand. his removal is necessary." shirley's face became set and hard. there was a contemptuous ring to her words as she retorted: "yet you admit that he may be innocent!" "even if i knew it as a fact, i couldn't move." "do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" she pointed to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "if you had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? wouldn't you help him then?" ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask. "not even if i had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snapped viciously. "have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded. "i repeat that even if i had, i could not expose the men who have been my friends. it's noblesse oblige in politics as well as in society, you know." he smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms. "oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. and you believe him innocent. well, you must have some grounds for your belief." "not necessarily--" "you said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench--" she stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. "oh, i think you're having a joke at my expense," she went on, "just to see how far you can lead me. i daresay judge rossmore deserves all he gets. oh, yes--i'm sure he deserves it." she rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion. ryder watched her curiously. "my dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!" "please forgive me," laughed shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "it's my artistic temperament, i suppose. it's always getting me into trouble. it appealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of hopeless love between two young people--with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. it was too much for me. ah! ah! i forgot where i was!" she leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. at that moment there was a knock at the library door and jefferson ryder appeared. not seeing shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father. "you told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "i just wanted to say--" "miss green," said ryder, sr., addressing shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son jefferson. jeff--this is miss green." jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted to the floor. he was so surprised that he was struck dumb. finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed: "shirley!" "yes, shirley green, the author," explained ryder, sr., not noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation. shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to jefferson, said demurely: "i am very pleased to meet you, mr. ryder." then quickly, in an undertone, she added: "be careful; don't betray me!" jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand. all he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at his father. "why don't you shake hands with her?" said ryder, sr., "she won't bite you." then he added: "miss green is going to do some literary work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. it's too bad you're going away!" he chuckled at his own pleasantry. "father!" blurted out jefferson, "i came to say that i've changed my mind. you did not want me to go, and i feel i ought to do something to please you." "good boy," said ryder pleased. "now you're talking common sense." he turned to shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: "well, miss green, we may consider the matter settled. you undertake the work at the price i named and finish it as soon as you can. of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so i think it would be better for you to come and stay here while the work is progressing. mrs. ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material close at hand. what do you say?" shirley was silent for a moment. she looked first at ryder and then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. then she said quietly: "as you think best, mr. ryder. i am quite willing to do the work here." ryder, sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street. chapter xiii shirley entered upon her new duties in the ryder household two days later. she had returned to her rooms the evening of her meeting with the financier in a state bordering upon hysteria. the day's events had been so extraordinary that it seemed to her they could not be real, and that she must be in a dream. the car ride to seventy-fourth street, the interview in the library, the discovery of her father's letters, the offer to write the biography, and, what to her was still more important, the invitation to go and live in the ryder home--all these incidents were so remarkable and unusual that it was only with difficulty that the girl persuaded herself that they were not figments of a disordered brain. but it was all true enough. the next morning's mail brought a letter from mrs. ryder, who wrote to the effect that mr. ryder would like the work to begin at once, and adding that a suite of rooms would be ready for her the following afternoon. shirley did not hesitate. everything was to be gained by making the ryder residence her headquarters, her father's very life depended upon the successful outcome of her present mission, and this unhoped for opportunity practically ensured success. she immediately wrote to massapequa. one letter was to her mother, saying that she was extending her visit beyond the time originally planned. the other letter was to stott. she told him all about the interview with ryder, informed him of the discovery of the letters, and after explaining the nature of the work offered to her, said that her address for the next few weeks would be in care of john burkett ryder. all was going better than she had dared to hope. everything seemed to favour their plan. her first step, of course, while in the ryder home, would be to secure possession of her father's letters, and these she would dispatch at once to massapequa, so they could be laid before the senate without delay. so, after settling accounts with her landlady and packing up her few belongings, shirley lost no time in transferring herself to the more luxurious quarters provided for her in the ten-million-dollar mansion uptown. at the ryder house she was received cordially and with every mark of consideration. the housekeeper came down to the main hall to greet her when she arrived and escorted her to the suite of rooms, comprising a small working library, a bedroom simply but daintily furnished in pink and white and a private bathroom, which had been specially prepared for her convenience and comfort, and here presently she was joined by mrs. ryder. "dear me," exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at shirley, "what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! how did you do it? i'm sure i couldn't. it's as much as i can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible." "oh, it wasn't so hard," laughed shirley. "it was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. the trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. the whole country is talking about nothing else. my book came at the right time, that's all." although "the american octopus" was a direct attack on her own husband, mrs. ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. it was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant man. "i have always wanted a daughter," went on mrs. ryder, becoming confidential, while shirley removed her things and made herself at home; "girls of your age are so companionable." then, abruptly, she asked: "do your parents live in new york?" shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment. "no--not at present," she answered evasively. "my mother and father are in the country." she was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently mrs. ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. she only said: "i have a son, but i don't see much of him. you must meet my jefferson. he is such a nice boy." shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied: "i met him yesterday. mr. ryder introduced him to me." "poor lad, he has his troubles too," went on mrs. ryder. "he's in love with a girl, but his father wants him to marry someone else. they're quarrelling over it all the time." "parents shouldn't interfere in matters of the heart," said shirley decisively. "what is more serious than the choosing of a life companion, and who are better entitled to make a free selection than they who are going to spend the rest of their days together? of course, it is a father's duty to give his son the benefit of his riper experience, but to insist on a marriage based only on business interests is little less than a crime. there are considerations more important if the union is to be a happy or a lasting one. the chief thing is that the man should feel real attachment for the woman he marries. two people who are to live together as man and wife must be compatible in tastes and temper. you cannot mix oil and water. it is these selfish marriages which keep our divorce courts busy. money alone won't buy happiness in marriage." "no," sighed mrs. ryder, "no one knows that better than i." the financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known shirley for years. it was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book. finally, thinking that shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish. a maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. but shirley, not caring to encounter mr. ryder's cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone. left to herself, shirley settled down to work in earnest. mr. ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write. she wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind--"the history of a crime." yet she thought they could hardly infringe on victor hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest "the history of the empire trading company." everyone would understand that it told the story of john burkett ryder's remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time. she worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk. no one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, mrs. ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning. after luncheon, shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors. her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk. the air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home. turning down fifth avenue, she entered the park at seventy-second street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the casino. the park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. she found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet. she wondered what jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name. she must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters. certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking jefferson to do her this service. the letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. she had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could. she was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the curb opposite her bench. a man jumped out. it was jefferson. "hello, shirley," he cried gaily; "who would have expected to find you rusticating on a bench here? i pictured you grinding away at home doing literary stunts for the governor." he grinned and then added: "come for a drive. i want to talk to you." shirley demurred. no, she could not spare the time. yet, she thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain to jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the letters for her? while she pondered jefferson insisted, and a few minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab. they started off at a brisk pace, shirley sitting with her head back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion. "now tell me," he said, "what does it all mean? i was so startled at seeing you in the library the other day that i almost betrayed you. how did you come to call on father?" briefly shirley explained everything. she told him how mr. ryder had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her father, she told him about the letters, explaining how necessary they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered them. mr. ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters. "so that is the mysterious work you spoke of--to get those letters?" said jefferson. "yes, that is my mission. it was a secret. i couldn't tell you; i couldn't tell anyone. only judge stott knows. he is aware i have found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. and now," she said, "i want your help." his only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his. she knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the service she wanted. he understood. "where are the letters?" he demanded. "in the left-hand drawer of your father's desk," she answered. he was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply: "i will get them." the cab by this time had got as far as claremont, and from the hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the majestic hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. the day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that jefferson suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. they could leave the cab at claremont and drive back to the city later. shirley was too grateful to him for his promise of cooperation to make any further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a self-made holiday. the place they had reached was just outside the northern boundaries of harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. the land, thickly wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees. although it was late in october the day was warm, and shirley soon tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. the rich grass underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the dancing waters of the broad hudson, spangled with gleams of light, as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea. "shirley," said jefferson suddenly, "i suppose you saw that ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to miss roberts. i hope you understood that it was done without my consent." "if i did not guess it, jeff," she answered, "your assurance would be sufficient. besides," she added, "what right have i to object?" "but i want you to have the right," he replied earnestly. "i'm going to stop this roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly anticipates. i'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. i'll show him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about to elope with his private secretary!" "elope with the secretary?" exclaimed shirley. jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the staircase, and the hon. fitzroy bagley's plans for a runaway marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter. "it's a godsend to me," he said gleefully. "their plan is to get married next wednesday. i'll see my father on tuesday; i'll put the evidence in his hands, and i don't think," he added grimly, "he'll bother me any more about miss roberts." "so you're not going away now?" said shirley, smiling down at him. he sat up and leaned over towards her. "i can't, shirley, i simply can't," he replied, his voice trembling. "you are more to me than i dreamed a woman could ever be. i realize it more forcibly every day. there is no use fighting against it. without you, my work, my life means nothing." shirley shook her head and averted her eyes. "don't let us speak of that, jeff," she pleaded gently. "i told you i did not belong to myself while my father was in peril." "but i must speak of it," he interrupted. "shirley, you do yourself an injustice as well as me. you are not indifferent to me--i feel that. then why raise this barrier between us?" a soft light stole into the girl's eyes. ah, it was good to feel there was someone to whom she was everything in the world! "don't ask me to betray my trust, jeff," she faltered. "you know i am not indifferent to you--far from it. but i--" he came closer until his face nearly touched hers. "i love you--i want you," he murmured feverishly. "give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!" every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in shirley's ear like a soft caress. she closed her eyes. a strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. the eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made. the sensuous charm of the place--the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women? she had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood? both her soul and her body called out: "let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love." half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek: "shirley, i offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men. yes or no! only think well before you wreck my life. i love you--i love you! i will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom. say--say you will be my wife!" she opened her eyes. his face was bent close over hers. their lips almost touched. "yes, jefferson," she murmured, "i do love you!" his lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. the birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal. chapter xiv it was nearly seven o'clock when shirley got back to seventy-fourth street. no one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time. the events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. she reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment. she had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain? her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view. how could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own father? the idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would be, jefferson must be made to see it in that light. their engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. she was sure now that she loved jefferson. it would be hard to give him up, but there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one of them. the following morning she received a letter from stott. he was delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery, and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and forwarding them to massapequa, when he would immediately go to washington and lay them before the senate. documentary evidence of that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very highest value in clearing her father's name. he added that the judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit, and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted absence. her aunt milly had already returned to europe, and eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily. shirley needed no urging. she quite realized the importance of acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. the library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed mr. bagley was always on guard. short as had been her stay in the ryder household, shirley already shared jefferson's antipathy to the english secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off with one of the richest catches of the season. he had not sought the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival, and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that the hon. fitzroy usually left nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every attractive female he met. the truth was that what with mr. ryder's demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous diversions. miss roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to see mrs. ryder, and when introduced to shirley she had condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. her conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and shirley at once read her character--frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed, irresponsible--just the kind of girl to do something foolish without weighing the consequences. after chatting a few moments with mrs. ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one of these mysterious disappearances, shirley happened to pass the library and caught sight of her and mr. bagley conversing in subdued and eager tones. it was very evident that the elopement scheme was fast maturing. if the scandal was to be prevented, jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts without delay. it was probable that at the same time he would make an effort to secure the letters. meantime she must be patient. too much hurry might spoil everything. so the days passed, shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken. she saw nothing of ryder, sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. she found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. mrs. ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none. it was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head. she gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was "tainted." she shared her husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse. the advent of shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom. quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, shirley would go into mrs. ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them. nothing more had been said concerning jefferson and miss roberts. the young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements. her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of senator roberts. as usual, mrs. ryder confided these little domestic troubles to shirley. "jefferson," she said, "is very angry. he is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be another scene." "what objection has your son to miss roberts?" inquired shirley innocently. "oh, the usual reason," sighed the mother, "and i've no doubt he knows best. he's in love with another girl--a miss rossmore." "oh, yes," answered shirley simply. "mr. ryder spoke of her." mrs. ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work. the next afternoon shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door. thinking it was another visit from mrs. ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly: "come in." john ryder entered. he smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably: "i thought i'd run up to see how you were getting along." his coming was so unexpected that for a moment shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat. he seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him. shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--wall street had gone wrong with the colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him. the more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil. "what is the moral of your life?" she demanded bluntly. he was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i mean, what can you show as your life work? most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors. what have you done?" the question appeared to stagger him. the audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible. he squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table. "what have i done?" he cried. "i have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man. my fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?" shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "future generations will take no interest in you or your millions," she said calmly. "our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long. now it is different. the world is money-mad. you are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally. when you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds." he laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. as a general thing, john ryder never wasted words on women. he had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. in fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. he gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to. yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly. it was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth. "what do i care what the world says when i'm dead?" he asked with a forced laugh. "you do care," replied shirley gravely. "you may school yourself to believe that you are indifferent to the good opinion of your fellow man, but right down in your heart you do care--every man does, whether he be multi-millionaire or a sneak thief." "you class the two together, i notice," he said bitterly. "it is often a distinction without a difference," she rejoined promptly. he remained silent for a moment or two toying nervously with a paper knife. then, arrogantly, and as if anxious to impress her with his importance, he said: "most men would be satisfied if they had accomplished what i have. do you realize that my wealth is so vast that i scarcely know myself what i am worth? what my fortune will be in another fifty years staggers the imagination. yet i started with nothing. i made it all myself. surely i should get credit for that." "how did you make it?" retorted shirley. "in america we don't ask how a man makes his money; we ask if he has got any." "you are mistaken," replied shirley earnestly. "america is waking up. the conscience of the nation is being aroused. we are coming to realize that the scandals of the last few years were only the fruit of public indifference to sharp business practice. the people will soon ask the dishonest rich man where he got it, and there will have to be an accounting. what account will you be able to give?" he bit his lip and looked at her for a moment without replying. then, with a faint suspicion of a sneer, he said: "you are a socialist--perhaps an anarchist!" "only the ignorant commit the blunder of confounding the two," she retorted. "anarchy is a disease; socialism is a science." "indeed!" he exclaimed mockingly, "i thought the terms were synonymous. the world regards them both as insane." herself an enthusiastic convert to the new political faith that was rising like a flood tide all over the world, the contemptuous tone in which this plutocrat spoke of the coming reorganization of society which was destined to destroy him and his kind spurred her on to renewed argument. "i imagine," she said sarcastically, "that you would hardly approve any social reform which threatened to interfere with your own business methods. but no matter how you disapprove of socialism on general principles, as a leader of the capitalist class you should understand what socialism is, and not confuse one of the most important movements in modern world-history with the crazy theories of irresponsible cranks. the anarchists are the natural enemies of the entire human family, and would destroy it were their dangerous doctrines permitted to prevail; the socialists, on the contrary, are seeking to save mankind from the degradation, the crime and the folly into which such men as you have driven it." she spoke impetuously, with the inspired exaltation of a prophet delivering a message to the people. ryder listened, concealing his impatience with uneasy little coughs. "yes," she went on, "i am a socialist and i am proud of it. the whole world is slowly drifting toward socialism as the only remedy for the actual intolerable conditions. it may not come in our time, but it will come as surely as the sun will rise and set tomorrow. has not the flag of socialism waved recently from the white house? has not a president of the united states declared that the state must eventually curb the great fortunes? what is that but socialism?" "true," retorted ryder grimly, "and that little speech intended for the benefit of the gallery will cost him the nomination at the next presidential election. we don't want in the white house a president who stirs up class hatred. our rich men have a right to what is their own; that is guaranteed them by the constitution." "is it their own?" interrupted shirley. ryder ignored the insinuation and proceeded: "what of our boasted free institutions if a man is to be restricted in what he may and may not do? if i am clever enough to accumulate millions who can stop me?" "the people will stop you," said shirley calmly. "it is only a question of time. their patience is about exhausted. put your ear to the ground and listen to the distant rumbling of the tempest which, sooner or later, will be unchained in this land, provoked by the iniquitous practices of organized capital. the people have had enough of the extortions of the trusts. one day they will rise in their wrath and seize by the throat this knavish plutocracy which, confident in the power of its wealth to procure legal immunity and reckless of its danger, persists in robbing the public daily. but retribution is at hand. the growing discontent of the proletariat, the ever-increasing strikes and labour disputes of all kinds, the clamour against the railroads and the trusts, the evidence of collusion between both--all this is the writing on the wall. the capitalistic system is doomed; socialism will succeed it." "what is socialism?" he demanded scornfully. "what will it give the public that it has not got already?" shirley, who never neglected an opportunity to make a convert, no matter how hardened he might be, picked up a little pamphlet printed for propaganda purposes which she had that morning received by mail. "here," she said, "is one of the best and clearest definitions of socialism i have ever read: "socialism is common ownership of natural resources and public utilities, and the common operation of all industries for the general good. socialism is opposed to monopoly, that is, to private ownership of land and the instruments of labor, which is indirect ownership of men; to the wages system, by which labor is legally robbed of a large part of the product of labor; to competition with its enormous waste of effort and its opportunities for the spoliation of the weak by the strong. socialism is industrial democracy. it is the government of the people by the people and for the people, not in the present restricted sense, but as regards all the common interests of men. socialism is opposed to oligarchy and monarchy, and therefore to the tyrannies of business cliques and money kings. socialism is for freedom, not only from the fear of force, but from the fear of want. socialism proposes real liberty, not merely the right to vote, but the liberty to live for something more than meat and drink. "socialism is righteousness in the relations of men. it is based on the fundamentals of religion, the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men. it seeks through association and equality to realize fraternity. socialism will destroy the motives which make for cheap manufacturers, poor workmanship and adulterations; it will secure the real utility of things. use, not exchange, will be the object of labour. things will be made to serve, not to sell. socialism will banish war, for private ownership is back of strife between men. socialism will purify politics, for private capitalism is the great source of political corruption. socialism will make for education, invention and discovery; it will stimulate the moral development of men. crime will have lost most of its motive and pauperism will have no excuse. that," said shirley, as she concluded, "is socialism!" ryder shrugged his shoulders and rose to go. "delightful," he said ironically, "but in my judgment wholly utopian and impracticable. it's nothing but a gigantic pipe dream. it won't come in this generation nor in ten generations if, indeed, it is ever taken seriously by a majority big enough to put its theories to the test. socialism does not take into account two great factors that move the world--men's passions and human ambition. if you eliminate ambition you remove the strongest incentive to individual effort. from your own account a socialistic world would be a dreadfully tame place to live in--everybody depressingly good, without any of the feverish turmoil of life as we know it. such a world would not appeal to me at all. i love the fray--the daily battle of gain and loss, the excitement of making or losing millions. that is my life!" "yet what good is your money to you?" insisted shirley. "you are able to spend only an infinitesimal part of it. you cannot even give it away, for nobody will have any of it." "money!" he hissed rather than spoke, "i hate money. it means nothing to me. i have so much that i have lost all idea of its value. i go on accumulating it for only one purpose. it buys power. i love power--that is my passion, my ambition, to rule the world with my gold. do you know," he went on and leaning over the desk in a dramatic attitude, "that if i chose i could start a panic in wall street to-morrow that would shake to their foundations every financial institution in the country? do you know that i practically control the congress of the united states and that no legislative measure becomes law unless it has my approval?" "the public has long suspected as much," replied shirley. "that is why you are looked upon as a menace to the stability and honesty of our political and commercial life." an angry answer rose to his lips when the door opened and mrs. ryder entered. "i've been looking for you, john," she said peevishly. "mr. bagley told me you were somewhere in the house. senator roberts is downstairs." "he's come about jefferson and his daughter, i suppose," muttered ryder. "well, i'll see him. where is he?" "in the library. kate came with him. she's in my room." they left shirley to her writing, and when he had closed the door the financier turned to his wife and said impatiently: "now, what are we going to do about jefferson and kate? the senator insists on the matter of their marriage being settled one way or another. where is jefferson?" "he came in about half an hour ago. he was upstairs to see me, and i thought he was looking for you," answered the wife. "well," replied ryder determinedly, "he and i have got to understand each other. this can't go on. it shan't." mrs. ryder put her hand on his arm, and said pleadingly: "don't be impatient with the boy, john. remember he is all we have. he is so unhappy. he wants to please us, but--" "but he insists on pleasing himself," said ryder completing the sentence. "i'm afraid, john, that his liking for that miss rossmore is more serious than you realize--" the financier stamped his foot and replied angrily: "miss rossmore! that name seems to confront me at every turn--for years the father, now the daughter! i'm sorry, my dear," he went on more calmly, "that you seem inclined to listen to jefferson. it only encourages him in his attitude towards me. kate would make him an excellent wife, while what do we know about the other woman? are you willing to sacrifice your son's future to a mere boyish whim?" mrs. ryder sighed. "it's very hard," she said, "for a mother to know what to advise. miss green says--" "what!" exclaimed her husband, "you have consulted miss green on the subject?" "yes," answered his wife, "i don't know how i came to tell her, but i did. i seem to tell her everything. i find her such a comfort, john. i haven't had an attack of nerves since that girl has been in the house." "she is certainly a superior woman," admitted ryder. "i wish she'd ward that rossmore girl off. i wish she--" he stopped abruptly as if not venturing to give expression to his thoughts, even to his wife. then he said: "if she were kate roberts she wouldn't let jeff slip through her fingers." "i have often wished," went on mrs. ryder, "that kate were more like shirley green. i don't think we would have any difficulty with jeff then." "kate is the daughter of senator roberts, and if this marriage is broken off in any way without the senator's consent, he is in a position to injure my interests materially. if you see jefferson send him to me in the library. i'll go and keep roberts in good humour until he comes." he went downstairs and mrs. ryder proceeded to her apartments, where she found jefferson chatting with kate. she at once delivered ryder sr.'s message. "jeff, your father wants to see you in the library." "yes, i want to see him," answered the young man grimly, and after a few moments more badinage with kate he left the room. it was not a mere coincidence that had brought senator roberts and his daughter and the financier's son all together under the ryder roof at the same time. it was part of jefferson's well-prepared plan to expose the rascality of his father's secretary, and at the same time rid himself of the embarrassing entanglement with kate roberts. if the senator were confronted publicly with the fact that his daughter, while keeping up the fiction of being engaged to ryder jr., was really preparing to run off with the hon. fitzroy bagley, he would have no alternative but to retire gracefully under fire and relinquish all idea of a marriage alliance with the house of ryder. the critical moment had arrived. to-morrow, wednesday, was the day fixed for the elopement. the secretary's little game had gone far enough. the time had come for action. so jefferson had written to senator roberts, who was in washington, asking him if it would be convenient for him to come at once to new york and meet himself and his father on a matter of importance. the senator naturally jumped to the conclusion that jefferson and ryder had reached an amicable understanding, and he immediately hurried to new york and with his daughter came round to seventy-fourth street. when ryder sr. entered the library, senator roberts was striding nervously up and down the room. this, he felt, was an important day. the ambition of his life seemed on the point of being attained. "hello, roberts," was ryder's cheerful greeting. "what's brought you from washington at a critical time like this? the rossmore impeachment needs every friend we have." "just as if you didn't know," smiled the senator uneasily, "that i am here by appointment to meet you and your son!" "to meet me and my son?" echoed ryder astonished. the senator, perplexed and beginning to feel real alarm, showed the financier jefferson's letter. ryder read it and he looked pleased. "that's all right," he said, "if the lad asked you to meet us here it can mean only one thing--that at last he has made up his mind to this marriage." "that's what i thought," replied the senator, breathing more freely. "i was sorry to leave washington at such a time, but i'm a father, and kate is more to me than the rossmore impeachment. besides, to see her married to your son jefferson is one of the dearest wishes of my life." "you can rest easy," said ryder; "that is practically settled. jefferson's sending for you proves that he is now ready to meet my wishes. he'll be here any minute. how is the rossmore case progressing?" "not so well as it might," growled the senator. "there's a lot of maudlin sympathy for the judge. he's a pretty sick man by all accounts, and the newspapers seem to be taking his part. one or two of the western senators are talking corporate influence and trust legislation, but when it comes to a vote the matter will be settled on party lines." "that means that judge rossmore will be removed?" demanded ryder sternly. "yes, with five votes to spare," answered the senator. "that's not enough," insisted ryder. "there must be at least twenty. let there be no blunders, roberts. the man is a menace to all the big commercial interests. this thing must go through." the door opened and jefferson appeared. on seeing the senator talking with his father, he hesitated on the threshold. "come in, jeff," said his father pleasantly. "you expected to see senator roberts, didn't you?" "yes, sir. how do you do, senator?" said the young man, advancing into the room. "i got your letter, my boy, and here i am," said the senator smiling affably. "i suppose we can guess what the business is, eh?" "that he's going to marry kate, of course," chimed in ryder sr. "jeff, my lad, i'm glad you are beginning to see my way of looking at things. you're doing more to please me lately, and i appreciate it. you stayed at home when i asked you to, and now you've made up your mind regarding this marriage." jefferson let his father finish his speech, and then he said calmly: "i think there must be some misapprehension as to the reason for my summoning senator roberts to new york. it had nothing to do with my marrying miss roberts, but to prevent her marriage with someone else." "what!" exclaimed ryder, sr. "marriage with someone else?" echoed the senator. he thought he had not heard aright, yet at the same time he had grave misgivings. "what do you mean, sir?" taking from his pocket a copy of the letter he had picked up on the staircase, jefferson held it out to the girl's father. "your daughter is preparing to run away with my father's secretary. to-morrow would have been too late. that is why i summoned you. read this." the senator took the letter, and as he read his face grew ashen and his hand trembled violently. at one blow all his ambitious projects for his daughter had been swept away. the inconsiderate act of a silly, thoughtless girl had spoiled the carefully laid plans of a lifetime. the only consolation which remained was that the calamity might have been still more serious. this timely warning had saved his family from perhaps an even greater scandal. he passed the letter in silence to ryder, sr. the financier was a man of few words when the situation called for prompt action. after he had read the letter through, there was an ominous silence. then he rang a bell. the butler appeared. "tell mr. bagley i want him." the man bowed and disappeared. "who the devil is this bagley?" demanded the senater. "english--blue blood--no money," was ryder's laconic answer. "that's the only kind we seem to get over here," growled the senator. "we furnish the money--they furnish the blood--damn his blue blood! i don't want any in mine." turning to jefferson, he said: "jefferson, whatever the motives that actuated you, i can only thank you for this warning. i think it would have broken my heart if my girl had gone away with that scoundrel. of course, under the circumstances, i must abandon all idea of your becoming my son-in-law. i release you from all obligations you may have felt yourself bound by." jefferson bowed and remained silent. ryder, sr. eyed his son closely, an amused expression hovering on his face. after all, it was not so much he who had desired this match as roberts, and as long as the senator was willing to withdraw, he could make no objection. he wondered what part, if any, his son had played in bringing about this sensational denouement to a match which had been so distasteful to him, and it gratified his paternal vanity to think that jefferson after all might be smarter than he had given him credit for. at this juncture mr. bagley entered the room. he was a little taken aback on seeing the senator, but like most men of his class, his self-conceit made him confident of his ability to handle any emergency which might arise, and he had no reason to suspect that this hasty summons to the library had anything to do with his matrimonial plans. "did you ask for me, sir? he demanded, addressing his employer. "yes, mr. bagley," replied ryder, fixing the secretary with a look that filled the latter with misgivings. "what steamers leave to-morrow for england?" "to-morrow?" echoed mr. bagley. "i said to-morrow," repeated ryder, slightly raising his voice. "let me see," stammered the secretary, "there is the white star, the north german lloyd, the atlantic transport--" "have you any preference?" inquired the financier. "no, sir, none at all." "then you'll go on board one of the ships to-night," said ryder. "your things will be packed and sent to you before the steamer sails to-morrow." the hon. fitzroy bagley, third son of a british peer, did not understand even yet that he was discharged as one dismisses a housemaid caught kissing the policeman. he could not think what mr. ryder wanted him to go abroad for unless it were on some matter of business, and it was decidedly inconvenient for him to sail at this time. "but, sir," he stammered. "i'm afraid--i'm afraid----" "yes," rejoined ryder promptly, "i notice that--your hand is shaking." "i mean that i----" "you mean that you have other engagements!" said ryder sternly. "oh no--no but----" "no engagement at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning?" insisted ryder. "with my daughter?" chimed in the senator. mr. bagley now understood. he broke out in a cold perspiration and he paled visibly. in the hope that the full extent of his plans were not known, he attempted to brazen it out. "no, certainly not, under no circumstances," he said. ryder, sr. rang a bell. "perhaps she has an engagement with you. we'll ask her." to the butler, who entered, he said: "tell miss roberts that her father would like to see her here." the man disappeared and the senator took a hand in cross-examining the now thoroughly uncomfortable secretary. "so you thought my daughter looked pale and that a little excursion to buffalo would be a good thing for her? well, it won't be a good thing for you, young man, i can assure you of that!" the english aristocrat began to wilt. his assurance of manner quite deserted him and he stammered painfully as he floundered about in excuses. "not with me--oh dear, no," he said. "you never proposed to run away with my daughter?" cried the irate father. "run away with her?" stammered bagley. "and marry her?" shouted the senator, shaking his fist at him. "oh say--this is hardly fair--three against one--really--i'm awfully sorry, eh, what?" the door opened and kate roberts bounced in. she was smiling and full of animal spirits, but on seeing the stern face of her father and the pitiable picture presented by her faithful fitz she was intelligent enough to immediately scent danger. "did you want to see me, father?" she inquired boldly. "yes, kate," answered the senator gravely, "we have just been having a talk with mr. bagley, in which you were one of the subjects of conversation. can you guess what it was?" the girl looked from her father to bagley and from him to the ryders. her aristocratic lover made a movement forward as if to exculpate himself but he caught ryder's eye and remained where he was. "well?" she said, with a nervous laugh. "is it true?" asked the senator, "that you were about to marry this man secretly?" she cast down her eyes and answered: "i suppose you know everything." "have you anything to add?" asked her father sternly. "no," said kate shaking her head. "it's true. we intended to run away, didn't we fitz?" "never mind about mr. bagley," thundered her father. "haven't you a word of shame for this disgrace you have brought upon me?" "oh papa, don't be so cross. jefferson did not care for me. i couldn't be an old maid. mr. bagley has a lovely castle in england, and one day he'll sit in the house of lords. he'll explain everything to you." "he'll explain nothing," rejoined the senator grimly. "mr. bagley returns to england to-night. he won't have time to explain anything." "returns to england?" echoed kate dismayed. "yes, and you go with me to washington at once." the senator turned to ryder. "good-bye ryder. the little domestic comedy is ended. i'm grateful it didn't turn out a drama. the next time i pick out a son-in-law i hope i'll have better luck." he shook hands with jefferson, and left the room followed by his crestfallen daughter. ryder, who had gone to write something at his desk, strode over to where mr. bagley was standing and handed him a cheque. "here, sir, this settles everything to date. good-day." "but i--i--" stammered the secretary helplessly. "good-day, sir." ryder turned his back on him and conversed with his son, while mr. bagley slowly, and as if regretfully, made his exit. chapter xv it was now december and the senate had been in session for over a week. jefferson had not forgotten his promise, and one day, about two weeks after mr. bagley's spectacular dismissal from the ryder residence, he had brought shirley the two letters. she did not ask him how he got them, if he forced the drawer or procured the key. it sufficed for her that the precious letters--the absolute proof of her father's innocence--were at last in her possession. she at once sent them off by registered mail to stott, who immediately acknowledged receipt and at the same time announced his departure for washington that night. he promised to keep her constantly informed of what he was doing and how her father's case was going. it could, he thought, be only a matter of a few days now before the result of the proceedings would be known. the approach of the crisis made shirley exceedingly nervous, and it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that she did not betray the terrible anxiety she felt. the ryder biography was nearly finished and her stay in seventy-fourth street would soon come to an end. she had a serious talk with jefferson, who contrived to see a good deal of her, entirely unsuspected by his parents, for mr. and mrs. ryder, had no reason to believe that their son had any more than a mere bowing acquaintance with the clever young authoress. now that mr. bagley was no longer there to spy upon their actions these clandestine interviews had been comparatively easy. shirley brought to bear all the arguments she could think of to convince jefferson of the hopelessness of their engagement. she insisted that she could never be his wife; circumstances over which they had no control made that dream impossible. it were better, she said, to part now rather than incur the risk of being unhappy later. but jefferson refused to be convinced. he argued and pleaded and he even swore--strange, desperate words that shirley had never heard before and which alarmed her not a little--and the discussion ended usually by a kiss which put shirley completely hors de combat. meantime, john ryder had not ceased worrying about his son. the removal of kate roberts as a factor in his future had not eliminated the danger of jefferson taking the bit between his teeth one day and contracting a secret marriage with the daughter of his enemy, and when he thought of the mere possibility of such a thing happening he stormed and raved until his wife, accustomed as she was to his choleric outbursts, was thoroughly frightened. for some time after bagley's departure, father and son got along together fairly amicably, but ryder, sr. was quick to see that jefferson had something on his mind which was worrying him, and he rightly attributed it to his infatuation for miss rossmore. he was convinced that his son knew where the judge's daughter was, although his own efforts to discover her whereabouts had been unsuccessful. sergeant ellison had confessed absolute failure; miss rossmore, he reported, had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed her, and further search was futile. knowing well his son's impulsive, headstrong disposition, ryder, sr. believed him quite capable of marrying the girl secretly any time. the only thing that john ryder did not know was that shirley rossmore was not the kind of a girl to allow any man to inveigle her into a secret marriage. the colossus, who judged the world's morals by his own, was not of course aware of this, and he worried night and day thinking what he could do to prevent his son from marrying the daughter of the man he had wronged. the more he pondered over it, the more he regretted that there was not some other girl with whom jefferson could fall in love and marry. he need not seek a rich girl--there was certainly enough money in the ryder family to provide for both. he wished they knew a girl, for example, as attractive and clever as miss green. ah! he thought, there was a girl who would make a man of jefferson--brainy, ambitious, active! and the more he thought of it the more the idea grew on him that miss green would be an ideal daughter-in-law, and at the same time snatch his son from the clutches of the rossmore woman. jefferson, during all these weeks, was growing more and more impatient. he knew that any day now shirley might take her departure from their house and return to massapequa. if the impeachment proceedings went against her father it was more than likely that he would lose her forever, and if, on the contrary, the judge were acquitted, shirley never would be willing to marry him without his father's consent; and this, he felt, he would never obtain. he resolved, therefore, to have a final interview with his father and declare boldly his intention of making miss rossmore his wife, regardless of the consequences. the opportunity came one evening after dinner. ryder, sr. was sitting alone in the library, reading, mrs. ryder had gone to the theatre with a friend, shirley as usual was writing in her room, giving the final touches to her now completed "history of the empire trading company." jefferson took the bull by the horns and boldly accosted his redoubtable parent. "may i have a few minutes of your time, father?" ryder, sr. laid aside the paper he was reading and looked up. it was unusual for his son to come to him on any errand, and he liked to encourage it. "certainly, jefferson. what is it?" "i want to appeal to you, sir. i want you to use your influence, before it is too late, to save judge rossmore. a word from you at this time would do wonders in washington." the financier swung half-round in his chair, the smile of greeting faded out of his face, and his voice was hard as he replied coldly: "again? i thought we had agreed not to discuss judge rossmore any further?" "i can't help it, sir," rejoined jefferson undeterred by his sire's hostile attitude, "that poor old man is practically on trial for his life. he is as innocent of wrongdoing as a child unborn, and you know it. you could save him if you would." "jefferson," answered ryder, sr., biting his lip to restrain his impatience, "i told you before that i could not interfere even if i would; and i won't, because that man is my enemy. important business interests, which you cannot possibly know anything about, demand his dismissal from the bench." "surely your business interests don't demand the sacrifice of a man's life!" retorted jefferson. "i know modern business methods are none too squeamish, but i should think you'd draw the line at deliberate murder!" ryder sprang to his feet and for a moment stood glaring at the young man. his lips moved, but no sound came from them. suppressed wrath rendered him speechless. what was the world coming to when a son could talk to his father in this manner? "how dare you presume to judge my actions or to criticise my methods?" he burst out, finally. "you force me to do so," answered jefferson hotly. "i want to tell you that i am heartily ashamed of this whole affair and your connection with it, and since you refuse to make reparation in the only way possible for the wrong you and your associates have done judge rosmore--that is by saving him in the senate--i think it only fair to warn you that i take back my word in regard to not marrying without your consent. i want you to know that i intend to marry miss rossmore as soon as she will consent to become my wife, that is," he added with bitterness, "if i can succeed in overcoming her prejudices against my family--" ryder, sr. laughed contemptuously. "prejudices against a thousand million dollars?" he exclaimed sceptically. "yes," replied jefferson decisively, "prejudices against our family, against you and your business practices. money is not everything. one day you will find that out. i tell you definitely that i intend to make miss rossmore my wife." ryder, sr. made no reply, and as jefferson had expected an explosion, this unnatural calm rather startled him. he was sorry he had spoken so harshly. it was his father, after all. "you've forced me to defy you, father," he added. "i'm sorry---" ryder, sr. shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat. he lit another cigar, and with affected carelessness he said: "all right, jeff, my boy, we'll let it go at that. you're sorry--so am i. you've shown me your cards--i'll show you mine." his composed unruffled manner vanished. he suddenly threw off the mask and revealed the tempest that was raging within. he leaned across the desk, his face convulsed with uncontrollable passion, a terrifying picture of human wrath. shaking his fist at his son he shouted: "when i get through with judge rossmore at washington, i'll start after his daughter. this time to-morrow he'll be a disgraced man. a week later she will be a notorious woman. then we'll see if you'll be so eager to marry her!" "father!" cried jefferson. "there is sure to be something in her life that won't bear inspection," sneered ryder. "there is in everybody's life. i'll find out what it is. where is she to-day? she can't be found. no one knows where she is--not even her own mother. something is wrong--the girl's no good!" jefferson started forward as if to resent these insults to the woman he loved, but, realizing that it was his own father, he stopped short and his hands fell powerless at his side. "well, is that all?" inquired ryder, sr. with a sneer. "that's all," replied jefferson, "i'm going. good-bye." "good-bye," answered his father indifferently; "leave your address with your mother." jefferson left the room, and ryder, sr., as if exhausted by the violence of his own outburst, sank back limp in his chair. the crisis he dreaded had come at last. his son had openly defied his authority and was going to marry the daughter of his enemy. he must do something to prevent it; the marriage must not take place, but what could he do? the boy was of age and legally his own master. he could do nothing to restrain his actions unless they put him in an insane asylum. he would rather see his son there, he mused, than married to the rossmore woman. presently there was a timid knock at the library door. ryder rose from his seat and went to see who was there. to his surprise it was miss green. "may i come in?" asked shirley. "certainly, by all means. sit down." he drew up a chair for her, and his manner was so cordial that it was easy to see she was a welcome visitor. "mr. ryder," she began in a low, tremulous voice, "i have come to see you on a very important matter. i've been waiting to see you all evening--and as i shall be here only a short time longer i--want to ask yon a great favour--perhaps the greatest you were ever asked--i want to ask you for mercy--for mercy to--" she stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying. he was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts. her sudden silence aroused him. he apologized: "oh, excuse me--i didn't quite catch what you were saying." she said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded. he read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed: "for the first time in my life i am face to face with defeat--defeat of the most ignominious kind--incapacity--inability to regulate my own internal affairs. i can rule a government, but i can't manage my own family--my own son. i'm a failure. tell me," he added, appealing to her, "why can't i rule my own household, why can't i govern my own child?" "why can't you govern yourself?" said shirley quietly. ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said: "you can help me, but not by preaching at me. this is the first time in my life i ever called on a living soul for help. i'm only accustomed to deal with men. this time there's a woman in the case--and i need your woman's wit--" "how can i help you?" asked shirley. "i don't know," he answered with suppressed excitement. "as i told you, i am up against a blank wall. i can't see my way." he gave a nervous little laugh and went on: "god! i'm ashamed of myself--ashamed! did you ever read the fable of the lion and the mouse? well, i want you to gnaw with your sharp woman's teeth at the cords which bind the son of john burkett ryder to this rossmore woman. i want you to be the mouse--to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement." "how? asked shirley calmly. "ah, that's just it--how?" he replied. "can't you think--you're a woman--you have youth, beauty--brains." he stopped and eyed her closely until she reddened from the embarrassing scrutiny. then he blurted out: "by george! marry him yourself--force him to let go of this other woman! why not? come, what do you say?" this unexpected suggestion came upon shirley with all the force of a violent shock. she immediately saw the falseness of her position. this man was asking for her hand for his son under the impression that she was another woman. it would be dishonorable of her to keep up the deception any longer. she passed her hand over her face to conceal her confusion. "you--you must give me time to think," she stammered. "suppose i don't love your son--i should want something--something to compensate." "something to compensate?" echoed ryder surprised and a little disconcerted. "why, the boy will inherit millions--i don't know how many." "no--no, not money," rejoined shirley; "money only compensates those who love money. it's something else--a man's honour--a man's life! it means nothing to you." he gazed at her, not understanding. full of his own project, he had mind for nothing else. ignoring therefore the question of compensation, whatever she might mean by that, he continued: "you can win him if you make up your mind to. a woman with your resources can blind him to any other woman." "but if--he loves judge rossmore's daughter?" objected shirley. "it's for you to make him forget her--and you can," replied the financier confidently. "my desire is to separate him from this rossmore woman at any cost. you must help me." his sternness relaxed somewhat and his eyes rested on her kindly. "do you know, i should be glad to think you won't have to leave us. mrs. ryder has taken a fancy to you, and i myself shall miss you when you go." "you ask me to be your son's wife and you know nothing of my family," said shirley. "i know you--that is sufficient," he replied. "no--no you don't," returned shirley, "nor do you know your son. he has more constancy--more strength of character than you think--and far more principle than you have." "so much the greater the victory for you," he answered good humouredly. "ah," she said reproachfully, "you do not love your son." "i do love him," replied ryder warmly. "it's because i love him that i'm such a fool in this matter. don't you see that if he marries this girl it would separate us, and i should lose him. i don't want to lose him. if i welcomed her to my house it would make me the laughing-stock of all my friends and business associates. come, will you join forces with me?" shirley shook her head and was about to reply when the telephone bell rang. ryder took up the receiver and spoke to the butler downstairs: "who's that? judge stott? tell him i'm too busy to see anyone. what's that? a man's life at stake? what's that to do with me? tell him--" on hearing stott's name, shirley nearly betrayed herself. she turned pale and half-started up from her chair. something serious must have happened to bring her father's legal adviser to the ryder residence at such an hour! she thought he was in washington. could it be that the proceedings in the senate were ended and the result known? she could hardly conceal her anxiety, and instinctively she placed her hand on ryder's arm. "no, mr. ryder, do see judge stott! you must see him. i know who he is. your son has told me. judge stott is one of judge rossmore's advisers. see him. you may find out something about the girl. you may find out where she is. if jefferson finds out you have refused to see her father's friend at such a critical time it will only make him sympathize more deeply with the rossmores, and you know sympathy is akin to love. that's what you want to avoid, isn't it?" ryder still held the telephone, hesitating what to do. what she said sounded like good sense. "upon my word--" he said. "you may be right and yet--" "am i to help you or not?" demanded shirley. "you said you wanted a woman's wit." "yes," said ryder, "but still--" "then you had better see him," she said emphatically. ryder turned to the telephone. "hello, jorkins, are you there? show judge stott up here." he laid the receiver down and turned again to shirley. "that's one thing i don't like about you," he said. "i allow you to decide against me and then i agree with you." she said nothing and he went on looking at her admiringly. "i predict that you'll bring that boy to your feet within a month. i don't know why, but i seem to feel that he is attracted to you already. thank heaven! you haven't a lot of troublesome relations. i think you said you were almost alone in the world. don't look so serious," he added laughing. "jeff is a fine fellow, and believe me an excellent catch as the world goes." shirley raised her hand as if entreating him to desist. "oh, don't--don't--please! my position is so false! you don't know how false it is!" she cried. at that instant the library door was thrown open and the butler appeared, ushering in stott. the lawyer looked anxious, and his dishevelled appearance indicated that he had come direct from the train. shirley scanned his face narrowly in the hope that she might read there what had happened. he walked right past her, giving no sign of recognition, and advanced direct towards ryder, who had risen and remained standing at his desk. "perhaps i had better go?" ventured shirley, although tortured by anxiety to hear the news from washington. "no," said ryder quickly, "judge stott will detain me but a very few moments." having delivered himself of this delicate hint, he looked towards his visitor as if inviting him to come to the point as rapidly as possible. "i must apologize for intruding at this unseemly hour, sir," said stott, "but time is precious. the senate meets to-morrow to vote. if anything is to be done for judge rossmore it must be done to-night." "i fail to see why you address yourself to me in this matter, sir," replied ryder with asperity. "as judge rossmore's friend and counsel," answered stott, "i am impelled to ask your help at this critical moment." "the matter is in the hands of the united states senate, sir," replied ryder coldly. "they are against him!" cried stott; "not one senator i've spoken to holds out any hope for him. if he is convicted it will mean his death. inch by inch his life is leaving him. the only thing that can save him is the good news of the senate's refusal to find him guilty." stott was talking so excitedly and loudly that neither he nor ryder heard the low moan that came from the corner of the room where shirley was standing listening. "i can do nothing," repeated ryder coldly, and he turned his back and began to examine some papers lying on his desk as if to notify the caller that the interview was ended. but stott was not so easily discouraged. he went on: "as i understand it, they will vote on strictly party lines, and the party in power is against him. he's a marked man. you have the power to help him." heedless of ryder's gesture of impatience he continued: "when i left his bedside to-night, sir, i promised to return to him with good news; i have told him that the senate ridicules the charges against him. i must return to him with good news. he is very ill to-night, sir." he halted for a moment and glanced in shirley's direction, and slightly raising his voice so she might hear, he added: "if he gets worse we shall send for his daughter." "where is his daughter?" demanded ryder, suddenly interested. "she is working in her father's interests," replied stott, and, he added significantly, "i believe with some hope of success." he gave shirley a quick, questioning look. she nodded affirmatively. ryder, who had seen nothing of this by-play, said with a sneer: "surely you didn't come here to-night to tell me this?" "no, sir, i did not." he took from his pocket two letters--the two which shirley had sent him--and held them out for ryder's inspection. "these letters from judge rossmore to you," he said, "show you to be acquainted with the fact that he bought those shares as an investment--and did not receive them as a bribe." when he caught sight of the letters and he realized what they were, ryder changed colour. instinctively his eyes sought the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. in a voice that was unnaturally calm, he asked: "why don't you produce them before the senate?" "it was too late," explained stott, handing them to the financier. "i received them only two days ago. but if you come forward and declare--" ryder made an effort to control himself. "i'll do nothing of the kind. i refuse to move in the matter. that is final. and now, sir," he added, raising his voice and pointing to the letters, "i wish to know how comes it that you had in your possession private correspondence addressed to me?" "that i cannot answer," replied stott promptly. "from whom did you receive these letters?" demanded ryder. stott was dumb, while shirley clutched at her chair as if she would fall. the financier repeated the question. "i must decline to answer," replied stott finally. shirley left her place and came slowly forward. addressing ryder, she said: "i wish to make a statement." the financier gazed at her in astonishment. what could she know about it, he wondered, and he waited with curiosity to hear what she was going to say. but stott instantly realized that she was about to take the blame upon herself, regardless of the consequences to the success of their cause. this must be prevented at all hazards, even if another must be sacrificed, so interrupting her he said hastily to ryder: "judge rossmore's life and honour are at stake and no false sense of delicacy must cause the failure of my object to save him. these letters were sent to me by--your son." "from my son'" exclaimed ryder, starting. for a moment he staggered as if he had received a blow; he was too much overcome to speak or act. then recovering himself, he rang a bell, and turned to stott with renewed fury: "so," he cried, "this man, this judge whose honour is at stake and his daughter, who most likely has no honour at stake, between them have made a thief and a liar of my son! false to his father, false to his party; and you, sir, have the presumption to come here and ask me to intercede for him!" to the butler, who entered, he said: "see if mr. jefferson is still in the house. if he is, tell him i would like to see him here at once." the man disappeared, and ryder strode angrily up and down the room with the letters in his hand. then, turning abruptly on stott, he said: "and now, sir, i think nothing more remains to be said. i shall keep these letters, as they are my property." "as you please. good night, sir." "good night," replied ryder, not looking up. with a significant glance at shirley, who motioned to him that she might yet succeed where he had failed, stott left the room. ryder turned to shirley. his fierceness of manner softened down as he addressed the girl: "you see what they have done to my son--" "yes," replied shirley, "it's the girl's fault. if jefferson hadn't loved her you would have helped the judge. ah, why did they ever meet! she has worked on his sympathy and he--he took these letters for her sake, not to injure you. oh, you must make some allowance for him! one's sympathy gets aroused in spite of oneself; even i feel sorry for--these people." "don't," replied ryder grimly, "sympathy is often weakness. ah, there you are!" turning to jefferson, who entered the room at that moment. "you sent for me, father?" "yes," said ryder, sr., holding up the letters. "have you ever seen these letters before?" jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly: "yes, i took them out of your desk and sent them to mr. stott in the hope they would help judge rossmore's case." ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty. his face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously. he took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under. "so!" he said, "you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman's father--you hear him, miss green? jefferson, my boy, i think it's time you and i had a final accounting." shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw. he stopped her with a gesture. "please don't go, miss green. as the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue. besides, i want an excuse for keeping my temper. sit down, miss green." turning to jefferson, he went on: "for your mother's sake, my boy, i have overlooked your little eccentricities of character. but now we have arrived at the parting of the ways--you have gone too far. the one aspect of this business i cannot overlook is your willingness to sell your own father for the sake of a woman." "my own father," interrupted jefferson bitterly, "would not hesitate to sell me if his business and political interests warranted the sacrifice!" shirley attempted the role of peacemaker. appealing to the younger man, she said: "please don't talk like that, mr. jefferson." then she turned to ryder, sr.: "i don't think your son quite understands you, mr. ryder, and, if you will pardon me, i don't think you quite understand him. do you realize that there is a man's life at stake--that judge rossmore is almost at the point of death and that favourable news from the senate to-morrow is perhaps the only thing that can save him?" "ah, i see," sneered ryder, sr. "judge stott's story has aroused your sympathy." "yes, i--i confess my sympathy is aroused. i do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away--whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace--the injustice that is being done him! i do feel for the wife of this suffering man!" "ah, its a complete picture!" cried ryder mockingly. "the dying father, the sorrowing mother--and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?" "she is fighting for her father's life," cried shirley, "and you, mr. jefferson, should have pleaded--pleaded--not demanded. it's no use trying to combat your father's will." "she is quite right, father i should have implored you. i do so now. i ask you for god's sake to help us!" ryder was grim and silent. he rose from his seat and paced the room, puffing savagely at his cigar. then he turned and said: "his removal is a political necessity. if he goes back on the bench every paltry justice of the peace, every petty official will think he has a special mission to tear down the structure that hard work and capital have erected. no, this man has been especially conspicuous in his efforts to block the progress of amalgamated interests." "and so he must be sacrificed?" cried shirley indignantly. "he is a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and--" "he is innocent of the charges brought against him," urged jefferson. "mr. ryder is not considering that point," said shirley bitterly. "all he can see is that it is necessary to put this poor old man in the public pillory, to set him up as a warning to others of his class not to act in accordance with the principles of truth and justice--not to dare to obstruct the car of juggernaut set in motion by the money gods of the country!" "it's the survival of the fittest, my dear," said ryder coldly. "oh!" cried shirley, making a last appeal to the financier's heart of stone, "use your great influence with this governing body for good, not evil! urge them to vote not in accordance with party policy and personal interest, but in accordance with their consciences--in accordance with truth and justice! ah, for god's sake, mr. ryder! don't permit this foul injustice to blot the name of the highest tribunal in the western world!" ryder laughed cynically. "by jove! jefferson, i give you credit for having secured an eloquent advocate!" "suppose," went on shirley, ignoring his taunting comments, "suppose this daughter promises that she will never--never see your son again--that she will go away to some foreign country!" "no!" burst in jefferson, "why should she? if my father is not man enough to do a simple act of justice without bartering a woman's happiness and his son's happiness, let him find comfort in his self-justification!" shirley, completely unnerved, made a move towards the door, unable longer to bear the strain she was under. she tottered as though she would fall. ryder made a quick movement towards his son and took him by the arm. pointing to shirley he said in a low tone: "you see how that girl pleads your cause for you! she loves you, my boy!" jefferson started. "yes, she does," pursued ryder, sr. "she's worth a thousand of the rossmore woman. make her your wife and i'll--" "make her my wife!" cried jefferson joyously. he stared at his parent as if he thought he had suddenly been bereft of his senses. "make her my wife?" he repeated incredulously. "well, what do you say?" demanded ryder, sr. the young man advanced towards shirley, hands outstretched. "yes, yes, shir--miss green, will you?" seeing that shirley made no sign, he said: "not now, father; i will speak to her later." "no, no, to-night, at once!" insisted ryder. addressing shirley, he went on: "miss green, my son is much affected by your disinterested appeal in his behalf. he--he--you can save him from himself--my son wishes you--he asks you to become his wife! is it not so, jefferson?" "yes, yes, my wife!" advancing again towards shirley. the girl shrank back in alarm. "no, no, no, mr. ryder, i cannot, i cannot!" she cried. "why not?" demanded ryder, sr. appealingly. "ah, don't--don't decide hastily--" shirley, her face set and drawn and keen mental distress showing in every line of it, faced the two men, pale and determined. the time had come to reveal the truth. this masquerade could go on no longer. it was not honourable either to her father or to herself. her self-respect demanded that she inform the financier of her true identity. "i cannot marry your son with these lies upon my lips!" she cried. "i cannot go on with this deception. i told you you did not know who i was, who my people were. my story about them, my name, everything about me is false, every word i have uttered is a lie, a fraud, a cheat! i would not tell you now, but you trusted me and are willing to entrust your son's future, your family honour in my keeping, and i can't keep back the truth from you. mr. ryder, i am the daughter of the man you hate. i am the woman your son loves. i am shirley rossmore!" ryder took his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. "you? you?" he stammered. "yes--yes, i am the rossmore woman! listen, mr. ryder. don't turn away from me. go to washington on behalf of my father, and i promise you i will never see your son again--never, never!" "ah, shirley!" cried jefferson, "you don't love me!" "yes, jeff, i do; god knows i do! but if i must break my own heart to save my father i will do it." "would you sacrifice my happiness and your own?" "no happiness can be built on lies, jeff. we must build on truth or our whole house will crumble and fall. we have deceived your father, but he will forgive that, won't you?" she said, appealing to ryder, "and you will go to washington, you will save my father's honour, his life, you will--?" they stood face to face--this slim, delicate girl battling for her father's life, arrayed against a cold-blooded, heartless, unscrupulous man, deaf to every impulse of human sympathy or pity. since this woman had deceived him, fooled him, he would deal with her as with everyone else who crossed his will. she laid her hand on his arm, pleading with him. brutally, savagely, he thrust her aside. "no, no, i will not!" he thundered. "you have wormed yourself into my confidence by means of lies and deceit. you have tricked me, fooled me to the very limit! oh, it is easy to see how you have beguiled my son into the folly of loving you! and you--you have the brazen effrontery to ask me to plead for your father? no! no! no! let the law take its course, and now miss rossmore--you will please leave my house to-morrow morning!" shirley stood listening to what he had to say, her face white, her mouth quivering. at last the crisis had come. it was a fight to the finish between this man, the incarnation of corporate greed and herself, representing the fundamental principles of right and justice. she turned on him in a fury: "yes, i will leave your house to-night! do you think i would remain another hour beneath the roof of a man who is as blind to justice, as deaf to mercy, as incapable of human sympathy as you are!" she raised her voice; and as she stood there denouncing the man of money, her eyes flashing and her head thrown back, she looked like some avenging angel defying one of the powers of evil. "leave the room!" shouted ryder, beside himself, and pointing to the door. "father!" cried jefferson, starting forward to protect the girl he loved. "you have tricked him as you have me!" thundered ryder. "it is your own vanity that has tricked you!" cried shirley contemptuously. "you lay traps for yourself and walk into them. you compel everyone around you to lie to you, to cajole you, to praise you, to deceive you! at least, you cannot accuse me of flattering you. i have never fawned upon you as you compel your family and your friends and your dependents to do. i have always appealed to your better nature by telling you the truth, and in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth now." "go!" he commanded. "yes, let us go, shirley!" said jefferson. "no, jeff, i came here alone and i'm going alone!" "you are not. i shall go with you. i intend to make you my wife!" ryder laughed scornfully. "no," cried shirley. "do you think i'd marry a man whose father is as deep a discredit to the human race as your father is? no, i wouldn't marry the son of such a merciless tyrant! he refuses to lift his voice to save my father. i refuse to marry his son!" she turned on ryder with all the fury of a tiger: "you think if you lived in the olden days you'd be a caesar or an alexander. but you wouldn't! you'd be a nero--a nero! sink my self-respect to the extent of marrying into your family!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "never! i am going to washington without your aid. i am going to save my father if i have to go on my knees to every united states senator. i'll go to the white house; i'll tell the president what you are! marry your son--no, thank you! no, thank you!" exhausted by the vehemence of her passionate outburst, shirley hurried from the room, leaving ryder speechless, staring at his son. chapter xvi when shirley reached her rooms she broke down completely, she threw herself upon a sofa and burst into a fit of violent sobbing. after all, she was only a woman and the ordeal through which she had passed would have taxed the strongest powers of endurance. she had borne up courageously while there remained the faintest chance that she might succeed in moving the financier to pity, but now that all hopes in that direction were shattered and she herself had been ordered harshly from the house like any ordinary malefactor, the reaction set in, and she gave way freely to her long pent-up anguish and distress. nothing now could save her father--not even this journey to washington which she determined to take nevertheless, for, according to what stott had said, the senate was to take a vote that very night. she looked at the time--eleven o'clock. she had told mr. ryder that she would leave his house at once, but on reflection it was impossible for a girl alone to seek a room at that hour. it would be midnight before she could get her things packed. no, she would stay under this hated roof until morning and then take the first train to washington. there was still a chance that the vote might be delayed, in which case she might yet succeed in winning over some of the senators. she began to gather her things together and was thus engaged when she heard a knock at her door. "who's there?" she called out. "it's i," replied a familiar voice. shirley went to the door and opening it found jefferson on the threshold. he made no attempt to enter, nor did she invite him in. he looked tired and careworn. "of course, you're not going to-night?" he asked anxiously. "my father did not mean to-night." "no, jeff," she said wearily; "not to-night. it's a little too late. i did not realize it. to-morrow morning, early." he seemed reassured and held out his hand: "good-night, dearest--you're a brave girl. you made a splendid fight." "it didn't do much good," she replied in a disheartened, listless way. "but it set him thinking," rejoined jefferson. "no one ever spoke to my father like that before. it did him good. he's still marching up and down the library, chewing the cud--" noticing shirley's tired face and her eyes, with great black circles underneath, he stopped short. "now don't do any more packing to-night," he said. "go to bed and in the morning i'll come up and help you. good night!" "good night, jeff," she smiled. he went downstairs, and after doing some more packing she went to bed. but it was hours before she got to sleep, and then she dreamed that she was in the senate chamber and that she saw ryder suddenly rise and denounce himself before the astonished senators as a perjurer and traitor to his country, while she returned to massapequa with the glad news that her father was acquitted. meantime, a solitary figure remained in the library, pacing to and fro like a lost soul in purgatory. mrs. ryder had returned from the play and gone to bed, serenely oblivious of the drama in real life that had been enacted at home, the servants locked the house up for the night and still john burkett ryder walked the floor of his sanctum, and late into the small hours of the morning the watchman going his lonely rounds, saw a light in the library and the restless figure of his employer sharply silhouetted against the white blinds. for the first time in his life john ryder realized that there was something in the world beyond self. he had seen with his own eyes the sacrifice a daughter will make for the father she loves, and he asked himself what manner of a man that father could be to inspire such devotion in his child. he probed into his own heart and conscience and reviewed his past career. he had been phenomenally successful, but he had not been happy. he had more money than he knew what to do with, but the pleasures of the domestic circle, which he saw other men enjoy, had been denied to him. was he himself to blame? had his insensate craving for gold and power led him to neglect those other things in life which contribute more truly to man's happiness? in other words, was his life a mistake? yes, it was true what this girl charged, he had been merciless and unscrupulous in his dealings with his fellow man. it was true that hardly a dollar of his vast fortune had been honestly earned. it was true that it had been wrung from the people by fraud and trickery. he had craved for power, yet now he had tasted it, what a hollow joy it was, after all! the public hated and despised him; even his so-called friends and business associates toadied to him merely because they feared him. and this judge--this father he had persecuted and ruined, what a better man and citizen he was, how much more worthy of a child's love and of the esteem of the world! what had judge rossmore done, after all, to deserve the frightful punishment the amalgamated interests had caused him to suffer? if he had blocked their game, he had done only what his oath, his duty commanded him to do. such a girl as shirley rossmore could not have had any other kind of a father. ah, if he had had such a daughter he might have been a better man, if only to win his child's respect and affection. john ryder pondered long and deeply and the more he ruminated the stronger the conviction grew upon him that the girl was right and he was wrong. suddenly, he looked at his watch. it was one o'clock. roberts had told him that it would be an all night session and that a vote would probably not be taken until very late. he unhooked the telephone and calling "central" asked for "long distance" and connection with washington. it was seven o'clock when the maid entered shirley's room with her breakfast and she found its occupant up and dressed. "why you haven't been to bed, miss!" exclaimed the girl, looking at the bed in the inner room which seemed scarcely disturbed. "no, theresa i--i couldn't sleep." hastily pouring out a cup of tea she added. "i must catch that nine o'clock train to washington. i didn't finish packing until nearly three." "can i do anything for you, miss?" inquired the maid. shirley was as popular with the servants as with the rest of the household. "no," answered shirley, "there are only a few, things to go in my suit case. will you please have a cab here in half an hour?" the maid was about to go when she suddenly thought of something she had forgotten. she held out an envelope which she had left lying on the tray. "oh, miss, mr. jorkins said to give you this and master wanted to see you as soon as you had finished your breakfast." shirley tore open the envelope and took out the contents. it was a cheque, payable to her order for $ , and signed "john burkett ryder." a deep flush covered the girl's face as she saw the money--a flush of annoyance rather than of pleasure. this man who had insulted her, who had wronged her father, who had driven her from his home, thought he could throw his gold at her and insolently send her her pay as one settles haughtily with a servant discharged for impertinence. she would have none of his money--the work she had done she would make him a present of. she replaced the cheque in the envelope and passed it back to theresa. "give this to mr. ryder and tell him i cannot see him." "but mr. ryder said--" insisted the girl. "please deliver my message as i give it," commanded shirley with authority. "i cannot see mr. ryder." the maid withdrew, but she had barely closed the door when it was opened again and mrs. ryder rushed in, without knocking. she was all flustered with excitement and in such a hurry that she had not even stopped to arrange her toilet. "my dear miss green," she gasped; "what's this i hear--going away suddenly without giving me warning?" "i wasn't engaged by the month," replied shirley drily. "i know, dear, i know. i was thinking of myself. i've grown so used to you--how shall i get on without you--no one understands me the way you do. dear me! the whole house is upset. mr. ryder never went to bed at all last night. jefferson is going away, too--forever, he threatens. if he hadn't come and woke me up to say good-bye, i should never have known you intended to leave us. my boy's going--you're going--everyone's deserting me!" mrs. ryder was not accustomed to such prolonged flights of oratory and she sank exhausted on a chair, her eyes filling with tears. "did they tell you who i am--the daughter of judge rossmore?" demanded shirley. it had been a shock to mrs. ryder that morning when jefferson burst into his mother's room before she was up and acquainted her with the events of the previous evening. the news that the miss green whom she had grown to love, was really the miss rossmore of whose relations with jefferson her husband stood in such dread, was far from affecting the financier's wife as it had ryder himself. to the mother's simple and ingenuous mind, free from prejudice and ulterior motive, the girl's character was more important than her name, and certainly she could not blame her son for loving such a woman as shirley. of course, it was unfortunate for jefferson that his father felt this bitterness towards judge rossmore, for she herself could hardly have wished for a more sympathetic daughter-in-law. she had not seen her husband since the previous evening at dinner so was in complete ignorance as to what he thought of this new development, but the mother sighed as she thought how happy it would make her to see jefferson happily married to the girl of his own choice, and in her heart she still entertained the hope that her husband would see it that way and thus prevent their son from leaving them as he threatened. "that's not your fault, my dear," she replied answering shirley's question. "you are yourself--that's the main thing. you mustn't mind what mr. ryder says? business and worry makes him irritable at times. if you must go, of course you must--you are the best judge of that, but jefferson wants to see you before you leave." she kissed shirley in motherly fashion, and added: "he has told me everything, dear. nothing would make me happier than to see you become his wife. he's downstairs now waiting for me to tell him to come up." "it's better that i should not see him," replied shirley slowly and gravely. "i can only tell him what i have already told him. my father comes first. i have still a duty to perform." "that's right, dear," answered mrs. ryder. "you're a good, noble girl and i admire you all the more for it. i'll let jefferson be his own advocate. you'll see him for my sake!" she gave shirley another affectionate embrace and left the room while the girl proceeded with her final preparations for departure. presently there was a quick, heavy step in the corridor outside and jefferson appeared in the doorway. he stood there waiting for her to invite him in. she looked up and greeted him cordially, yet it was hardly the kind of reception he looked for or that he considered he had a right to expect. he advanced sulkily into the room. "mother said she had put everything right," he began. "i guess she was mistaken." "your mother does not understand, neither do you," she replied seriously. "nothing can be put right until my father is restored to honour and position." "but why should you punish me because my father fails to regard the matter as we do?" demanded jefferson rebelliously. "why should i punish myself--why should we punish those nearest and dearest?" answered shirley gently, "the victims of human injustice always suffer where their loved ones are tortured. why are things as they are--i don't know. i know they are--that's all." the young man strode nervously up and down the room while she gazed listlessly out of the window, looking for the cab that was to carry her away from this house of disappointment. he pleaded with her: "i have tried honourably and failed--you have tried honourably and failed. isn't the sting of impotent failure enough to meet without striving against a hopeless love?" he approached her and said softly: "i love you shirley--don't drive me to desperation. must i be punished because you have failed? it's unfair. the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the children." "but they are--it's the law," said shirley with resignation. "the law?" he echoed. "yes, the law," insisted the girl; "man's law, not god's, the same unjust law that punishes my father--man's law which is put into the hands of the powerful of the earth to strike at the weak." she sank into a chair and, covering up her face, wept bitterly. between her sobs she cried brokenly: "i believed in the power of love to soften your father's heart, i believed that with god's help i could bring him to see the truth. i believed that truth and love would make him see the light, but it hasn't. i stayed on and on, hoping against hope until the time has gone by and it's too late to save him, too late! what can i do now? my going to washington is a forlorn hope, a last, miserable, forlorn hope and in this hour, the darkest of all, you ask me to think of myself--my love, your love, your happiness, your future, my future! ah, wouldn't it be sublime selfishness?" jefferson kneeled down beside the chair and taking her hand in his, tried to reason with her and comfort her: "listen, shirley," he said, "do not do something you will surely regret. you are punishing me not only because i have failed but because you have failed too. it seems to me that if you believed it possible to accomplish so much, if you had so much faith--that you have lost your faith rather quickly. i believed in nothing, i had no faith and yet i have not lost hope." she shook her head and gently withdrew her hand. "it is useless to insist, jefferson--until my father is cleared of this stain our lives--yours and mine--must lie apart." someone coughed and, startled, they both looked up. mr. ryder had entered the room unobserved and stood watching them. shirley immediately rose to her feet indignant, resenting this intrusion on her privacy after she had declined to receive the financier. yet, she reflected quickly, how could she prevent it? he was at home, free to come and go as he pleased, but she was not compelled to remain in the same room with him. she picked up the few things that lay about and with a contemptuous toss of her head, retreated into the inner apartment, leaving father and son alone together. "hum," grunted ryder, sr. "i rather thought i should find you here, but i didn't quite expect to find you on your knees--dragging our pride in the mud." "that's where our pride ought to be," retorted jefferson savagely. he felt in the humor to say anything, no matter what the consequences. "so she has refused you again, eh?" said ryder, sr. with a grin. "yes," rejoined jefferson with growing irritation, "she objects to my family. i don't blame her." the financier smiled grimly as he answered: "your family in general--me in particular, eh? i gleaned that much when i came in." he looked towards the door of the room in which shirley had taken refuge and as if talking to himself he added: "a curious girl with an inverted point of view--sees everything different to others--i want to see her before she goes." he walked over to the door and raised his hand as if he were about to knock. then he stopped as if he had changed his mind and turning towards his son he demanded: "do you mean to say that she has done with you?" "yes," answered jefferson bitterly. "finally?" "yes, finally--forever!" "does she mean it?" asked ryder, sr., sceptically. "yes--she will not listen to me while her father is still in peril." there was an expression of half amusement, half admiration on the financier's face as he again turned towards the door. "it's like her, damn it, just like her!" he muttered. he knocked boldly at the door. "who's there?" cried shirley from within. "it is i--mr. ryder. i wish to speak to you." "i must beg you to excuse me," came the answer, "i cannot see you." jefferson interfered. "why do you want to add to the girl's misery? don't you think she has suffered enough?" "do you know what she has done?" said ryder with pretended indignation. "she has insulted me grossly. i never was so humiliated in my life. she has returned the cheque i sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. i mean to make her take that money. it's hers, she needs it, her father's a beggar. she must take it back. it's only flaunting her contempt for me in my face and i won't permit it." "i don't think her object in refusing that money was to flaunt contempt in your face, or in any way humiliate you," answered jefferson. "she feels she has been sailing under false colours and desires to make some reparation." "and so she sends me back my money, feeling that will pacify me, perhaps repair the injury she has done me, perhaps buy me into entering into her plan of helping her father, but it won't. it only increases my determination to see her and her--" suddenly changing the topic he asked: "when do you leave us?" "now--at once--that is--i--don't know," answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact is my faculties are numbed--i seem to have lost my power of thinking. father," he exclaimed, "you see what a wreck you have made of our lives!" "now, don't moralize," replied his father testily, "as if your own selfishness in desiring to possess that girl wasn't the mainspring of all your actions!" waving his son out of the room he added: "now leave me alone with her for a few moments. perhaps i can make her listen to reason." jefferson stared at his father as if he feared he were out of his mind. "what do you mean? are you--?" he ejaculated. "go--go leave her to me," commanded the financier. "slam the door when you go out and she'll think we've both gone. then come up again presently." the stratagem succeeded admirably. jefferson gave the door a vigorous pull and john ryder stood quiet, waiting for the girl to emerge from sanctuary. he did not have to wait long. the door soon opened and shirley came out slowly. she had her hat on and was drawing on her gloves, for through her window she had caught a glimpse of the cab standing at the curb. she started on seeing ryder standing there motionless, and she would have retreated had he not intercepted her. "i wish to speak to you miss--rossmore," he began. "i have nothing to say," answered shirley frigidly. "why did you do this?" he asked, holding out the cheque. "because i do not want your money," she replied with hauteur. "it was yours--you earned it," he said. "no, i came here hoping to influence you to help my father. the work i did was part of the plan. it happened to fall my way. i took it as a means to get to your heart." "but it is yours, please take it. it will be useful." "no," she said scornfully, "i can't tell you how low i should fall in my own estimation if i took your money! money," she added, with ringing contempt, "why, that's all there is to you! it's your god! shall i make your god my god? no, thank you, mr. ryder!" "am i as bad as that?" he asked wistfully. "you are as bad as that!" she answered decisively. "so bad that i contaminate even good money?" he spoke lightly but she noticed that he winced. "money itself is nothing," replied the girl, "it's the spirit that gives it--the spirit that receives it, the spirit that earns it, the spirit that spends it. money helps to create happiness. it also creates misery. it's an engine of destruction when not properly used, it destroys individuals as it does nations. it has destroyed you, for it has warped your soul!" "go on," he laughed bitterly, "i like to hear you!" "no, you don't, mr. ryder, no you don't, for deep down in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth. money and the power it gives you, has dried up the well-springs of your heart." he affected to be highly amused at her words, but behind the mask of callous indifference the man suffered. her words seared him as with a red hot iron. she went on: "in the barbaric ages they fought for possession, but they fought openly. the feudal barons fought for what they stole, but it was a fair fight. they didn't strike in the dark. at least, they gave a man a chance for his life. but when you modern barons of industry don't like legislation you destroy it, when you don't like your judges you remove them, when a competitor outbids you you squeeze him out of commercial existence! you have no hearts, you are machines, and you are cowards, for you fight unfairly." "it is not true, it is not true," he protested. "it is true," she insisted hotly, "a few hours ago in cold blood you doomed my father to what is certain death because you decided it was a political necessity. in other words he interfered with your personal interests--your financial interests--you, with so many millions you can't count them!" scornfully she added: "come out into the light--fight in the open! at least, let him know who his enemy is!" "stop--stop--not another word," he cried impatiently, "you have diagnosed the disease. what of the remedy? are you prepared to reconstruct human nature?" confronting each other, their eyes met and he regarded her without resentment, almost with tenderness. he felt strangely drawn towards this woman who had defied and accused him, and made him see the world in a new light. "i don't deny," he admitted reluctantly, "that things seem to be as you describe them, but it is part of the process of evolution." "no," she protested, "it is the work of god!" "it is evolution!" he insisted. "ah, that's it," she retorted, "you evolve new ideas, new schemes, new tricks--you all worship different gods--gods of your own making!" he was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door and theresa entered, followed by a man servant to carry down the trunk. "the cab is downstairs, miss," said the maid. ryder waved them away imperiously. he had something further to say which he did not care for servants to hear. theresa and the man precipitately withdrew, not understanding, but obeying with alacrity a master who never brooked delay in the execution of his orders. shirley, indignant, looked to him for an explanation. "you don't need them," he exclaimed with a quiet smile in which was a shade of embarrassment. "i--i came here to tell you that i--" he stopped as if unable to find words, while shirley gazed at him in utter astonishment. "ah," he went on finally, "you have made it very hard for me to speak." again he paused and then with an effort he said slowly: "an hour ago i had senator roberts on the long distance telephone, and i'm going to washington. it's all right about your father. the matter will be dropped. you've beaten me. i acknowledge it. you're the first living soul who ever has beaten john burkett ryder." shirley started forward with a cry of mingled joy and surprise. could she believe her ears? was it possible that the dreaded colossus had capitulated and that she had saved her father? had the forces of right and justice prevailed, after all? her face transfigured, radiant she exclaimed breathlessly: "what, mr. ryder, you mean that you are going to help my father?" "not for his sake--for yours," he answered frankly. shirley hung her head. in her moment of triumph, she was sorry for all the hard things she had said to this man. she held out her hand to him. "forgive me," she said gently, "it was for my father. i had no faith. i thought your heart was of stone." impulsively ryder drew her to him, he clasped her two hands in his and looking down at her kindly he said, awkwardly: "so it was--so it was! you accomplished the miracle. it's the first time i've acted on pure sentiment. let me tell you something. good sentiment is bad business and good business is bad sentiment--that's why a rich man is generally supposed to have such a hard time getting into the kingdom of heaven." he laughed and went on, "i've given ten millions apiece to three universities. do you think i'm fool enough to suppose i can buy my way? but that's another matter. i'm going to washington on behalf of your father because i--want you to marry my son. yes, i want you in the family, close to us. i want your respect, my girl. i want your love. i want to earn it. i know i can't buy it. there's a weak spot in every man's armour and this is mine--i always want what i can't get and i can't get your love unless i earn it." shirley remained pensive. her thoughts were out on long island, at massapequa. she was thinking of their joy when they heard the news--her father, her mother and stott. she was thinking of the future, bright and glorious with promise again, now that the dark clouds were passing away. she thought of jefferson and a soft light came into her eyes as she foresaw a happy wifehood shared with him. "why so sober," demanded ryder, "you've gained your point, your father is to be restored to you, you'll marry the man you love?" "i'm so happy!" murmured shirley. "i don't deserve it. i had no faith." ryder released her and took out his watch. "i leave in fifteen minutes for washington," he said. "will you trust me to go alone?" "i trust you gladly," she answered smiling at him. "i shall always be grateful to you for letting me convert you." "you won me over last night," he rejoined, "when you put up that fight for your father. i made up my mind that a girl so loyal to her father would be loyal to her husband. you think," he went on, "that i do not love my son--you are mistaken. i do love him and i want him to be happy. i am capable of more affection than people think. it is wall street," he added bitterly, "that has crushed all sentiment out of me." shirley laughed nervously, almost hysterically. "i want to laugh and i feel like crying," she cried. "what will jefferson say--how happy he will be!" "how are you going to tell him?" inquired ryder uneasily. "i shall tell him that his dear, good father has relented and--" "no, my dear," he interrupted, "you will say nothing of the sort. i draw the line at the dear, good father act. i don't want him to think that it comes from me at all." "but," said shirley puzzled, "i shall have to tell him that you--" "what?" exclaimed ryder, "acknowledge to my son that i was in the wrong, that i've seen the error of my ways and wish to repent? excuse me," he added grimly, "it's got to come from him. he must see the error of his ways." "but the error of his way," laughed the girl, "was falling in love with me. i can never prove to him that that was wrong!" the financier refused to be convinced. he shook his head and said stubbornly: "well, he must be put in the wrong somehow or other! why, my dear child," he went on, "that boy has been waiting all his life for an opportunity to say to me: 'father, i knew i was in the right, and i knew you were wrong.' can't you see," he asked, "what a false position it places me in? just picture his triumph!" "he'll be too happy to triumph," objected shirley. feeling a little ashamed of his attitude, he said: "i suppose you think i'm very obstinate." then, as she made no reply, he added: "i wish i didn't care what you thought." shirley looked at him gravely for a moment and then she replied seriously: "mr. ryder, you're a great man--you're a genius--your life is full of action, energy, achievement. but it appears to be only the good, the noble and the true that you are ashamed of. when your money triumphs over principle, when your political power defeats the ends of justice, you glory in your victory. but when you do a kindly, generous, fatherly act, when you win a grand and noble victory over yourself, you are ashamed of it. it was a kind, generous impulse that has prompted you to save my father and take your son and myself to your heart. why are you ashamed to let him see it? are you afraid he will love you? are you afraid i shall love you? open your heart wide to us--let us love you." ryder, completely vanquished, opened his arms and shirley sprang forward and embraced him as she would have embraced her own father. a solitary tear coursed down the financier's cheek. in thirty years he had not felt, or been touched by, the emotion of human affection. the door suddenly opened and jefferson entered. he started on seeing shirley in his father's arms. "jeff, my boy," said the financier, releasing shirley and putting her hand in his son's, "i've done something you couldn't do--i've convinced miss green--i mean miss rossmore--that we are not so bad after all!" jefferson, beaming, grasped his father's hand. "father!" he exclaimed. "that's what i say--father!" echoed shirley. they both embraced the financier until, overcome with emotion, ryder, sr., struggled to free himself and made his escape from the room crying: "good-bye, children--i'm off for washington!" the end aunt jane's nieces on vacation by edith van dyne contents chapter i the hobo at chazy junction ii the invasion of millville iii the dawn of a great enterprise iv the way into print v dividing the responsibilities vi mr. skeelty of the mill vii the sketch artist viii the _millville daily tribune_ ix trouble x thursday smith xi the honer'ble ojoy boglin xii molly sizer's party xiii bob west interferes xiv the dancer signal xv a clever idea xvi local contributors xvii the penalties of journalism xviii open warfare xix a mere matter of revenge xx defending the press xxi the coming of fogerty xxii unmasked xxiii the journalists abdicate xxiv a cheerful blunder chapter i the hobo at chazy junction mr. judkins, the station agent at chazy junction, came out of his little house at daybreak, shivered a bit in the chill morning air and gave an involuntary start as he saw a private car on the sidetrack. there were two private cars, to be exact--a sleeper and a baggage car--and mr. judkins knew the three o'clock train must have left them as it passed through. "ah," said he aloud; "the nabobs hev arrove." "who are the nabobs?" asked a quiet voice beside him. again mr. judkins started; he even stepped back a pace to get a better view of the stranger, who had approached so stealthily through the dim light that the agent was unaware of his existence until he spoke. "who be you?" he demanded, eyeing the man suspiciously. "never mind who i am," retorted the other in a grumpy tone; "the original question is 'who are the nabobs?'" "see here, young feller; this ain't no place fer tramps," observed mr. judkins, frowning with evident displeasure; "chazy junction's got all it kin do to support its reg'lar inhabitants. you'll hev to move on." the stranger sat down on a baggage truck and eyed the private car reflectively. he wore a rough gray suit, baggy and threadbare, a flannel shirt with an old black tie carelessly knotted at the collar, a brown felt hat with several holes in the crown, and coarse cowhide shoes that had arrived at the last stages of usefulness. you would judge him to be from twenty-five to thirty years of age; you would note that his face was browned from exposure, that it was rather set and expressionless but in no way repulsive. his eyes, dark and retrospective, were his most redeeming feature, yet betrayed little of their owner's character. mr. judkins could make nothing of the fellow, beyond the fact that he was doubtless a "tramp" and on that account most unwelcome in this retired neighborhood. even tramps were unusual at chazy junction. the foothills were sparsely settled and the inhabitants too humble to be attractive to gentlemen of the road, while the rocky highways, tortuous and uneven, offered no invitation to the professional pedestrian. "you'll hev to move on!" repeated the agent, more sternly. "i can't," replied the other with a smile. "the car i was--er--attached to has come to a halt. the engine has left us, and--here we are, i and the nabobs." "be'n ridin' the trucks, eh?" "no; rear platform. very comfortable it was, and no interruptions. the crazy old train stopped so many times during the night that i scarcely woke up when they sidetracked us here, and the first thing i knew i was abandoned in this wilderness. as it grew light i began to examine my surroundings, and discovered you. glad to meet you, sir." "you needn't be." "don't begrudge me the pleasure, i implore you. i can't blame you for being gruff and unsociable; were you otherwise you wouldn't reside at--at--" he turned his head to read the half legible sign on the station house, "at chazy junction. i'm familiar with most parts of the united states, but chazy junction gets my flutters. why, oh, why in the world did it happen?" mr. judkins scowled but made no answer. he was wise enough to understand he was no match in conversation for this irresponsible outcast who knew the great world as perfectly as the agent knew his junction. he turned away and stared hard at the silent sleeper, the appearance of which was not wholly unexpected. "you haven't informed me who the nabobs are, nor why they choose to be sidetracked in this forsaken stone-quarry," remarked the stranger, eyeing the bleak hills around him in the growing light of dawn. the agent hesitated. his first gruff resentment had been in a manner disarmed and he dearly loved to talk, especially on so interesting a subject as "the nabobs." he knew he could astonish the tramp, and the temptation to do so was too strong to resist. "it's the great john merrick, who's got millions to burn but don't light many bonfires," he began, not very graciously at first. "two years ago he bought the cap'n wegg farm, over by millville, an'--" "where's millville?" inquired the man. "seven mile back in the hills. the farm ain't nuthin' but cobblestone an' pine woods, but--" "how big is millville?" "quite a town. eleven stores an' houses, 'sides the mill an' a big settlement buildin' up at royal, where the new paper mill is jest started. royal's four mile up the little bill hill." "but about the nabob--mr. merrick, i think you called him?" "yes; john merrick. he bought the cap'n wegg place an' spent summer 'fore last on it--him an' his three gals as is his nieces." "oh; three girls." "yes. clever gals, too. stirred things up some at millville, i kin tell you, stranger. lib'ral an' good-natured, but able to hold their own with the natives. we missed 'em, last year; but t'other day i seen ol' hucks, that keeps their house for 'em--he 'n' his wife--an' hucks said they was cumin' to spend this summer at the farm an' he was lookin' fer 'em any day. the way they togged up thet farmhouse is somethin' won'erful, i'm told. hain't seen it, myself, but a whole carload o' furnitoor--an' then some more--was shipped here from new york, an' peggy mcnutt, over t' millville, says it must 'a' cost a for-tun'." the tramp nodded, somewhat listlessly. "i feel quite respectable this morning, having passed the night as the guest of a millionaire," he observed. "mr. merrick didn't know it, of course, or he would have invited me inside." "like enough," answered the agent seriously. "the nabob's thet reckless an' unaccountable, he's likely to do worse ner that. that's what makes him an' his gals interestin'; nobody in quarries. how about breakfast, friend judkins?" "that's my business an' not yourn. my missus never feeds tramps." "rather ungracious to travelers, eh?" "ef you're a traveler, go to the hoe-tel yonder an' buy your breakfas' like a man." "thank you; i may follow your advice." the agent walked up the track and put out the semaphore lights, for the sun was beginning to rise over the hills. by the time he came back a colored porter stood on the platform of the private car and nodded to him. "folks up yit?" asked judkins. "dressing, seh." "goin' ter feed 'em in there?" "not dis mohnin'. dey'll breakfas' at de hotel. carriage here yit?" "not yit. i s'pose ol' hucks'll drive over for 'em," said the agent. "dey's 'spectin' some one, seh. as fer me, i gotta live heah all day, an' it makes me sick teh think of it." "heh!" retorted the agent, scornfully; "you won't git sick. you're too well paid fer that." the porter grinned, and just then a little old gentleman with a rosy, cheery face pushed him aside and trotted down the steps. "mornin', judkins!" he cried, and shook the agent's hand. "what a glorious sunrise, and what crisp, delicious air! ah, but it's good to be in old chazy county again!" the agent straightened up, his face wreathed with smiles, and cast an "i told you so!" glance toward the man on the truck. but the stranger had disappeared. chapter ii the invasion of millville over the brow of the little hill appeared a three-seated wagon, drawn by a pair of handsome sorrels, and in a moment the equipage halted beside the sleeper. "oh, thomas hucks--you dear, dear thomas!" cried a clear, eager voice, and out from the car rushed miss patricia doyle, to throw her arms about the neck of the old, stoop-shouldered and white-haired driver, whose face was illumined by a joyous smile. "glad to see ye, miss patsy; right glad 'ndeed, child," returned the old man. but others were waiting to greet him; pretty beth de graf and dainty louise merrick--not louise "merrick" any longer, though, but bearing a new name she had recently acquired--and demure mary, patsy's little maid and an old friend of thomas hucks', and uncle john with his merry laugh and cordial handshake and, finally, a tall and rather dandified young man who remained an interested spectator in the background until mr. merrick seized and dragged him forward. "here's another for you to know, thomas," said the little millionaire. "this is the other half of our louise--mr. arthur weldon--and by and by you can judge whether he's the better half or not." the aged servant, hat in hand, made a respectful bow to mr. weldon. his frank eyes swept the young man from head to foot but his smile was the same as before. "miss louise is wiser ner i be," said the old fellow simply; "i'm safe to trust to her jedgment, i guess." there was a general laugh, at this, and they began to clamber aboard the wagon and to stow away beneath the seats the luggage the colored porter was bringing out. "stop at the junction house, thomas," said mr. merrick as they moved away. "nora has the breakfast all ready at home, sir," replied thomas. "good for nora! but we can't fast until we reach home--eight good miles of jolting--so we'll stop at the junction house for a glass of mrs. todd's famous milk." "very good, sir." "is anyone coming for our trunks and freight? there's half a car of truck to be carted over." "ned's on the way, sir; and he'll get the liveryman to help if he can't carry it all." the junction house was hidden from the station by the tiny hill, as were the half dozen other buildings tributary to chazy junction. as the wagon drew up before the long piazza which extended along the front of the little frame inn they saw a man in shabby gray seated at a small table with some bread and a glass of milk before him. it was their unrecognized guest of the night--the uninvited lodger on the rear platform--but he did not raise his eyes or appear to notice the new arrivals. "mrs. todd! hey, mrs. todd!" called uncle john. "anybody milked the cow yet?" a frowsy looking woman came out, all smiles, and nodded pleasantly at the expectant group in the wagon. behind her loomed the tall, lean form of lucky todd, the "proprietor," who was serious as a goat, which animal he closely resembled in feature. "breakfas' all 'round, mr. merrick?" asked the woman. "not this time, mrs. todd. nora has our breakfast waiting for us. but we want some of your delicious milk to last us to the farm." "las' night's milkin's half cream by this time," she rejoined, as she briskly reentered the house. the man at the table held out his empty glass. "here; fill this up," he said to lucky todd. the somber-faced proprietor turned his gaze from the merrick group to the stranger, eyed him pensively a moment and then faced the wagon again. the man in gray got up, placed the empty glass in todd's hand, whirled him around facing the door and said sternly: "more milk!" the landlord walked in like an automaton, and a suppressed giggle came from the girls in the wagon. uncle john was likewise amused, and despite the unknown's frazzled apparel the little millionaire addressed him in the same tone he would have used toward an equal. "don't blame you, sir. nobody ever tasted better milk than they have at the junction house." the man, who had resumed his seat, stood up, took off his hat and bowed. but he made no reply. out came mrs. todd, accompanied by another frowsy woman. between them they bore a huge jug of milk, a number of thick glasses and a plate of crackers. "the crackers come extry, mr. merrick," said the landlady, "but seein' as milk's cheap i thought you might like 'em." the landlord now came out and placed the stranger's glass, about half filled with milk, on the table before him. the man looked at it, frowned, and tossed off the milk in one gulp. "more!" he said, holding out the glass. todd shook his head. "ain't no more," he declared. his wife overheard him and pausing in her task of refilling the glasses for the rich man's party she looked over her shoulder and said: "give him what he wants, lucky." the landlord pondered. "not fer ten cents, nancy," he protested. "the feller said he wanted ten cents wuth o' breakfas', an' by joe he's had it." "milk's cheap," remarked mrs. todd. "it's crackers as is expensive these days. fill up his glass, lucky." "why is your husband called 'lucky,' mrs. todd?" inquired patsy, who was enjoying the cool, creamy milk. "'cause he got me to manage him, i guess," was the laughing reply. "todd ain't much 'count 'nless i'm on the spot to order him 'round." the landlord came out with the glass of milk but paused before he set it down. "let's see your money," he said suspiciously. it seemed to the girls, who were curiously watching the scene, that the tramp flushed under his bronzed skin; but without reply he searched in a pocket and drew out four copper cents, which he laid upon the table. after further exploration he abstracted a nickel from another pocket and pushed the coins toward the landlord. "'nother cent," said todd. continued search seemed for a time hopeless, but at last, in quite an unexpected way, the man produced the final cent and on receiving it todd set down the milk. "anything more, yer honor?" he asked sarcastically. "yes; you might bring me the morning paper," was the reply. everyone except todd laughed frankly at this retort. uncle john put two silver dollars in mrs. todd's chubby hand and told thomas to drive on. "i dunno," remarked old hucks, when they were out of earshot, "whether that feller's jest a common tramp or a workman goin' over to the paper mill at royal. jedgin' from the fact as he had money i guess he's a workman." "wrong, thomas, quite wrong," said beth, seated just behind him. "did you notice his hands?" "no, miss beth." "they were not rough and the fingers were slender and delicate." "that's the mark of a cracksman," said arthur weldon, with a laugh. "if there are any safes out here that are worth cracking, i'd say look out for the gentleman." "his face isn't bad at all," remarked patsy, reflectively. "isn't there any grade between a workman and a thief?" "of course," asserted mr. merrick, in his brisk way. "this fellow, shabby as he looked, might be anything--from a strolling artist to a gentleman down on his luck. but what's the news, thomas? how are ethel and joe?" "mr. an' mrs. wegg is quite comf't'ble, sir, thank you," replied old hucks, with a show of eagerness. "miss ethel's gran'ther, ol' will thompson, he's dead, you know, an' the young folks hev fixed up the thompson house like a palace. guess ye'd better speak to 'em about spendin' so much money, mr. merrick; i'm 'fraid they may need it some day." "don't worry. they've a fine income for life, thomas, and there will be plenty to leave to their children--if they have any. but tell me about the mill at royal. where _is_ royal, anyhow?" "four mile up the little bill creek, sir, where the royal waterfall is. a feller come an' looked the place over las' year an' said the pine forest would grind up inter paper an' the waterfall would do the grindin'. so he bought a mile o' forest an' built a mill, an' they do say things is hummin' up to the new settlement. there's more'n two hundred hands a-workin' there, a'ready." "goodness me!" cried patsy; "this thing must have livened up sleepy old millville considerably." "not yet," said hucks, shaking his head. "the comp'ny what owns the mill keeps a store there for the workmen, an' none of 'em come much to millville. our storekeepers is madder'n blazes about it; but fer my part i'm glad the two places is separated." "why?" asked louise. "they're a kinder tough lot, i guess. turnin' pine trees inter paper mus' be a job thet takes more muscle than brains. i don't see how it's done, at all." "it's simple enough," said mr. merrick. "first the wood is ground into pulp, and then the pulp is run through hot rollers, coming out paper. it's a mighty interesting process, so some day we will all go to royal and see the paper made." "but not just yet, uncle," remarked patsy. "let's have time to settle down on the farm and enjoy it. oh, how glad i am to be back in this restful, sleepy, jumping-off-place of the world again! isn't it delightful, arthur weldon? did you ever breathe such ozony, delicious mountain air? and do you get the fragrance of the pine forests, and the--the--" "the bumps?" asked arthur, as the wagon gave a jolt a bit more emphatic than usual; "yes, patsy dear, i get them all; but i won't pass judgment on millville and uncle john's farm just yet. are we 'most there?" "we're to have four whole months of it," sighed beth. "that ought to enable us to renew our youth, after the strenuous winter." "rubbish!" said uncle john. "you haven't known a strenuous moment, my dears, and you're all too young to need renewals, anyhow. but if you can find happiness here, my girls, our old farm will become a paradise." these three nieces of mr. merrick were well worth looking at. louise, the eldest, was now twenty--entirely too young to be a bride; but having decided to marry arthur weldon, the girl would brook no interference and, having a will of her own, overcame all opposition. her tall, slender form was exceedingly graceful and willowy, her personality dainty and refined, her temperament under ordinary conditions essentially sweet and agreeable. in crises louise developed considerable character, in strong contrast with her usual assumption of well-bred composure. that the girl was insincere in little things and cultivated a polished manner to conceal her real feelings, is undeniable; but in spite of this she might be relied upon to prove loyal and true in emergencies. patricia doyle was more than two years the junior of her cousin louise and very unlike her. patsy's old father, major gregory doyle, said "she wore her heart on her sleeve," and the girl was frank and outspoken to a fault. patsy had no "figure" to speak of, being somewhat dumpy in build, nor were her piquant features at all beautiful. her nose tipped at the end, her mouth was broad and full-lipped and her complexion badly freckled. but patsy's hair was of that indescribable shade that hovers between burnished gold and sunset carmine. "fiery red" she was wont to describe it, and most people considered it, very justly, one of her two claims to distinction. her other admirable feature was a pair of magnificent deep blue eyes--merry, mischievous and scintillating as diamonds. few could resist those eyes, and certain it is that patsy doyle was a universal favorite and won friends without a particle of effort. the younger of the three nieces, elizabeth de graf, was as beautiful a girl as you will often discover, one of those rarely perfect creations that excite our wonder and compel admiration--as a beautiful picture or a bit of statuary will. dreamy and reserved in disposition, she lacked the graciousness of louise and patsy's compelling good humor; yet you must not think her stupid or disagreeable. her reserve was really diffidence; her dreamy, expressionless gaze the result of a serious nature and a thoughtful temperament. beth was quite practical and matter-of-fact, the reverse of patsy's imaginative instincts or louise's affected indifference. those who knew beth de graf best loved her dearly, but strangers found her hard to approach and were often repulsed by her unresponsive manner. underneath all, the girl was a real girl, with many splendid qualities, and uncle john relied upon beth's stability more than on that of his other two nieces. her early life had been a stormy and unhappy one, so she was but now developing her real nature beneath the warmth of her uncle's protecting love. topping the brow of a little hill the wagon came to a smooth downward grade where the road met the quaint old bridge that spanned little bill creek, beside which stood the antiquated flour and feed mill that had given millville its name. the horses were able to maintain their brisk trot across the bridge and through the main street of the town, which was merely a cluster of unimposing frame buildings, that lined either side of the highway for the space of an ordinary city block. then they were in the wilds again and rattling over another cobblestone trail. "this 'ere country's nuth'n' but pine woods 'n' cobblestones," sighed old hucks, as the horses subsided to a walk. "lor' knows what would 'a' happened to us without the trees! they saves our grace, so's to speak." "i think the scenery is beautiful," observed patsy. "it's so different from other country places." "not much farming around here, i imagine," said arthur weldon. "more than you'd think, sir," replied thomas. "there's certain crops as thrives in stony land, an' a few miles north o' here, towards huntingdon, the soil's mighty rich 'n' productive. things ain't never as bad as they seem in this world, sir," he added, turning his persistently smiling face toward the young man. mr. merrick sat beside the driver on the front seat. the middle seat was occupied by patsy and beth, between whom squeezed little mary, the maid. louise and arthur had the back seat. a quarter of a mile beyond the town they came to a sort of lane running at right angles with the turnpike, and down this lane old hucks turned his team. it seemed like a forbidding prospect, for ahead of them loomed only a group of tall pines marking the edge of the forest, yet as they came nearer and made a little bend in the road the wegg farm suddenly appeared in view. the house seemed so cozy and homelike, set upon its green lawn with the tall pines for a background, that the girls, who knew the place well, exclaimed with delight, and arthur, who now saw it for the first time, nodded his head approvingly. uncle john was all excitement over the arrival at his country home. an old fashioned stile was set in a rail fence which separated the grounds from the lane, and hucks drew up the wagon so his passengers could all alight upon the step of the stile. patsy was out at a bound. louise followed more deliberately, assisted by her boy husband, and beth came more sedately yet. but uncle john rode around to the barn with thomas, being eager to see the cows and pigs and poultry with which the establishment was liberally stocked. the house was of two stories, the lower being built of cobblestones and the upper of pine slabs; but it had been artistically done and the effect was delightful. it was a big, rambling dwelling, and mr. merrick had furnished the old place in a lavish manner, so that his nieces would lack no modern comfort when they came there to spend a summer. on the porch stood an old woman clothed in a neat gingham dress and wearing a white apron and cap. her pleasant face was wreathed in smiles as she turned it toward the laughing, chattering group that came up the path. patsy spied her and rushed up to give old nora a hug and kiss, and the other two girls saluted the blind woman with equal cordiality, for long ago she had won the love and devotion of all three. arthur, who had heard of nora, pressed her hand and told her she must accept him as another of her children, and then she asked for mr. merrick and ran in to get the breakfast served. for, although blind, old nora was far from being helpless, and the breakfast she had prepared in anticipation of their arrival was as deliciously cooked as if she had been able to use her eyes as others did. chapter iii the dawn of a great enterprise the great enterprise was sprung on mr. merrick the very morning following his arrival at the farm. breakfast was over and a group had formed upon the shady front lawn, where chairs, benches and hammocks were scattered in profusion. "well, uncle, how do you like it?" asked louise. "are you perfectly comfortable and happy, now we've escaped so far from the city that its humming life is a mere memory?" "happy as a clam," responded uncle john, leaning back in his chair with his feet on a foot rest. "if i only had the morning paper there would be nothing else to wish for." "the paper? that's what that queer tramp at the junction house asked for," remarked beth. "the first thought of even a hobo was for a morning paper. i wonder why men are such slaves to those gossipy things." "phoo!" cried patsy; "we're all slaves to them. show me a person who doesn't read the daily journals and keep abreast of the times and i'll show you a dummy." "patsy's right," remarked arthur weldon. "the general intelligence and cosmopolitan knowledge of the people are best cultivated by the newspapers. the superiority of our newspapers has been a factor in making us the greatest nation on earth, for we are the best informed." "my, what big words!" exclaimed louise. "it is quite true," said uncle john soberly, "that i shall miss our daily paper during our four months' retirement in these fascinating wilds. it's the one luxury we can't enjoy in our country retreat." "why not?" asked patsy, with startling abruptness, while a queer expression--as of an inspiration--stole over her bright face. "chump!" said beth, drily; "you know very well why not, patsy doyle. mooley cows and the fourth estate don't intermingle, so to speak." "they can be made to, though," declared patsy. "why hasn't some one thought of it before? uncle john--girls!--i propose we start a daily paper." louise laughed softly, beth's lip curled and arthur weldon cast an amused glance at the girl; but uncle john stared seriously into patsy's questioning blue eyes. "how?" he asked in a puzzled tone. if anything could interest this eccentric little millionaire more than the usual trend of events it was an original proposition of this sort. he loved to do things that other people had not attempted, nor even thought of. he hated conversational platitudes and established conventions, and his nieces had endeared themselves to him more by their native originality and frank disregard of ordinary feminine limitations than in any other way. it was generally conceded that patsy was his favorite because she could advance more odd suggestions than the other girls, and this niece had a practical aptitude for carrying out her whimsical ideas that had long since won her uncle's respect. not that she could outdo mr. merrick in eccentricity: that was admitted to be his special province, in which he had no rival; but the girl was so clever a confederate that she gave her erratic uncle much happiness of the sort he most appreciated. therefore, this seemingly preposterous proposition to establish a daily paper on a retired country farm did not strike the old gentleman as utterly impossible, and anything within the bounds of possibility was sure to meet his earnest consideration, especially when it was proposed by one of his favorite nieces. "how?" responded patsy; "why, it's easy enough, uncle. we'll buy a press, hire a printer, and beth and louise will help me edit the paper. i'm sure i can exhibit literary talents of a high order, once they are encouraged to sprout. louise writes lovely poetry and 'stories of human interest,' and beth--" "i can't write even a good letter," asserted that young lady; "but i'd dearly love to edit a newspaper." "of course," agreed louise; "we all would. and i think we could turn out a very creditable paper--for millville. but wouldn't it cost a lot of money?" "that isn't the present question," replied uncle john. "the main thing is, do you girls want to be tied down to such a task? every day in the week, all during our summer holiday--" "why, you've made our whole lives a holiday, uncle john," interrupted patsy, "and we've been so coddled and swamped with luxuries that we are just now in serious danger of being spoiled! you don't want three spoiled nieces on your hands, do you? and please make allowance for our natural impetuosity and eagerness to be up and doing. we love the farm, but our happiness here would be doubled if we had some occupation to keep us busy, and this philanthropic undertaking would furnish us with no end of fun, even while we were benefiting our fellow man." "all jabber, dear," exclaimed beth. "i admit the fun, but where does the philanthropy come in?" "don't you see?" asked patsy. "both uncle john and that tramp we encountered have met on common ground to bewail the lack of a daily newspaper 'in our midst'--to speak in journalistic parlance. at the paper mill at royal are over two hundred workmen moaning in despair while they lose all track of the world's progress. at huntingdon, not five miles distant, are four or five hundred people lacking all the educational advantages of an up-to-date--or is 'down-to-date' proper?--press. and millville--good gracious! what would sleepy millville folks think of having a bright, newsy, metropolitan newspaper left on their doorsteps every morning, or evening, as the case may be?" "h-m," said uncle john; "i scent a social revolution in the wilds of chazy county." "let's start it right away!" cried patsy. "the 'millville tribune.' what do you say, girls?" "why 'tribune?'" asked louise. "because we three will run it, and we're a triumvirate--the future tribunal of the people in this district." "very good!" said uncle john, nodding approval. "a clever idea, patsy." "but it's all nonsense, sir," observed arthur weldon, in astonishment. "have you any idea of the details of this thing you are proposing?" "none whatever," said the little millionaire. "that's the beauty of the scheme, arthur; it may lead us into a reg'lar complicated mix-up, and the joy of getting untangled ought to repay us for all our bother." "perhaps so--if you ever untangle," said the young man, smiling at the whimsical speech. then he turned to his young bride. "do you want to go into this thing, louise?" he asked. "of course i do," she promptly replied. "it's the biggest thing in the way of a sensation that patsy's crazy brain has ever evolved, and i'll stand by the _millville tribune_ to the last. you mustn't forget, arthur, that i shall be able to publish all my verses and stories, which the century and harpers' so heartlessly turned down." "and beth?" "oh, i'm in it too," declared beth. "there's something so delightfully mysterious and bewildering in the idea of our editing and printing a daily paper here in millville that i can hardly wait to begin the experiment." "it's no experiment whatever," asserted patsy boldly. "the daily newspaper is an established factor in civilization, and 'whatever man has done, man can do'--an adage that applies equally to girls." "have you any notion of the cost of an outfit such as is required to print a modern daily?" asked arthur. "oh, two or three hundred, perhaps, but--" "you're crazy, child! that wouldn't buy the type." "nevertheless," began patsy, argumentatively, but her uncle stopped her. "you needn't figure on that," he said hastily. "the outfit shall be my contribution to the enterprise. if you girls say you're anxious and willing to run a newspaper, i'll agree to give you a proper start." "oh, thank you, uncle!" "of course we're willing!" "it is all absolutely settled, so far as we are concerned," said patsy, firmly. "how long will it take to get the things here, uncle?" mr. merrick considered a moment. "there's a long-distance telephone over at cotting's general store, in town," he said. "i'll drive over and get major doyle on the wire and have him order the stuff sent out at once." "oh, no!" protested patsy; "don't tell daddy of this plan, please. he'd think we were all fit subjects for the lunatic asylum." "major doyle wouldn't be far wrong in that conclusion," suggested arthur. "i'd like to surprise him by sending him the first copy of the _millville tribune_," added the major's daughter. "then," said mr. merrick, "i'll call up marvin, my banker. he'll perhaps attend to the matter more understandingly and more promptly than the major would. tell hucks to harness joe to the buggy, patsy, and i'll go at once." "we'll all go!" exclaimed beth. "of course," added louise; "we are all equally interested in this venture." so patsy had old hucks hitch joe to the surrey, and the three girls accompanied their uncle in his drive to town, leaving arthur weldon shaking his head in a deprecating way but fully realizing that no protest of his would avail to prevent this amazing undertaking. "that old man is as much a child as beth or patsy," he reflected. "it puzzles me to explain how he made all those millions with so little worldly wisdom." chapter iv the way into print sam cotting's general store at millville divided importance with bob west's hardware store but was a more popular loafing place for the sparse population of the tiny town. the post office was located in one corner and the telephone booth in another, and this latter institution was regarded with much awe by the simple natives. once in awhile some one would telephone over to the junction on some trivial business, but the long-distance call was never employed except by the "nabobs"--the local name for john merrick and his nieces--or by the manager of the new mill at royal, who had extended the line to his own office in the heart of the pine forest. so, when uncle john and the girls entered cotting's store and the little gentleman shut himself up in the telephone booth, a ripple of excitement spread throughout the neighborhood. skim clark, the youthful hope of the widow clark, who "run the emporium," happened to be in the store and he rushed out to spread the news that "the nabob's talkin' to new yoruk!" this information demanded immediate attention. marshall mcmahon mcnutt, familiarly known as "peggy" mcnutt--because he had once lost a foot in a mowing machine--and who was alleged to be a real estate agent, horse doctor, fancy poultry breeder and palmist, and who also dabbled in the sale of subscription books, life insurance, liniment and watermelons, quickly slid off his front porch across the way and sauntered into cotting's to participate in the excitement. seth davis, the blacksmith, dropped his tools and hurried to the store, and the druggist three doors away--a dapper gentleman known as nib corkins--hurriedly locked his door and attended the meeting. presently the curious group was enlarged by the addition of nick thome the liveryman, lon taft, a carpenter and general man-of-all-work, and silas caldwell the miller, the latter a serious individual who had "jest happened to come acrost from the mill in the nick o' time." sam cotting, being himself of great local importance, had never regarded with favor the rivalry of the nabob, but he placed stools near the telephone booth for the three girls, who accepted the courtesy with a graciousness that ought to have disarmed the surly storekeeper. they could not fail to be amused at the interest they excited, and as they personally knew every one of the town people they pleasantly nodded to each arrival and inquired after their health and the welfare of their families. the replies were monosyllables. millville folks were diffident in the presence of these city visitors and while they favored the girls with rather embarrassing stares, their chief interest was centered on the little man in the telephone booth, who could plainly be seen through the glass door but might not be heard, however loudly he shouted. "talkin' to new yoruk" was yet a marvelous thing to them, and much speculation was exchanged in low tones as to the probable cost of such a conversation as mr. merrick was now indulging in. "costs a dollar to connect, ye know," remarked peggy mcnutt to ned long. "bet a cookie he's runnin' the blame bill up to two dollars, with all this chinnin'. why can't th' ol' nabob write a letter, like common folks, an' give his extry cash to the poor?" "meanin' you, peggy?" asked nib corkins, with a chuckle. "he might do wuss ner that," retorted peggy. "lor' knows i'm poor enough. you don't ketch _me_ a-talkin' to new york at a dollar a throw, nib, do ye?" meantime mr. merrick had succeeded in getting mr. marvin, of the banking house of isham, marvin & co., on the wire. "do me a favor, marvin," he said. "hunt up the best supply house and have them send me a complete outfit to print a daily newspaper. everything must be modern, you know, and don't let them leave out anything that might come handy. then go to corrigan, the superintendent of the railroad, and have him send the freight up here to chazy junction by a special engine, for i don't want a moment's delay and the regular freight takes a week or so. charge everything to my account and impress upon the dealer the need of haste. understand all that, marvin?" "i think i do, sir," was the reply; "but that's a pretty big order, mr. merrick. the outfit for a modern daily will cost a small fortune." "never mind; send it along." "very well. but you'd better give me some details. how big a newspaper do you want to print?" "hold the wire and i'll find out," said uncle john. then he opened the door of the booth and said: "patsy, how big a thing do you want to print?" "how big? oh, let me see. four pages will do, won't it, louise?" "plenty, i should say, for this place," answered louise. "and how many columns to a page?" asked uncle john. "oh, six or seven. that's regular, i guess." "make it six," proposed beth. "that will keep us busy enough." "all right," said uncle john, and closed the door again. this conversation was of the most startling nature to the assembled villagers, who were all trying to look unconcerned and as if "they'd jest dropped in," but were unable to dissemble their curiosity successfully. of course much of this interchange of words between the man in the booth and the girls outside was greek to them all, but "to print" and "columns" and "pages" could apply only to one idea, which, while not fully grasped, was tremendously startling in its suggestion. the merrick party was noted for doing astonishing things in the past and evidently, in the words of peggy mcnutt, they were "up to some blame foolishness that'll either kill this neighborhood or make it talked about." "it's too dead a'ready to kill," responded nick thorne gloomily. "even the paper mill, four mile away, ain't managed to make millville wiggle its big toe. don't you worry over what the nabob'll do, peggy; he couldn't hurt nuthin' if he tried." the door opened again and mr. merrick protruded a puzzled countenance. "he wants to know about a stereotype plant, patsy. what'll i tell him?" patsy stared. louise and beth shook their heads. "if it belongs to the--the thing we want, uncle, have 'em send it along," said patsy in desperation. "all right." a few minutes later the little man again appealed to them. "how'll we run the thing, girls; steam or electricity?" patsy's face was a blank. beth giggled and louise frowned. "of course it'll have to be run," suggested mr. merrick; "but how? that's the question." "i--i hadn't given that matter thought," admitted patsy. "what do you think, uncle?" he considered, holding open the door while he thoughtfully regarded the silent but interested group of villagers that eagerly hung upon every word that passed. "cotting," called mr. merrick, "how do they run the paper mill at royal?" "'lectricity! 'lectricity, sir!" answered half a dozen at once. "they develops the power from the royal waterfall of the little bill," explained cotting, with slow and pompous deliberation. "mr. skeelty he tol' me they had enough 'lectric'ty to light up the whole dum country fer ten mile in all directions, 'sides a-runnin' of the mill." "who's skeelty?" "manager o' the mill, sir, an' part owner, he says." "has he a telephone?" "yes, mr. merrick." "thank you." mr. merrick shut the door and called up skeelty. five minutes of bargaining settled the question and he then connected with mr. marvin again and directed him to have the presses and machinery equipped to run by electricity. thinking he had now given the banker all the commissions he could attend to with celerity, uncle john next called up major doyle and instructed his brother-in-law to send four miles of electric cable, with fittings and transformers, and a crew of men to do the work, and not to waste a moment's time in getting them to millville. "what in blazes are ye up to now, john?" inquired the major, on receiving this order. "none of your business, gregory. obey orders." "going to light the farm and turn night into day?" persisted the major. "this is patsy's secret, and i'm not going to give it away," said mr. merrick. "attend to this matter promptly, major, and you'll see the result when you come to us in july for your vacation." having attended to all the requirements of the projected _millville tribune_, as he thought, mr. merrick called the operator for the amount of his bill and paid it to sam cotting--three dollars and eighty cents. the sum fairly made the onlookers gasp, and as the merrick party passed out, silas, the miller, said solemnly: "don't anybody tell me talk is cheap, arter this. john merrick may be a millionaire, but ef he keeps this thing up long he'll be a pauper. thet's _my_ prophe-sigh." "yer off yer base, si," said mcnutt "joe wegg tol' me once thet the nabob's earnin's on his money were more'n he could spend ef he lays awake nights a-doin' it. joe says it keeps pilin' up on him, till sometimes it drives him nigh desp'rit. i hed an idee i'd ask him to shuck off some of it onter me. _i_ could stan' the strain all right, an' get plenty o' sleep too." "ye won't hev no call to stan' it, peggy," pre-dcted lon tait. "milyunhairs may spend money foolish, but they don't never give none away. i've done sev'ral odd jobs fer mr. merrick, but he's never give me more'n jest wages." "well," said mcnutt with a sigh, "while he's in easy reach there orter be _some_ sort o' pickings fer us, an' it's our duty to git all we can out'n him--short o' actoo-al robbery. what do ye s'pose this new deal means, boys? sounds like printin' somethin', don't it?" "p'raps it's some letterheads fer the wegg farm," suggested nib corkins. "these merricks do everything on a big scale." "four pages, an' six columns to a page?" asked cotting scornfully. "sounds to me more like a newspaper, folks!" there was a moment's silence, during which they all stared at the speaker fearfully. then said skim clark, in his drawling, halting way: "ef thet's the case, an' there's goin' ter be a newspaper here in millville, we may as well give up the struggle, fer the town'll be ruined!" chapter v dividing the responsibility the rest of that day and a good share of the night was devoted to an earnest consultation concerning the proper methods of launching the _millville daily tribune_. "we must divide the work," said patsy, "so that all will have an equal share of responsibility. louise is to be the literary editor and the society editor. that sounds like a good combination." "there is no society here," objected louise. "not as we understand the term, perhaps," replied miss doyle; "but every community, however small, believes it is a social center; and so it is--to itself. if there is a dance or a prayer meeting or a christening or illness, it must be recorded in our local columns. if bob west sells a plow we've got to mention the name of the farmer who bought it; if there's a wedding, we'll make a double-header of it; if a baby is born, we will--will--" "print its picture in the paper. eh, uncle john?" this from beth. "of course," said mr. merrick. "you must print all the home news, as well as the news of the world." "how are you going to get the news of the world?" asked arthur. "how? how?" "that was my question." "private wire from new york," said mr. merrick, as the girls hesitated how to meet this problem. "i'll arrange with the telegraph company to-morrow to have an extension of the wire run over from chazy junction. then we'll hire an operator--a girl, of course--to receive the news in the office of the paper." "but who will send us the news?" asked beth. "the associated press, i suppose, or some news agency in new york. i'll telegraph to-morrow to marvin to arrange it." arthur whistled softly. "this newspaper is going to cost something," he murmured. uncle john looked at him with a half quizzical, half amused expression. "that's what marvin warned me yesterday, when i ordered the equipment," said he. "he told me that before i got through with this deal it would run up into the thousands. and he added that millville wasn't worth it." "and what did you say to that, uncle john?" asked beth. "in that case, i said, i would be sure to get some pleasure and satisfaction out of your journalistic enterprise. my last financial statement showed a frightful condition of affairs. in spite of major doyle's reckless investments of my money, and--and the little we manage to give to deserving charities, i'm getting richer every day. when a small leak like this newspaper project occurs, it seems that fortune is patting me on the back. i've no idea what a respectable newspaper will cost, but i hope it will cost a lot, for every dollar it devours makes my mind just that much easier." arthur weldon laughed. "in that case, sir," said he, "i can make no further protest. but i predict you will find the bills--eh--eh--entirely satisfactory." "you mentioned an office, just now, uncle," observed louise. "must we have a business office?" "to be sure," mr. merrick replied. "we must find a proper location, where we can install the presses and all the type and machinery that go to making up a newspaper. i hadn't thought of this before, but it is a serious matter, my dears. we may have to build a place." "oh, that would take too long, entirely," said patsy. "can't we put it in the barn, uncle?" "what would happen to the horses and cows? no; we'll take a look over millville and see what we can find there." "you won't find much," predicted beth. "i can't think of a single unoccupied building in the town." "then we'll put it in a tent," declared patsy. "don't borrow trouble," advised uncle john. "wait till we've gone over the ground together. our truck will require a pretty big place, for marvin said one freight car wouldn't hold all the outfit. he's going to send two cars, anyhow." "have him fill up the second with print paper," proposed arthur. "ah; that's another thing i hadn't thought of," said mr. merrick. "how big a daily edition will you print, patsy?" "let's see," pondered the girl. "there are about two hundred at royal, say four hundred at huntingdon, at millville about--about--" "say fifteen," said uncle john; "that's six hundred and fifteen, and--" "and the farmers, of course. there must be at least a hundred and fifty of 'em in the county, so that makes seven hundred and seventy-five copies a day." "wait a moment!" cried arthur, somewhat bewildered by this figuring. "do you suppose every inhabitant--man, woman and child--will subscribe for your paper?" patsy blushed. "why, no, of course not," she acknowledged frankly. "how many do you think _will_ subscribe, arthur? remember, it's to be a great newspaper." "four pages of six columns each. plenty big enough for millville," he said, thoughtfully. "my advice, girls, is to print a first edition of about four hundred copies and distribute the papers free in every house within a radius of five or six miles from millville. these will be samples, and after the people have had a chance to read them you can ask them to subscribe. by the way, what will you charge for subscription?" "how much, uncle?" asked patsy, appealingly. "a penny paper is the most popular," he said, regarding her with merry, twinkling eyes. "say thirty cents a month, or three-fifty a year. that's as much as these poor people can stand." "i think so too," replied the girl, seriously. "but it seems to me a penny paper isn't dignified," pouted louise. "i had intended to print all my poems in it, and i'm sure that ought to make it worth at least five cents a copy." "that will make it worth more, my dear," commented uncle john; "but frequently one must sell property for less than it's actually worth. you must remember these people have not been used to spending much money on literature, and i imagine you'll have to coax them to spend thirty cents a month. many of the big new york papers are sold for a penny, and without any loss of dignity, either." "do you think we can make it pay on that basis, uncle?" asked beth. uncle john coughed to gain time while he thought of a suitable reply. "that, my dear," he informed his niece, "will depend upon how many subscribers you can get. subscribers and advertisers are necessary to make any paper pay." "advertisers!" "of course," said practical beth. "every merchant in millville and huntingdon will naturally advertise in our paper, and we'll make the major get us a lot from new york." "oh," said patsy; "i see. so _that_ difficulty is settled." arthur smiled, but held his peace. uncle john's round face was growing merrier every minute. "patsy, do you think we shall make any money from this venture?" asked louise. "we ought to, if we put our hearts and souls into the thing," was the reply. "but before we divide any profits we must pay back to uncle john the original investment." "we don't especially care to make any profit, do we?" inquired beth. "it's fun for us, you know, and a--a--great educational experience, and--and--a fine philanthropy--and all that. we don't need the money, so if the paper pays a profit at a cent a copy we'd better cut down the price." "don't do that yet," advised uncle john, soberly. "there will be expenses that as yet you don't suspect, and a penny for a paper is about as low as you can go." "what's to be my position on the staff, patsy?" asked beth, turning to her cousin. "you're a good mathematician, beth, so i propose you act as secretary and treasurer, and keep the books." "no; that's too mechanical; no bookkeeping for me. i want something literary." "then you can be sporting editor." "goodness, patsy! there will be no sporting news in millville." "there will be a ball game occasionally, and i saw some of the men pitching quoits yesterday. but this is to be a newspaper reflecting the excitement of the entire world, beth, and all the telegraphic news of a sporting character you must edit and arrange for our reading columns. oh, yes; and you'll take care of the religious items too. we must have a sunday sermon, by some famous preacher, uncle. we'll print that every saturday, so those who can't go to church may get as good a talk as if they did--and perhaps a better one." "that will be fine," he agreed. "how about murders, crimes and divorces?" "all barred. nothing that sends a cold chill down your back will be allowed in our paper. these people are delightfully simple; we don't want to spoil them." "cut out the cold chills and you'll spoil your newspaper," suggested arthur. "people like to read of other folks' horrors, for it makes them more contented with their own lot in life." "false philosophy, sir!" cried fatsy firmly. "you can't educate people by retailing crimes and scandals, and the _millville tribune_ is going to be as clean as a prayer book, if i'm to be managing editor." "is that to be your office, dear?" asked louise. "i think so. i've a heap of executive ability, and i'm running over with literary--eh--eh--literary discrimination. in addition to running the thing, i'll be the general news editor, because i'm better posted on newspaper business than the other girls." "how does that happen?" inquired louise, wonderingly. "why, i--i _read_ the papers more than you or beth. and i've set myself to master every detail of the business. no more crocheting or fancy work--no novel reading--no gossipy letter writing. from this day on we must attend strictly to business. if we're to become journalist, girls, we must be good ones--better than the ordinary--so that uncle john may point to us with pride, and the columns of the _millville daily tribune_ will be quoted by the new york and chicago press. only in that way can we become famous throughout the world!" "pass me the bonbons, dear," sighed louise. "it's a high ambition, isn't it?" "a very laudable ambition," added uncle john approvingly. "i hope my clever nieces will be able to accomplish it." "how about pictures?" asked beth. "modern newspapers are illustrated, and have cartoons of the leading events of the day." "can't we buy those things somewhere?" asked patsy, appealing to uncle john again. "there isn't an artist among us, of any account; and we shall be too busy to draw pictures." "we must hire an artist," said mr. merrick, adding the item to his memoranda. "i'll speak to marvin about it." all these details were beginning to bewilder the embryo journalists. it is quite possible that had not uncle john placed his order for presses and type so promptly the girls might have withdrawn from the proposition, but the die was now cast and they were too brave--perhaps too stubborn--to "back down" at this juncture. "i realize," said patsy, slowly and with a shake of her flaming head, "that we have undertaken an important venture. our new enterprise is a most serious one, girls, for there is nothing greater or grander in our advanced age than the daily newspaper; no power so tremendous as the power of the press." "yes, the press must be powerful or it wouldn't print clearly," remarked beth. "we are to become public mentors to the simple natives of chazy county," continued patsy, warming up to her subject and speaking oratorically. "we shall be the guiding star of the--er--er--the benighted citizens of millville and huntingdon. we must lead them in politics, counsel them in the management of their farms and educate them to the great world movements that are constantly occurring." "let's put all that rot in our prospectus," said louise, looking at her cousin admiringly. "can you remember it, patsy, or had i better write it down now? i like that about teaching the farmers how to run their farms; it's so practical." "you wait," said patsy unflinchingly. "i'll write 'em an editorial that will make their eyes roll. but it won't do a bit of harm for you and beth to jot down all the brilliant thoughts you run across, for the benefit of our subscribers." "we haven't any subscribers yet," remarked beth, placidly. "i'll overcome that defect," said uncle john. "i want to subscribe right now for ten copies, to be mailed to friends of mine in the city who--who need educating. i'll pay in advance and collect of my friends when i see 'em." this was certainly encouraging and patsy smiled benignantly. "i'll take five more yearly subscriptions," said arthur. "oh, but you're going to be on the staff!" cried patsy. "am i?" "certainly. i've been thinking over our organization and while it is quite proper for three girls to run paper, there ought to be a man to pose as the editor in chief. that'll be you, arthur." "but you won't print my name?" "oh, yes we shall. don't groan, sir; it's no disgrace. wait till you see the _millville tribune_. also we shall print our own names, in that case giving credit to whom credit is due. the announcement will run something like this: 'arthur weldon, general manager and editor in chief; p. doyle, general news editor; l. merrick weldon, society and literary editor; e. degraf, sporting editor, secretary and treasurer.' you see, by using our initials only, no one will ever suspect we are girls." "the millville people may," said arthur, slyly, "and perhaps the disguise will be penetrated by outsiders. that will depend on the paper." "i don't like that combination of sporting editor and secretary and treasurer," objected beth. "it isn't the usual thing in journalism, i'm sure. suppose you call me editor of special features, and let it go at that?" "have we any special features?" asked louise. "oh, yes," said arthur; "there's beth's eyebrows, patsy's nose, and--" "do be sensible!" cried patsy. "this isn't a joking matter, sir. our newspaper will have plenty of special features, and beth's suggestion is a good one. it sounds impressive. you see, arthur, we've got to use you as a figurehead, but so you won't loaf on your job i've decided to appoint you solicitor of advertising and subscriptions." "thank you, my dear," he said, grinning in an amused way. "you and louise, who still like to be together, can drive all over the county getting subscriptions, and you can write letters on our new stationery to all the big manufacturers of soaps and breakfast foods and beauty powders and to all the correspondence schools and get their advertisements for the _tribune_. if you get a good many, we may have to enlarge the paper." "don't worry, miss doyle; i'll try to keep within bounds." and so they went on, laying plans and discussing details in such an earnest way that uncle john became as enthusiastic as any of them and declared in no uncertain tone that the _millville daily tribune_ was bound to be a "howling success." after the girls had retired for the night and the men sat smoking together in uncle john's own room, arthur said: "tell me, sir, why you have encouraged this mad project." the little millionaire puffed his pipe in silence a moment. then he replied: "i'm educating my girls to be energetic and self-reliant. i want to bring out and develop every spark of latent ability there is in them. whether the _millville tribune_ succeeds or fails is not important; it will at least keep them busy for a time, along new lines, and tax their best resources of intellect and business ability. in other words, this experience is bound to do 'em good, and in that way i figure it will be worth all it costs--and more. i like the originality of the idea; i'm pleased with the difficulties i see looming ahead; i'm quite sure my girls will rise to every occasion and prove their grit." he paused to knock the ashes from his pipe. "i'm worth a lot of money, arthur," he continued, meekly, "and some day these three girls will inherit immense fortunes. it is my duty to train them in all practical business ways to take care of their property." "i follow your line of reasoning, sir," observed arthur weldon; "but this absurd journalistic venture is bound to result in heavy financial loss." "i know it, my boy. i'm sure of it. but can't you see that the lesson they will learn will render them more cautious in making future investments? i'm going to supply a complete newspaper outfit--to the last detail--and give 'em a good running start. then i shall sit back and watch results. if they lose money on running expenses, as they surely will, they'll first take it out of their allowances, then sell their jewelry, and finally come to me for help. see? the lesson will be worth while, arthur, and aside from that--think of the fun they'll have!" chapter vi mr. skeelty of the mill the next morning they drove to town again, passing slowly up the street of the little village to examine each building that might be a possible location for a newspaper office. here is a map that patsy drew of millville, which gives a fair idea of its arrangement: [illustration: village street] counting the dwellings there were exactly twelve buildings, and they all seemed occupied. when they reached the hardware store, opposite cotting's, mr. west, the proprietor, was standing on the broad platform in front of it. in many respects bob west was the most important citizen of millville. tall and gaunt, with great horn spectacles covering a pair of cold gray eyes, he was usually as reserved and silent as his neighbors were confiding and talkative. a widower of long standing, without children or near relatives, he occupied a suite of well-appointed rooms over the hardware store and took his meals at the hotel. before mr. merrick appeared on the scene west had been considered a very wealthy man, as it was known he had many interests outside of his store; but compared with the multi-millionaire old bob had come to be regarded more modestly, although still admitted to be the village's "warmest" citizen. he was an authority in the town, too, and a man of real importance. mr. merrick stopped his horse to speak with the hardware man, an old acquaintance. "west," said he, "my girls are going to start a newspaper in millville." the merchant bowed gravely, perhaps to cover the trace of a smile he was unable to repress. "it's to be a daily paper, you know," continued mr. merrick, "and it seems there's a lot of machinery in the outfit. it'll need quite a bit of room, in other words, and we're looking for a place to install it." west glanced along the street--up one side and down the other--and then shook his head negatively. "plenty of land, but no buildings," said he. "you might buy the old mill and turn it into a newspaper office. caldwell isn't making much of a living and would be glad to sell out." "it's too dusty and floury," said patsy. "we'd never get it clean, i'm sure." "what's in that shed of yours?" asked uncle john, pointing to a long, low building' that adjoined the hardware store. west turned and looked at the shed reflectively. "that is where i store my stock of farm machinery," he said. "there's very little in there now, for it's a poor season and i didn't lay in much of a supply. in fact, i'm pretty well cleaned out of all surplus stock. but next spring i shall need the place again." "good!" cried mr. merrick. "that solves our problem. has it a floor?" "yes; an excellent one; but only one small window." "we can remedy that," declared uncle john. "here's the proposition, west: let us have the shed for six months, at the end of which time we will know whether the _millville tribune_ is a success or not. if it is, we'll build a fine new building for it; if it don't seem to prosper, we'll give you back the shed. what do you say?" west thought it over. "there is room on the rear platform, for all the farm machinery i now have on hand. all right, mr. merrick; i'll move the truck out and give you possession. it won't make a bad newspaper office. but of course you are to fit up the place at your own expense." "thank you very much, sir!" exclaimed uncle john. "i'll set lon taft at work at once. where can he be found?" "playing billiards at the hotel, usually. i suppose he is there now." "very good; i'll hunt him up. what do you think of our newspaper scheme, west?" the old merchant hesitated. then he said slowly: "whatever your charming and energetic nieces undertake, sir, will doubtless be well accomplished. the typical country newspaper groans under a load of debt and seldom gets a fair show to succeed; but in this case there will be no lack of money, and--why, that settles the question, i think. money is the keystone to success." "mr. west," said louise, with dignity, "we are depending chiefly on the literary merit of our newspaper to win recognition." "of course; of course!" said he hastily. "put me down as a subscriber, please, and rely upon my support at all times. it is possible, young ladies--nay, quite probable, i should say--that your originality and genius will yet make millville famous." that speech pleased uncle john, and as the hardware merchant bowed and turned away, mr. merrick said in his cheeriest tones: "he's quite right, my dears, and we're lucky to have found such a fine, roomy place for our establishment. before we go after the carpenter to fix it up i must telephone to marvin about the things we still need." over the long-distance telephone mr. marvin reported that he had bought the required outfit and it was even then being loaded on the freight cars. "i've arranged for a special engine," he added, "and if all goes well the freight will be on the sidetrack at chazy junction on monday morning. the dealer will send down three men to set up the presses and get everything in running order. but he asks if you have arranged for your workmen. how about it, mr. merrick? have you plenty of competent printers and pressmen at millville?" "there are none at all," was the reply. "better inquire how many we will need, marvin, and send them down here. and, by the way, hire women or girls for every position they are competent to fill. this is going to be a girls' newspaper, so we'll have as few men around as possible." "i understand, sir." uncle john ordered everything he could think of and told his agent to add whatever the supply man thought might be needed. this business being accomplished, he found lon taft at the hotel and instructed the carpenter to put rows of windows on both sides of the shed and to build partitions for an editorial office and a business office at the front. this was the beginning of a busy period, especially for poor uncle john, who had many details to attend to personally. the next morning the electricians arrived and began stringing the power cables from the paper mill to the newspaper office. this rendered it necessary for mr. merrick to make a trip to royal, to complete his arrangement with mr. skeelty, the manager. he drove over with arthur weldon, in the buggy--four miles of hill climbing, over rough cobble-stones, into the pine forest. arriving there, the visitors were astonished at the extent of the plant so recently established in this practically unknown district. the great mill, where the wood pulp was made, was a building constructed from pine slabs and cobblestones, material gathered from the clearing in which it stood, but it was quite substantial and roomy. adjoining the mill was the factory building where the pulp was rolled into print paper. surrounding these huge buildings were some sixty small dwellings of the bungalow type, for the use of the workmen, built of rough boards, but neat and uniform in appearance. almost in the center of this group stood the extensive storehouse from which all necessary supplies were furnished the mill hands, the cost being deducted from their wages. the electric power plant was a building at the edge of royal waterfall, the low and persistent roar of which was scarcely drowned by the rumble of machinery. finally, at the edge of the clearing nearest the mills, stood the business office, and to this place mr. merrick and arthur at once proceeded. they found the office a busy place. three or four typewriters were clicking away, operated by sallow-faced girls, and behind a tall desk were two bookkeepers, in one of whom uncle john recognized--with mild surprise--the tramp he had encountered at chazy junction on the morning of his arrival. the young fellow had improved in appearance, having discarded his frayed gray suit for one of plain brown khaki, such as many of the workmen wore, a supply being carried by the company's store. he was clean-shaven and trim, and a gentlemanly bearing had replaced the careless, half defiant attitude of the former hobo. it was evident he remembered meeting mr. merrick, for he smiled and returned the "nabob's" nod. mr. skeelty had a private enclosed office in a corner of the room. being admitted to this sanctum, the visitors found the manager to be a small, puffy individual about forty-five years of age, with shrewd, beadlike black eyes and an insolent assumption of super-importance. skeelty interrupted his task of running up columns of impressive figures to ask his callers to be seated, and opened the interview with characteristic abruptness. "you're merrick, eh? i remember. you want to buy power, and we have it to sell. how much will you contract to take?" "i don't know just how much we need," answered uncle john. "we want enough to run a newspaper plant at millville, and will pay for whatever we use. i've ordered a meter, as you asked me to do, and my men are now stringing the cables to make the connection." "pah! a newspaper. how absurd," said mr. skeelty with scornful emphasis. "your name, merrick, is not unknown to me. it stands for financial success, i understand; but i'll bet you never made your money doing such fool things as establishing newspapers in graveyards." uncle john looked at the man attentively. "i shall refrain from criticising your conduct of this mill, mr. skeelty," he quietly observed, "nor shall i dictate what you may do with your money--provided you succeed in making any." the manager smiled broadly, as if the retort pleased him. "give an' take, sir; that's my motto," he said. "but you prefer to take?" "i do," was the cheerful reply. "i'll take your paper, for instance--if it isn't too high priced." "in case it is, we will present you with a subscription," said uncle john. "but that reminds me: as a part of our bargain i want you to allow my nieces, or any representative of the _millville tribune_, to take subscriptions among your workmen." mr. skeelty stared at him a moment. then he laughed. "they're mostly foreigners, mr. merrick, who haven't yet fully mastered the english language. but," he added, thoughtfully, "a few among them might subscribe, if your country sheet contains any news of interest at all. this is rather a lonely place for my men and they get dissatisfied at times. all workmen seem chronically dissatisfied, and their women constantly urge them to rebellion. already there are grumblings, and they claim they're buried alive in this forlorn forest. don't appreciate the advantages of country life, you see, and i've an idea they'll begin to desert, pretty soon. really, a live newspaper might do them good--especially if you print a little socialistic drivel now and then." again he devoted a moment to thought, and then continued: "tell you what i'll do, sir; i'll solicit the subscriptions myself, and deduct the price from the men's wages, as i do the cost of their other supplies. but the company gets a commission for that, of course." "it's a penny paper," said uncle john. "the subscription is only thirty cents a month." "delivered?" "i suppose so." "well, i'll pay you twenty cents, and keep the balance for commission. that's fair enough." "very well, mr. skeelty. we're after subscriptions more than money, just now. get all you can, at that rate." after signing a contract for the supply of electrical power, whereby he was outrageously robbed but the supply was guaranteed, mr. merrick and arthur returned to the farm. "that man," said louise's young husband, referring to the manager of the paper mill, "is an unmitigated scoundrel, sir." "i won't deny it," replied mr. merrick. "it occurs to me he is hiring those poor workmen at low wages and making a profit on all their living necessities, which he reserves the right of supplying from his own store. no wonder the poor fellows get dissatisfied." chapter vii the sketch artist during the next three days so many things happened at millville that the natives were in a panic of excitement. not only was electricity brought from the paper mill, but a telegraph wire was run from chazy junction to bob west's former storage shed and a telephone gang came along and placed a private wire, with long-distance connections, in the new newspaper office. the office itself became transformed--"as full o' winders as a hothouse!" exclaimed peggy mcnutt, with bulging eyes--and neat partitions were placed for the offices. there was no longer any secret as to the plans of the "nabobs"; it was generally understood that those terribly aggressive girls were going to inflict a daily paper on the community. some were glad, and some rebelled, but all were excited. a perpetual meeting was held at cotting's store to discuss developments, for something startling occurred every few minutes. "it's a outrage, this thing," commented young skim clark despondently. "they're tryin' to run mother out o' business--an' she a widder with me to look after! most o' the business at the emporium is done in newspapers an' magazines an' sich; so these gals thought they'd cut under an' take the business away from her." "can't the widder clark sell the new paper, then?" asked the blacksmith. "i dunno. hadn't thought o' that," said skim. "but the price is to be jus' one cent, an' we've ben gittin' five cents fer all the outside papers. where's the profit comin' from, on one cent, i'd like to know? why, we make two or three cents on all the five cent papers." "as fer that," remarked the druggist, "we'll get a cheap paper--if it's any good--an' that's somethin' to be thankful for." "'twon't be any good," asserted skim. "ma says so." but no one except mcnutt was prepared to agree with this prediction. the extensive plans in preparation seemed to indicate that the new paper would be fully equal to the requirements of the populace. on monday, when the news spread that two big freight cars had arrived at the junction, and nick thorne began working three teams to haul the outfit to millville, the rest of the town abandoned all business other than watching the arrival of the drays. workmen and machinists arrived from the city and began unpacking and setting up the presses, type cases and all other paraphernalia, every motion being watched by eager faces that lined the windows. these workmen were lodged at the hotel, which had never entertained so many guests at one time in all its past history. the three girls, even more excited and full of awe than the townspeople, were at the office early and late, taking note of everything installed and getting by degrees a fair idea of the extent of their new plaything. "it almost takes my breath away, uncle," said patsy. "you've given the _tribune_ such a splendid start that we must hustle to make good and prove we are worthy your generosity." "i sat up last night and wrote a poem for the first page of the first number," announced louise earnestly. "poems don't go on the first page," observed patsy; "but they're needed to fill in with. what's it about, dear?" "it's called 'ode to a mignonette,'" answered louise. "it begins this way: "wee brown blossom, humble and sweet, content on my bosom lying, who would guess from your quiet dress the beauty there is lying under the rust?" "hm," said patsy, "i don't see as there's any beauty under the rust, at all. there's no beauty about a mignonette, anyhow, suspected or unsuspected." "she means 'fragrance,'" suggested beth. "change it to: 'the fragrance there is lying under the rust.' that'll fix it all right, louise." "it doesn't seem right, even then," remarked uncle john. "if the fragrance lies under the rust, it can't be smelt, can it?" "i did not anticipate all this criticism," said louise, with an air of injured dignity. "none of the big publishing houses that returned my poems ever said anything mean about them; they merely said they were 'not available.' however, as this poem has not made a hit with the managing editor, i'll tear it up and write another." "don't do that," begged patsy. "save it for emergencies. we've got to fill twenty-four columns every day, remember!" by wednesday night the equipment was fully installed and the workmen departed, leaving only jim mcgaffey, an experienced pressman, and lawrence doane--familiarly called larry--who was to attend to the electrotyping and "make-up." the press was of the best modern construction, and folded, cut and counted the papers automatically, with a capacity for printing three thousand copies an hour. "and at that rate," observed patsy, "it will run off our regular edition in eight minutes." aside from the newspaper press there were two "job" presses and an assortment of type for printing anything that might be required, from a calling card to a circus poster. a third man, who came from the city thursday morning, was to take charge of the job printing and assist in the newspaper work. three girls also arrived, pale-faced, sad-eyed creatures, who were expert typesetters. uncle john arranged with mrs. kebble, the landlady at the hotel, to board all the "help" at moderate charge. it had been decided, after much consultation, to make the _tribune_ a morning paper. at first it was feared this would result in keeping the girls up nights, but it was finally arranged that all the copy they furnished would be turned in by nine o'clock, and miss briggs, the telegraph editor, would attend to anything further that came in over the wires. the advantages of a morning edition were obvious. "you'll have all day to distribute a morning paper," arthur pointed out, "whereas an evening paper couldn't get to your scattered subscribers until the next morning." miss briggs, upon whom they were to rely so greatly, proved to be a woman of tremendous energy and undoubted ability. she was thirty-five years of age and had been engaged in newspaper work ever since she was eighteen. bright and cheerful, of even temper and shrewd comprehension, miss briggs listened to the eager explanations of the three girls who had undertaken this queer venture, and assured them she would assist in making a newspaper that would be a credit to them all. she understood clearly the conditions; that inexperience was backed by ample capital and unpractical ideas by unlimited enthusiasm. "this job may not last long," she told herself, "but while it does it will be mighty amusing. i shall enjoy these weeks in a quiet country town after the bustle of the big city." so here were seven regular employees of the _millville daily tribune_ already secured and the eighth was shortly to appear. preparations were well under way for a first edition on the fourth of july and the office was beginning to hum with work, when one afternoon a girl strolled in and asked in a tired voice for the managing editor. she was admitted to patsy's private room, where beth and louise were also sitting, and they looked upon their visitor in undisguised astonishment. she was young: perhaps not over twenty years of age. her face bore marks of considerable dissipation and there was a broad scar underneath her right eye. her hair was thin, straggling and tow-colored; her eyes large, deep-set and of a faded blue. the girl's dress was as queer and untidy as her personal appearance, for she wore a brown tailored coat, a short skirt and long, buttoned leggings. a round cap of the same material as her dress was set jauntily on the back of her head, and over her shoulder was slung a fiat satchel of worn leather. there was little that was feminine and less that was attractive about the young woman, and patsy eyed her with distinct disfavor. "tommy sent me here," said the newcomer, sinking wearily into a chair. "i'm hired for a month, on good behavior, with a chance to stay on if i conduct myself in a ladylike manner. i've been working on the _herald_, you know; but there was no end of a row last week, and they fired me bodily. any booze for sale in this town?" "it is a temperance community," answered patsy, stiffly. "hooray for me. there's a chance i'll keep sober. in that case you've acquired the best sketch artist in america." "oh! are you the artist, then?" asked patsy, with doubtful intonation. "i don't like the word. i'm not a real artist--just a cartoonist and newspaper hack. say, it's funny to see me in this jungle, isn't it? what joy i'll have in astonishing the natives! i s'pose a picture's a picture, to them, and art an impenetrable mystery. what sort of stuff do you want me to turn out?" "i--i'm not sure you'll do," said miss doyle, desperately. "i--we--that is--we are three quite respectable young women who have under-taken to edit the _millville daily tribune_, and the people we have secured to assist us are all--all quite desirable, in their way. so--; ahem!--so--" "that's all right," remarked the artist composedly. "i don't know that i blame you. i can see very well the atmosphere is not my atmosphere. when is the next train back to new york?" "at four o'clock, i believe." "i'll engage a nice upholstered seat in the smoking car. but i've several hours to loaf, and loafing is my best stunt. isn't this a queer start for girls like you?" looking around the "den" critically. "i wonder how you got the bug, and what'll come of it. it's so funny to see a newspaper office where everything is brand new, and--eminently respectable. do you mind my lighting a cigarette? this sort of a deal is quite interesting to an old-timer like me; but perhaps i owe you an apology for intruding. i had a letter from tommy and one from a big banker--marvin, i guess his name is." she drew two letters from her satchel and tossed them on the desk before patsy. "they're no good to me now," she added. "where's your waste basket?" the managing editor, feeling embarrassed by the presence of the artist, opened the letters. the first was from mr. marvin, uncle john's banker, saying: "after much negotiation i have secured for you the best newspaper illustrator in new york, and a girl, too, which is an added satisfaction. for months i have admired the cartoons signed 'het' in the new york papers, for they were essentially clever and droll. miss hewitt is highly recommended but like most successful artists is not always to be relied upon. i'm told if you can manage to win her confidence she will be very loyal to you." the other letter was from the editor of a great new york journal. "in giving you hetty," he said, "i am parting with one of our strongest attractions, but in this big city the poor girl is rapidly drifting to perdition and i want to save her, if possible, before it is too late. she has a sweet, lovable nature, a generous heart and a keen intellect, but these have been so degraded by drink and dissipation that you may not readily discover them. my idea is that in a country town, away from all disreputable companionship, the child may find herself, and come to her own again. be patient with her and help her all you can. her wonderful talent will well repay you, even if you are not interested in saving one of god's creatures." silently patsy passed the letters to beth and louise. after reading them there was a new expression on the faces they turned toward hetty hewitt. "forgive me," said patsy, abruptly. "i--i think i misjudged you. i was wrong in saying what i did." "no; you were quite right." she sat with downcast eyes a moment, musing deeply. then she looked up with a smile that quite glorified her wan face. "i'd like to stay, you know," she said humbly. "i'm facing a crisis, just now, and on the whole i'd rather straighten up. if you feel like giving me a chance i--i'd like to see if i've any reserve force or whether the decency in me has all evaporated." "we'll try you; and i'm sure you have lots of reserve force, hetty," cried patsy, jumping up impulsively to take the artist's soiled, thin hand in her own. "come with me to the hotel and i'll get you a room. where is your baggage?" "didn't bring it. i wasn't sure i'd like the country, or that you'd care to trust me. in new york they know me for what i'm worth, and i get lots of work and good advice--mixed with curses." "we'll send for your trunk," said patsy, leading the girl up the street. "no; it's in hock. but i won't need it. with no booze to buy i can invest my earnings in wearing apparel. what a picturesque place this is! way back in the primitive; no hint of those namby-pamby green meadows and set rows of shade trees that make most country towns detestable; rocks and boulders--boulders and rocks--and the scraggly pines for background. the wee brook has gone crazy. what do you call it?" "little bill creek." "i'm going to stab it with my pencil. where it bumps the rocks it's obstinate and pig-headed; where it leaps the little shelves of slate it's merry and playful; where it sweeps silently between the curving banks it is sulky and resentful. the little bill has moods, bless its heart! moods betoken character." patsy secured for hetty a pleasant room facing the creek. "where will you work, at the office or here?" she asked. "in the open, i guess. i'll run over the telegraph news to get a subject for the day's cartoon, and then take to the woods. let me know what other pictures you want and i'll do 'em on the run. i'm a beast to work." arthur weldon, in his capacity as advertising manager, wrote to all the national advertisers asking their patronage for the _millville daily tribune_. the letters were typewritten by the office stenographer on newly printed letterheads that fitzgerald, the job printer, had prepared. some of the advertisers were interested enough in arthur's novel proposition to reply with questions as to the circulation of the new paper, where it was distributed, and the advertising rates. the voting man answered frankly that they had subscribers already and were going to distribute free copies every day, for a time, as samples, with the hope of increasing the subscription list. "i am not sure you will derive any benefit at all from advertising in our paper," he added; "but we would like to have you try it, and you can pay us whatever you consider the results warrant." to his astonishment the advertisements arrived, a great many from very prominent firms, who accepted his proposal with amusement at his originality and a desire to help the new venture along. "our square statement of facts has given us a good start," he told the girls. "i'm really amazed at our success, and it's up to you to make a paper that will circulate and make trade for these trustful advertisers." with the local merchants the results were less satisfying. bob west put in a card advertising his hardware business and nib corkins cautiously invested a half dollar to promote his drug store and stock of tarnished cheap jewelry; but sam cotting said everybody knew what he had for sale and advertising wouldn't help him any. arthur drove to huntingdon with louise and while the society editor picked up items her husband interviewed the merchants. the huntingdon people were more interested in the new paper than the millville folk, and arthur quoted such low prices that several advertisements were secured. two bright boys of this thriving village were also employed to ride over to millville each morning, get a supply of _tribunes_ and distribute a sample copy to every house in the neighborhood. "fitz" set up the "ads" in impressive type and the columns of the first edition began to fill up days before the fourth of july arrived. louise had a story and two poems set in type and read over the proofs dozens of times with much pride and satisfaction, while beth prepared an article on the history of baseball and the probable future of our national game. they did not see much of their artist during the first days following her arrival, but one afternoon she brought patsy a sketch and asked: "who is this?" patsy glanced at it and laughed gleefully. it was peggy mcnutt, the fish-eyed pooh-bah of millville, who was represented sitting on his front porch engaged in painting his wooden foot. this was one of mcnutt's recognized amusements. he kept a supply of paints of many colors, and every few days appeared with his rudely carved wooden foot glistening with a new coat of paint and elaborately striped. sometimes it would be blue with yellow stripes, then green with red stripes, and anon a lovely pink decorated with purple. one drawback to peggy's delight in these transformations was the fact that it took the paint a night and a day to dry thoroughly, and during this period of waiting he would sit upon his porch with the wooden foot tenderly resting upon the rail--a helpless prisoner. "some folks," he would say, "likes pretty neckties; an' some wears fancy socks; but fer my part i'd ruther show a han'some foot ner anything. it don't cost as much as wearin' socks an' neckties, an' it's more artistic like." hetty had caught the village character in the act of striping the wooden foot, and his expression of intense interest in the operation was so original, and the likeness so perfect, from the string suspenders and flannel shirt to the antiquated straw hat and faded and patched overalls, that no one would be likely to mistake the subject. the sketch was entitled "the village artist," and patsy declared they would run it on an inside page, just to make the millville people aware of the "power of the press." larry made an etching of it and mounted the plate for a double column picture. the original sketch patsy decided to have framed and to hang it in her office. chapter viii the millville daily tribune the first edition of the _millville daily tribune_ certainly proved it to be a wonderful newspaper. the telegraphic news of the world's doings, received and edited by the skillful miss briggs, was equal to that of any metropolitan journal; the first page cartoon, referring to the outbreak of a rebellion in china, was clever and humorous enough to delight anyone; but the local news and "literary page" were woefully amateurish and smacked of the schoolgirl editors who had prepared them. perhaps the chazy county people did not recognize these deficiencies, for the new paper certainly created a vast amount of excitement and won the praise of nearly all who read it. on the eventful night of the _tribune's_ "first run" our girls were too eager to go home and await its appearance, so they remained at the office to see the birth of their enterprise, and as it was the night preceding the fourth of july uncle john gave an exhibition of fireworks in front of the newspaper office, to the delight of the entire population. the girl journalists, however, were not so greatly interested in fireworks as in the birth of their fascinating enterprise. wearing long gingham aprons they hovered over the big table where the forms were being locked up, and watched anxiously every movement of the workmen. it was exceedingly interesting to note how a column of the first page was left open until the last, so that copy "hot from the wire" of the very latest news might be added before going to press. finally, at exactly two o'clock, the forms were locked, placed upon the bed of the press, and mcgaffey, a sour-faced individual whose chief recommendation was his ability as a pressman, began to make ready for the "run." outside the brilliantly lighted windows, which were left open for air, congregated a wondering group of the millville people, many of whom had never been up so late before in all their lives. but the event was too important to miss. the huge, complicated press had already inspired their awe, and they were eager to "see it work" as it printed the new paper. the girls tolerated this native curiosity with indulgent good humor and at midnight even passed out sandwiches to the crowd, a supply having been secured for the workmen. these were accepted silently, and as they munched the food all kept their eyes fixed upon the magicians within. there was a hitch somewhere; mcgaffey muttered naughty words under his breath and plied wrenches and screwdrivers in a way that brought a thrill of anxiety, approaching fear, to every heart. the press started half a dozen times, only to be shut down abruptly before it had printed a single impression. mcgaffey counseled with larry, who shook his head. fitzgerald, the job printer, examined the machinery carefully and again mcgaffey screwed nuts and regulated the press. then he turned on the power; the big cylinder revolved; the white paper reeled out like a long ribbon and with a rattle and thump the first copy of the _millville daily tribune_ was deposited, cut and folded, upon the table placed to receive it. patsy made a rush for it, but before she could reach the table half a dozen more papers had been piled above it, and gathering speed the great press hummed busily and the pile of _tribunes_ grew as if by magic. patsy grabbed the first dozen and handed them to beth, for they were to be reserved as souvenirs. then, running back to the table, she seized a bunch and began distributing them to the watchers outside the window. the natives accepted them eagerly enough, but could not withdraw their eyes from the marvelous press, which seemed to possess intelligence almost human. each of the three girl journalists now had a copy in hand, scanning it with boundless pride and satisfaction. it realized completely their fondest hopes and they had good cause to rejoice. then uncle john, who ought to have been in bed and sound asleep at this uncanny hour of night, came bouncing in, accompanied by arthur weldon. each made a dive for a paper and each face wore an expression of genuine delight. the roar of the press made conversation difficult, but mr. merrick caught his nieces in his arms, by turn, and gave each one an ecstatic hug and kiss. suddenly the press stopped. "what's wrong, mcgaffey?" demanded patsy, anxiously. "nothing, miss. edition off, that's all." "what! the entire four hundred are printed?" "four twenty-five. i run a few extrys." and now a shriek of laughter came from the windows as the villagers, slowly opening the papers they held, came upon the caricature of peggy mcnutt. the subject of the cartoon had, with his usual aggressiveness, secured the best "standing room" available, and his contemplative, protruding eyes were yet fixed upon the interior of the workroom. but now, his curiosity aroused, he looked at the paper to see what his neighbors were laughing at, and his expression of wonder slowly changed to a broad grin. he straightened up, looked triumphantly around the circle and exclaimed: "by gum, folks, this 'ere paper's going to be a go! i didn't take no stock in it till now, but them fool gals seem to know their business, an' i'll back 'em to the last ditch!" chapter ix trouble of course the girls exhausted their store of "effusions" on the first two or three papers. a daily eats up "copy" very fast and the need to supply so much material began to bewilder the budding journalists. there was not sufficient local news to keep them going, but fortunately the new york news service supplied more general news than they could possibly use, and, besides, mr. marvin, foreseeing this dilemma, had sent on several long, stout boxes filled with "plate matter," which meant that a variety of stories, poems, special articles and paragraphs of every sort had been made into stereotyped plates of column width which could be placed anywhere in the paper where a space needed to be filled. this material, having been prepared by skilled writers, was of excellent character, so that the paper gained in its class of contents as the girlish contributions began to be replaced by "plates." the nieces did not abandon writing, however, and all three worked sedulously to prepare copy so that at least one column of the tribune each day was filled with notes from their pens. subscriptions came in freely during those first days, for farmers and villagers alike were proud of their local daily and the price was so low that no one begrudged the investment. but uncle john well knew that if every individual in the county subscribed, and the advertising patronage doubled, the income would fall far short of running expenses. saturday night, when the pay roll had to be met, the girls consulted together seriously. in spite of the new subscriptions received, a deficiency must be supplied, and they quietly advanced the money from their private purses. this was no great hardship, for each had an ample allowance from uncle john, as well as an income from property owned in her own name. "it's only about thirty dollars apiece," said patsy. "i guess we can stand that until--until more money begins coming in." on saturday evening there was an invasion of workmen from royal, many of whom we're rough foreigners who came to millville in search of excitement, as a relief from their week's confinement at the pine woods settlement at the mill. skeelty, who thought he knew how to manage these people, allowed every man, at the close of work on saturday, to purchase a pint of whiskey from the company store, charging an exorbitant price that netted a huge profit. there was no strong drink to be had at millville, so the workmen brought their bottles to town, carousing on the way, and thought it amusing to frighten the simple inhabitants of the village by their rude shouts and ribald songs. this annoyance had occurred several times since the establishment of the mill, and bob west had protested vigorously to mr. skeelty for giving his men whiskey and turning them loose in a respectable community; but the manager merely grinned and said he must keep "the boys" satisfied at all hazards, and it was the business of the millville people to protect themselves if the workmen became too boisterous. on this saturday evening the girls were standing on the sidewalk outside the printing office, awaiting the arrival of arthur with the surrey, when a group of the royal workmen appeared in the dim light, swaggering three abreast and indulging in offensive language. uncle john's nieces withdrew to the protection of the doorway, but a big bearded fellow in a red shirt discovered them, and, lurching forward, pushed his evil countenance in patsy's face, calling to his fellows in harsh tones that he had "found a partner for a dance." an instant later he received a swinging blow above the ear that sent him sprawling at full length upon the sidewalk, and a quiet voice said: "pardon me, ladies; it seemed necessary." all three at once recognized the supposed tramp whom they had seen the morning of their arrival, but whom uncle john had reported to be one of the bookkeepers at the paper mill. the young fellow had no time to say more, for the downfall of their comrade brought a shout of rage from the group of workmen, numbering nearly a dozen, and with one accord they rushed upon the man who had dared champion the defenseless girls. beth managed to open the door of the office, through which patsy and louise slipped instantly, but the younger girl, always cool in emergencies, held the door ajar while she cried to the young man: "quick, sir--come inside!" really, he had no time to obey, just then. with his back to the door he drove his fists at his assailants in a dogged, persistent way that felled three more of them before the others drew away from his stalwart bows. by that time larry and fitzgerald, who had been summoned by louise, rushed from the office armed with iron bars caught up at random, both eager for a fight. the workmen, seeing the reinforcements, beat a retreat, carrying their sadly pommeled comrades with them, but their insulting language was not restricted until they had passed out of hearing. then the young man turned, bowed gravely to the girls, who had now ventured forth again, and without waiting to receive their thanks marched calmly down the street. when arthur reached home with the girls, mr. merrick was very indignant at his report of the adventure. he denounced skeelty in unmeasured terms and declared he would find a way to protect millville from further invasion by these rough and drunken workmen. there was no sunday paper, so the girlish editors found the morrow a veritable day of rest. they all drove to hooker's falls to church and returned to find that old nora had prepared a fine chicken dinner for them. patsy had invited hetty hewitt, in whom she was now greatly interested, to dine with them, and to the astonishment of all the artist walked over to the farm arrayed in a new gown, having discarded the disreputable costume in which she had formerly appeared. the new dress was not in the best of taste and its loud checks made dainty louise shudder, but somehow hetty seemed far more feminine than before, and she had, moreover, washed herself carefully and tried to arrange her rebellious hair. "this place is doing me good," she confided to her girl employers, after dinner, when they were seated in a group upon the lawn. "i'm getting over my nervousness, and although i haven't drank a drop stronger than water since i arrived. i feel a new sort of energy coursing through my veins. also i eat like a trooper--not at night, as i used to, but at regular mealtime. and i'm behaving quite like a lady. do you know, i wouldn't be surprised to find it just as amusing to be respectable as to--to be--the other thing?" "you will find it far more satisfactory, i'm sure," replied patsy encouragingly. "what most surprises me is that with your talent and education you ever got into such bad ways." "environment," said hetty. "that's what did it. when i first went to new york i was very young. a newspaper man took me out to dinner and asked me to have a cocktail. i looked around the tables and saw other girls drinking cocktails, so i took one. that was where i turned into the rocky road. people get careless around the newspaper offices. they work under a constant nervous strain and find that drink steadies them--for a time. by and by they disappear; others take their places, and they are never heard of again except in the police courts. i knew a girl, society editor of a big paper, who drew her five thousand a year, at one time. she got the cocktail habit and a week or so ago i paid her fine for getting pinched while intoxicated. she was in rags and hadn't a red cent. that set me thinking, and when tommy fired me from his paper and said the best he could do was to get me a job in the country, it seemed as if my chance to turn over a new leaf had arrived. i've turned it," she added, with a pathetic sigh; "but whether it'll stay turned, or not, is a question for the puzzle page." "haven't you a family to look after you--or for you to look after?" asked beth. "no. brother and i were left orphans in a connecticut town, and he went out west, to chicago, and promised to send for me. must have forgot that promise, i guess, for i've never heard of dan since. i could draw pictures, so i went to new york and found a job. guess that's my biography, and it isn't as interesting as one of hearst's editorials, either." hetty seemed pleased and grateful to note the frank friendliness of her girlish employers, in whom she recognized the admirable qualities she had personally sacrificed for a life of dissipation. in the privacy of her room at the hotel she had read the first copy of the millville tribune and shrieked with laughter at the ingenuous editorials and schoolgirl essays. then she grew sober and thoughtful, envying in her heart the sweetness and simplicity so apparent in every line. here were girls who possessed something infinitely higher than journalistic acumen; they were true women, with genuine womanly qualities and natures that betrayed their worth at a glance, as do ingots of refined gold. what would not this waif from the grim underworld of new york have given for such clear eyes, pure mind and unsullied heart? "i don't know as i can ever swim in their pond," hetty reflected, with honest regret, "but there's a chance i can look folks square in the eye again--and that wouldn't be so bad." monday morning, when patsy, louise and beth drove to their office, miss briggs said nonchalantly: "mcgaffey's gone." "gone! gone where?" asked patsy. "back to new york. caught a freight from the junction saturday night." "isn't he coming back?" inquired beth. "here's a letter he left," said miss briggs. they read it together. it was very brief; "climate don't suit me. no excitement. i've quit. mcgaffey." "i suppose," said patsy, with indignation, "he intended to go, all the while, and only waited for his saturday pay." miss briggs nodded. she was at the telegraph instrument. "what shall we do?" asked louise. "can anyone else work the press?" "i'll find out," said patsy, marching into the workroom. neither fitz nor larry would undertake to run the press. they said the machine was so complicated it required an expert, and unless an experienced pressman could be secured the paper must suspend publication. here was an unexpected dilemma; one that for a time dazed them. "these things always happen in the newspaper business," remarked miss briggs, when appealed to. "can't you telegraph to new york for another pressman?" "yes; but he can't get here in time," said patsy. "there's no monday train to chazy junction, at all, and it would be wednesday morning before a man could possibly arrive. to shut down the paper would ruin it, for everyone would think we had failed in our attempt and it might take us weeks to regain public confidence." "i know," said miss briggs, composedly. "a paper never stops. somehow or other it always keeps going--even if the world turns somersaults and stands on its head. you'll find a way, i'm sure." but the bewildered girls had no such confidence. they drove back to the farm to consult with uncle john and arthur. "let's take a look at that press, my dears," said mr. merrick. "i'm something of a mechanic myself, or was in my young days, and i may be able to work this thing until we can get a new pressman." "i'll help you," said arthur. "anyone who can run an automobile ought to be able to manage a printing press." so they went to the office, took off their coats and examined the press; but the big machine defied their combined intelligence. uncle john turned on the power. the cylinder groaned, swung half around, and then the huge wooden "nippers" came down upon the table with a force that shattered them to kindlings. at the crash mr. merrick involuntarily shut down the machine, and then they all stood around and looked gloomily at the smash-up and wondered if the damage was irreparable. "couldn't we print the paper on the job press?" asked the little millionaire, turning to fitzgerald. "in sections, sir," replied fitz, grinning. "half a page at a time is all we can manage, but we might be able to match margins so the thing could be read." "we'll try it," said uncle john. "do your best, my man, and if you can help us out of this bog you shall be amply rewarded." fitz looked grave. "never knew of such a thing being done, sir," he remarked; "but that's no reason it's impossible." "'twill be a horror of a make-up," added larry, who did not relish his part in the experiment. uncle john put on his coat and went into the front office, followed by arthur and the girls in dismal procession. "a man to see the manager," announced miss briggs, nodding toward a quiet figure seated on the "waiting bench." the man stood up and bowed. it was the young bookkeeper from the paper mill, who had so bravely defended the girls on saturday night. uncle john regarded him with a frown. "i suppose skeelty has sent you to apologize," he said. "no, sir; skeelty is not in an apologetic mood," replied the man, smiling. "he has fired me." "what for?" "interfering with his workmen. the boys didn't like what i did the other night and threatened to strike unless i was put in the discard." "and now? asked uncle john, looking curiously at the man. "i'm out of work and would like a job, sir." "what can you do?" "anything." "that means nothing at all." "i beg your pardon. let me say that i'm not afraid to tackle anything." "can you run a power printing press?" "yes, sir." "ever had any experience?" the young man hesitated. "i'm not sure," he replied slowly; "but i think i have." this statement would not have been encouraging under ordinary circumstances, but in this emergency uncle john accepted it. "what is your name?" he asked. another moment's hesitation. "call me smith, please." "first name?" the man smiled. "thursday," he said. all his hearers seemed astonished at this peculiar name, but mr. merrick said abruptly: "follow me, thursday smith." the man obeyed, and the girls and arthur trotted after them back to the pressroom. "our pressman has deserted us without warning," explained mr. merrick. "none of our other employees is able to run the thing. if you can master it so as to run off the paper tonight, the job is yours." thursday smith took off his jacket--a cheap khaki affair--and rolled up his sleeves. then he carefully looked over the press and found the damaged nippers. without a word he picked up a wrench, released the stub ends of the broken fingers, gathered the pieces in his hand and asked: "where is there a carpenter shop?" "can you operate this press?" asked mr. merrick. "yes, sir." "the carpenter shop is a little shanty back of the hotel. you'll find lon taft there." smith walked away, and mr. merrick drew a long breath of relief. "that's good luck," he said. "you may quit worrying, now, my dears." "are you sure he's a good pressman, uncle?" "no; but _he_ is sure. i've an idea he wouldn't attempt the thing, otherwise." mr. merrick returned to the farm, while arthur drove louise over to huntingdon to gather items for the paper, and patsy and beth sat in the office arranging copy. in an hour smith came back with new nippers, which he fitted to the steel frame. then he oiled the press, started it going a few revolutions, to test its condition, and handled the machinery so dexterously and with such evident confidence that larry nodded to fitz and muttered, "he'll do." mcgaffey, knowing he was about to decamp, had not kept the press very clean; but thursday smith put in the afternoon and evening removing grease, polishing and rubbing, until the huge machine shone resplendent. the girls went home at dinner time, but they sent arthur to the office at midnight to see if the new pressman was proving capable. the tuesday morning _tribune_ greeted them at the breakfast table, and the presswork was remarkably clean and distinct. chapter x thursday smith in a day or so mr. merrick received a letter from mr. skeelty, the manager of the paper mill. he said: "i understand you have employed one of my discharged workmen, who is named thursday smith. my men don't want him in this neighborhood, and have made a strong protest. i therefore desire you to discharge the fellow at once, and in case you refuse to accede to this reasonable demand i shall shut off your power." mr. merrick replied: "shut off the power and i'll sue you for damages. my contract with you fully protects me. permit me a request in turn: that you mind your own business. the _millville tribune_ will employ whomsoever it chooses." uncle john said nothing to the girls concerning this correspondence, nor did he mention it to the new pressman. on wednesday larry and fitz sent in their "resignations," to take effect saturday night. they told patsy, who promptly interviewed them, that the town was altogether too slow for men accustomed to the city, but to smith they admitted they feared trouble from the men at the mill. "i talked with one of the mill hands last night," said larry, "and they're up to mischief. if you stay here, my boy, you'd better watch out, for it's you they're after, in the first place, and skeelty has told 'em he wouldn't be annoyed if they wiped out the whole newspaper plant at the same time." thursday nodded but said nothing. he began watching the work of the two men with comprehensive care. when mr. merrick came down to the office during the forenoon to consult with his nieces about replacing the two men who had resigned, smith asked him for a private interview. "come into the office," said uncle john. when the man found the three girl journalists present he hesitated, but mr. merrick declared they were the ones most interested in anything an employee of the paper might have to say to his principals. "i am told, sir," thursday began, "that the people at the mill have boycotted this paper." "they've cancelled all their subscriptions," replied beth; "but as they had not paid for them it won't hurt us any." "it seems the trouble started through your employing me," resumed the young man; "so it will be best for you to let me go." "never!" cried mr. merrick, firmly. "do you suppose i'll allow that rascal skeelty to dictate to us for a single minute? not by a jug full! and the reason the men dislike you is because you pounded some of them unmercifully when they annoyed my girls. where did you learn to use your fists so cleverly, smith?" "i don't know, sir." "well, you have earned our gratitude, and we're going to stand by you. i don't mind a bit of a row, when i'm on the right side of an argument. do you?" "not at all, sir; but the young ladies--" "they're pretty good fighters, too; so don't worry." thursday was silent a moment. then he said: "fitzgerald and doane tell me they're going to quit, saturday." "it is true," replied patsy. "i'm sorry, for they seem good men and we may have trouble replacing them." "they are not needed here, miss doyle," said smith. "there isn't a great deal of electrotyping to do, or much job printing. more than half the time the two men are idle. it's the same way with my own job. three hours a day will take care of the press and make the regular run. if you will permit me, i am sure i can attend to all the work, unaided." they looked at one another in amazement. "how about the make-up?" asked uncle john. "i can manage that easily, sir. i've been watching the operation and understand it perfectly." "and you believe you can do the work of three men?" "three men were unnecessary in a small plant like this, sir. whoever sent them to you did not understand very well your requirements. i've been watching the compositors, too, and your three girls are one too many. two are sisters, and can set all the type very easily. i recommend that you send the other back to new york." they considered this advice seriously. "i think mr. smith is right," observed patsy. "the girls have not seemed busy, at all, and spend most of their time laughing and talking together." "it will cut down expenses a lot," said beth, "and i'm sure we ought to be able to run this paper more economically than we have been doing." uncle john looked at the man thoughtfully. "where did you learn the printing business?" he asked. "i--i don't know, sir." "what offices have you worked in?" "i cannot tell you that, sir." "you seem to answer all my questions with the statement that you 'don't know,'" asserted mr. merrick, with an annoyed frown. "is there any reason you should refuse to tell us of your former life?" "none whatever, sir." "who are you, smith?" "i--i don't know, sir." mr. merrick was getting provoked. "this obstinacy is not likely to win our confidence," he said. "under the circumstances i think we ought to know something more about you, before we allow you to undertake so much responsibility. you seem a bright, able young man, and i've no doubt you understand the work you're about to undertake, but if we have no knowledge of your antecedents you may cause us considerable future trouble." smith bowed his head and his cheeks flamed red. "i have no knowledge of my antecedents to confide to you, sir," he said in a low voice. uncle john sighed regretfully and turned away, but patsy looked at the man with new interest. "won't you please explain that a little more fully?" she gently inquired. "i am quite willing to tell all i know," said he; "but that is very little, i assure you. two years ago last may, on the morning of thursday, the twenty-second, i awoke to find myself lying in a ditch beside a road. of my life previous to that time i have no knowledge whatever." the three girls regarded him with startled eyes. uncle john turned from the window to examine the young man with new interest. "were you injured?" he asked. "my right ankle was sprained and i had a cut under my left eye--you can see the scar still." "you have no idea how you came there?" "not the slightest. i did not recognize the surrounding country; i had no clear impression as to who i was. there was a farmhouse a quarter of a mile away; i limped to it and they gave me some breakfast. i found i was fifty-six miles from new york. the farmer had heard of no accident; there was no railway nearer than six miles; the highway was little used. i told the good people my story and they suspected me of being drunk or crazy, but did not credit a single word i said." "that was but natural," said uncle john. "after breakfast i took stock of myself. in my pockets i found a twenty-dollar bill and some silver. i wore a watch and chain and a ring set with a good-sized diamond. my clothing seemed good, but the ditch had soiled it. i had no hat, nor could the farmer find one when i sent him back to look for it. my mind was not wholly a blank; i seemed to have a fair knowledge of life, and when the farmer mentioned new york the city seemed familiar to me. but in regard to myself, my past history--even my name--i was totally ignorant. all personal consciousness dated from the moment i woke up in the ditch." "how wonderful!" exclaimed louise. "and you haven't solved the mystery yet, after two years?" asked patsy. "no, miss doyle. i hired the farmer to drive me to the railway station, where i took the train to new york. i seemed to know the city, but no recollection guided me to home or friends. i went to a small hotel, took a room, and began to read all the newspapers, seeking to discover if anyone was reported missing. the sight of automobiles led me to conceive the theory that i had been riding in one of those machines along a country road when something threw me out. my head might have struck a stump or stone and the blow rendered me insensible. something in the nature of the thing, or in my physical condition, deprived me of all knowledge of the past. since then i have read of several similar cases. the curious thing about my own experience was that i could find no reference to my disappearance, in any way, nor could i learn of any automobile accident that might account for it. i walked the streets day after day, hoping some acquaintance would accost me. i waited patiently for some impulse to direct me to my former haunts. i searched the newspapers persistently for a clue; but nothing rewarded me. "after spending all my money and the proceeds of my watch and diamond, i began to seek employment; but no one would employ a man without recommendations or antecedents. i did not know what work i was capable of doing. so finally i left the city and for more than two years i have been wandering from one part of the country to another, hoping that some day i would recognize a familiar spot. i have done odd jobs, at times, but my fortunes went from bad to worse until of late i have become no better than the typical tramp." "how did you secure employment as a book-keeper for skeelty?" asked uncle john. "i heard a new mill had started at royal and walked up there to inquire for work. the manager asked if i could keep books, and i said yes." "have you ever kept books before?" "not that i know of; but i did it very well. i seemed to comprehend the work at once, and needed no instruction. often during these two years i have encountered similar curious conditions. i sold goods in a store and seemed to know the stocks; i worked two weeks in a telegraph office and discovered i knew the code perfectly; i've shod horses for a country blacksmith, wired a house for electric lights and compounded prescriptions in a drug store. whatever i have undertaken to do i seem able to accomplish, and so it is hard for me to guess what profession i followed before my memory deserted me." "you did not retain any position for long, it seems," remarked uncle john. "no; i was always impatient to move on, always hoping to arrive at some place so familiar that my lost memory would return to me. the work i have mentioned was nearly all secured during the first year. after i became seedy and disreputable in appearance people were more apt to suspect me and work was harder to obtain." "why did you come to millville?" asked louise. "you brought me here," he answered, with a smile. "i caught a ride on your private car, when it left new york, not caring much where it might take me. when i woke up the next morning the car was sidetracked at chazy junction, and as this is a section i have never before explored i decided to stay here for a time. that is all of my story, i believe." "quite remarkable!" declared mr. merrick, emphatically. the girls, too, had been intensely interested in the strange recital. "you seem educated," said patsy thoughtfully; "therefore you must have come from a good family." "that does not seem conclusive," replied thursday smith, deprecatingly, "although i naturally hope my family was respectable. i have been inclined to resent the fact that none of my friends or relatives has ever inquired what became of me." "are you sure they have not?" "i have watched the papers carefully. in two years i have followed several clues. a bricklayer disappeared, but his drowned body was finally found; a college professor was missing, but he was sixty years of age; a young man in new york embezzled a large sum and hid himself. i followed that trail, although regretfully, but the real embezzler was caught the day i presented myself in his place. perhaps the most curious experience was in the case of a young husband who deserted his wife and infant child. she advertised for him; he had disappeared about the time i had found myself; so i went to see her." "what was the result?" asked beth. "she said i was not her husband, but if he failed to come back i might take his place, provided i would guarantee to support her." during the laugh that followed, thursday smith went back to his work and an animated discussion concerning his strange story followed. "he seems honest," said louise, "but i blame a man of his ability for becoming a mere tramp. he ought to have asserted himself and maintained the position in which he first found himself." "how?" inquired patsy. "at that time he was well dressed and had a watch and diamond ring. if he had gone to some one and frankly told his story he could surely have obtained a position to correspond with his personality. but instead of this he wasted his time and the little capital he possessed in doing nothing that was sensible." "it is easy for us to criticise the man," remarked beth, "and he may be sorry, now, that he did not act differently. but i think, in his place, i should have made the same attempt he did to unravel the mystery of his lost identity. so much depended upon that." "it's all very odd and incomprehensible," said uncle john. "i wonder who he can be." "i suppose he calls himself thursday because that was the day he first found himself," observed patsy. "yes; and smith was the commonest name he could think of to go with it. the most surprising thing," added their uncle, "is the fact that a man of his standing was not missed or sought for." "perhaps," suggested louise, "he had been insane and escaped from some asylum." "then how did he come to be lying in a ditch?" questioned patsy; "and wouldn't an escaped maniac be promptly hunted down and captured?" "i think so," agreed mr. merrick. "for my part, i'm inclined to accept the man's theory that it was an automobile accident." "then what became of the car, or of the others in it?" "it's no use," said beth, shaking her head gravely. "if thursday smith, who is an intelligent young man, couldn't solve the mystery himself, it isn't likely we can do so." "we know as much as he does, as far as that is concerned," said patsy, "and our combined intelligence ought at least to equal his. i'm sorry for the poor man, and wish we might help him to come to his own again." they all agreed to this sentiment and while the girls attended to their editorial duties they had the amazing story of thursday smith uppermost in their minds. when the last copy had been placed in the hands of miss briggs and they were driving to the farm--at a little after six o'clock--they renewed the interesting discussion. just before reaching the farm hetty hewitt came out of the wood just in front of them. she was clothed in her short skirt and leggings and bore a fishing rod and a creel. "what luck?" asked patsy, stopping the horse. "seven trout," answered the artist. "i might have caught more, but the poor little creatures squirmed and struggled so desperately that i hadn't the heart to destroy any more of them. won't you take them home for mr. merrick's breakfast?" patsy looked at the girl musingly. "jump in, hetty," she said; "i'm going to take you with us for the night. the day's fishing has tired you; there are deep circles under your eyes; and that stuffy old hotel isn't home-like. jump in." hetty flushed with pleasure, but hesitated to accept the invitation. "i--i'm not dressed for--" "you're all right," said beth, supporting her cousin's proposition. "we'll lend you anything you need." "do come, miss hewitt," added louise. hetty sighed, then smiled and finally climbed into the surrey. "in new york," she said, as they started on, "i've sometimes hobnobbed with editors; but this is somewhat different." "in what way?" asked patsy casually. "you're not real journalists, you know, and--" "why aren't we journalists?" asked louise. for a moment hetty was puzzled how to reply. "you are doing very good editorial work," she said mendaciously, "but, after all, you are only playing at journalism. the real journalist--as i know him--is a bohemian; a font of cleverness running to waste; a reckless, tender-hearted, jolly, careless ne'er-do-well who works like a trojan and plays like a child. he is very sophisticated at his desk and very artless when he dives into the underworld for rest and recreation. he lives at high tension, scintillates, burns his red fire without discrimination and is shortly extinguished. you are not like that. you can't even sympathize with that sort of person. but i can, for i'm cut from a remnant of the same cloth." "scintillate all you want to, hetty," cried patsy with a laugh; "but you're not going to be extinguished. for we, the imitation journalists, have taken you under our wings. there's no underworld at millville, and the only excitement we can furnish just now is a night with us at the old farm." "that," replied hetty, "is indeed a real excitement. you can't quite understand it, perhaps; but it's so--so very different from what i'm accustomed to." uncle john welcomed the girl artist cordially and under his hospitable roof the waif soon felt at ease. at dinner the conversation turned upon thursday smith and his peculiar experience. beth asked hetty if she knew the man. "yes," replied the girl; "i've seen him at the office and we've exchanged a word or two. but he boards with thorne, the liveryman, and not at the hotel." "you have never seen him before you met him here?" "never." "i wonder," said louise musingly, "if he is quite right in his mind. all this story may be an hallucination, you know." "he's a very clever fellow," asserted hetty, "and such a loss of memory is by no means so uncommon as you think. our brains are queer things--mine is, i know--and it doesn't take much to throw their machinery out of gear. once i knew a reporter who was worried and over-worked. he came to the office one morning and said he was george washington, the commander of the continental army. in all other ways he was sane enough, and we humored him and called him 'general.' at the end of three months the idea quit him as suddenly as it had come on, and he was not only normal but greatly restored in strength of intellect through the experience. perhaps some of the overworked brain cells had taken a rest and renewed their energy. it would not surprise me if some day thursday smith suddenly remembered who he was." [footnote: this anecdote is true.--_author._] "in the meantime," said uncle john, "i'm going to make an effort to discover his identity." "in what way, uncle?" asked patsy. "i'll set fogerty, who is a clever detective, at work. no man can disappear from his customary haunts without leaving some sort of a record behind him, and fogerty may be able to uncover the mystery in a short time." "then we'll lose our pressman," declared beth; "for i'm positive that thursday smith was a person of some importance in his past life." chapter xi the honer'ble ojoy boglin one morning while patsy was alone in her office, busied over her work, the door softly opened and a curious looking individual stood before her. he was thin in form, leathery skinned and somewhat past the middle age of life. his clothing consisted of a rusty black prince albert coat, rusty trousers to match, which were carefully creased, cowhide shoes brilliant with stove polish, a tall silk hat of antiquated design, and a frayed winged collar decorated with a black tie on which sparkled a large diamond attached to a chain. he had chin whiskers of a sandy gray color and small gray eyes that were both shrewd and suspicious in expression. he stood in the doorway a moment, attentively eyeing the girl, while she in turn examined him with an amusement she could not quite suppress. then he said, speaking in a low, diffident voice: "i'm lookin' for the editor." "i am the editor," asserted patsy. "really?" "it is quite true." he seemed disconcerted a moment, striving to regain his assurance. then he took out a well-worn pocketbook and from its depths abstracted a soiled card which, leaning forward, he placed carefully upon the table before patsy. she glanced at it and read: "hon. ojoy boglin, hooker's falls, chazy county." "oh," said she, rather surprised; "are you mr. boglin?" "i am the honer'ble ojoy boglin, miss," he replied, dwelling lovingly upon the "honer'ble." "i have not had the honor of your acquaintance," said she, deciding she did not like her visitor. "what is your business, please?" the hon. ojoy coughed. then he suddenly remembered he was in the presence of a lady and took off his hat. next he slid slowly into the vacant chair at the end of the table. "first," he began, "i want to compliment you on your new paper. it's a good thing, and i like it. it's what's been needed in these 'ere parts a long time, and it's talked about all over chazy county." "thank you," said the editor briefly, for the praise was given in a perfunctory way that irritated her. "the only other papers in this senatorial deestric', which covers three counties," continued the visitor, in impressive tones, "air weeklies, run by political mud-slingers that's bought up by the kleppish gang." "what is the kleppish gang?" she asked, wonderingly. "the supporters o' that rascal, colonel kleppish, who has been occupyin' my berth for goin' on eight years," he said with fierce indignation. "i fear i do not understand," remarked patsy, really bewildered. "what was your berth, which colonel kleppish has--has usurped?" "see that 'honer'ble' on the card?" "i do." "that means i were senator--state senator--which makes any common man honer'ble, accordin' to law, which it's useless to dispute. i were elected fer this deestric', which covers three counties," he said proudly, "an' i served my country in that capacity." "oh, i see. but you're not state senator now?" "no; kleppish beat me for the nomination, after i'd served only one term." "why?" "eh? why did he git the nomination? 'cause he bought up the newspapers--the country weeklies--and set them to yellin' 'graft.' he made 'em say i went into office poor, and in two years made a fortune." "did you?" asked the girl. he shuffled in his seat. "i ain't used to talkin' politics with a girl," he admitted; "but seein' as you're the editor of this paper--a daily, by jupe!--you've probably got a head on you and understand that a man don't get into office for his health. there's a lot of bother in servin' your country, and a man oughter be well paid for it. i did jest like the others do--like kleppish is doin' right now--but the reg'lar voters don't understand politics, and when the howl went up about graft, backed by kleppish's bought-up newspapers, they turned me down cold. i've been eight years watchin' for a chance to get in again, an' now i've got it." "this is very interesting, i'm sure," remarked patsy; "but our paper doesn't go much into local politics, mr. boglin, and i'm very busy to-day." "honer'ble ojoy boglin," he said, correcting her; but he did not take the hint to leave. patsy picked up her pencil as if to resume her work, while he eyed her with a countenance baffled and uncertain. presently he asked: "has kleppish got this paper too?" "no," she coldly replied. "i thought i'd likely head him off, you being so new. see here, editor--" "i am miss doyle, sir." "glad to know you, miss doyle. what i was about to remark is this: the election for senator comes up agin in september and i want this paper to pull for me. bein' as it's a daily it's got more power than all of kleppish's weeklies put together, and if you work the campaign proper i'll win the nomination hands down. this is a strong republican deestric', and to git nominated on the republican ticket is the same as an election. so what i want is the nomination. what do you say?" patsy glared at him and decided that as far as appearances went he was not a fit candidate for any office, however humble. but she answered diplomatically: "i will inquire into the condition of politics in this district, mr. boglin, and try to determine which candidate is the most deserving. having reached a decision, the _millville tribune_ will espouse the cause of the best man--if it mentions local politics at all." the hon. ojoy gave a dissatisfied grunt. "that means, in plain words," he suggested, "that you'll give kleppish a chance to bid against me. but i need this paper, and i'm willin' to pay a big price for it. let kleppish go, and we'll make our dicker right now, on a lib'ral basis. it's the only way you can make your paper pay. i've got money, miss doyle. i own six farms near hooker's falls, which is in this county, and six hundred acres of good pine forest, and i'm director in the bank of huntingdon, with plenty of money out on interest. also i own half the stock in the new paper mill at royal--" "you do?" she exclaimed. "i thought mr. skeelty--" "skeelty's the head man, of course," he said. "he came to me about the mill proposition and i went in with him. i own all the forest around royal. bein' manager, and knowin' the business, skeelty stood out for fifty-one shares of stock, which is the controllin' interest; but i own all the rest, and the mill's makin' good money. people don't know i'm in that deal, and of course this is all confidential and not to be talked about." "very well, sir. but i fear you have mistaken the character of our paper," said patsy quietly. "we are quite independent, mr. boglin, and intend to remain so--even if we can't make the paper pay. in other words, the _millville daily tribune_ can't be bought." he stared in amazement; then scratched his ear with a puzzled air. "such talk as that means somethin'," he asserted, gropingly, "but what it means, blamed if i know! newspapers never turn money down unless they're a'ready bought, or have got a grouch of their own.... say!" he suddenly cried, as an inspiration struck him, "you ain't got anything agin the mill at royal, or agin skeelty, have you?" "i have, sir!" declared patsy, raising her head to frown discouragingly upon the honer'ble ojoy. "mr. skeelty is acting in a very disagreeable manner. he has not only boycotted our paper and refused to pay for the subscriptions he engaged, but i understand he is encouraging his workmen to annoy the millville people, and especially this printing office." "well--durn--skeelty!" ejaculated mr. boglin, greatly discomposed by this statement. "but i'll fix all that, miss doyle," he added, eagerly. "skeelty's my partner and he's got to do what i say or i'll make trouble for him. you dicker with me for the support of your paper and i'll guarantee a hundred subscriptions from royal and get you an apology from skeelty and a promise he'll behave an' keep his men to home. and all that's outside the price i'll agree to pay." patsy's eyes were full of scorn. "i won't dicker with you an instant," she firmly declared. "i don't know colonel kleppish, or what his character is, but i'm very sure he's the better man and that the people have made no mistake in electing him in your place. no respectable candidate for office would attempt to buy the support of a newspaper, and i advise you to change the wording on your card. instead of 'honorable' it should read 'dishonorable' ojoy boglin. good day, sir!" mr. boglin's face turned white with rage. he half rose from his seat, but sat down again with a vicious snarl. "i've coaxed, so far, young woman," he said grimly, "but i guess it's time i showed my hand. you'll either run this paper in my interest or i'll push skeelty on to make the town too hot to hold you. i've got power in this county, even if i ain't senator, and you'll feel that power if you dare oppose me. take your choice, girl--either to make good money out o' this campaign, or be run out of town, neck an' crop! it's up to you to decide." "in thirty seconds," said patsy, her face as white as was boglin's, "i shall ring this bell to summon my men to throw you out." the honer'ble ojoy slowly rose and put on his hat. "look out!" he said warningly. "i will," snapped patsy. "this ain't the end of it, girl!" "there are ten seconds left," she said. he picked up his card, turned his back and walked out, leaving his opponent trembling betwixt agitation and righteous indignation. a few moments later bob west came in and looked at the girl editor curiously. "ojoy boglin has been here," he said. "the honer'ble ojoy, if you please," answered patsy, with a laugh that bordered on hysteria. the hardware man nodded, his eyes reading her face. "you were quite right to turn him down," he asserted. "it was the only thing to do," responded the girl, wondering how he knew. "but boglin is a dangerous man," resumed west. "look out for him. miss doyle." "yes; he told me to do that, and i will," said she, more quietly. "he is skeelty's partner." "and you're not afraid of him?" "why should i be, mr. west?" he smiled. "i'm justice of the peace here. if there's a hint of trouble from boglin or skeelty, come directly to me." "thank you, mr. west. i will." with this he nodded cheerfully and went away. chapter xii molly sizer's party the people of chazy county were very proud of the _millville tribune_, the only daily paper in that section of the state. it was really a very good newspaper, if small in size, and related the news of the day as promptly as the great new york journals did. arthur weldon had not been very enthusiastic about the paper at any time, although he humored the girls by attending in a good-natured way to the advertising, hiring some of the country folk to get subscriptions, and keeping the books. he was a young man of considerable education who had inherited a large fortune, safely invested, and therefore had no need, through financial necessity, to interest himself in business of any sort. he allowed the girls to print his name as editor in chief, but he did no editorial work at all, amusing himself these delightful summer days by wandering in the woods, where he collected botanical specimens, or sitting with uncle john on the lawn, where they read together or played chess. both the men were glad the girls were happy in their work and enthusiastic over the success of their audacious venture. beth was developing decided talent as a writer of editorials and her articles were even more thoughtful and dignified than were those of patsy. the two girls found plenty to occupy them at the office, while louise did the reportorial work and flitted through millville and down to huntingdon each day in search of small items of local interest. she grew fond of this work, for it brought her close to the people and enabled her to study their characters and peculiarities. her manner of approaching the simple country folk was so gracious and winning that they freely gave her any information they possessed, and chatted with her unreservedly. sometimes louise would make her rounds alone, but often arthur would join her for an afternoon drive to huntingdon, and it greatly amused him to listen to his girl-wife's adroit manner of "pumping the natives." about halfway to huntingdon was the sizer farm, the largest and most important in that vicinity. old zeke sizer had a large family--five boys and three girls--and they were noted as quite the most aggressive and disturbing element in the neighborhood. old zeke was rude and coarse and swore like a trooper, so his sons could not be expected to excel him in refinement. bill sizer, the eldest, was a hard drinker, and people who knew him asserted that he "never drew a sober breath." the other sons were all quarrelsome in disposition and many a free fight was indulged in among them whenever disputes arose. they were industrious farmers, though, and the three girls and their mother worked from morning till night, so the farm prospered and the sizers were reputed to be "well-off." molly, the eldest girl, had attracted louise, who declared she was pretty enough to arrest attention in any place. indeed, this girl was a "raving beauty" in her buxom, countrified way, and her good looks were the pride of the sizer family and the admiration of the neighbors. the other two were bouncing, merry girls, rather coarse in manner, as might be expected from their environment; but molly, perhaps fully conscious of her prettiness, assumed certain airs and graces and a regal deportment that brought even her big, brutal brothers to her feet in adoration. the sizers were among the first subscribers to the _millville tribune_ and whenever louise stopped at the farmhouse for news the family would crowd around her, ignoring all duties, and volunteer whatever information they possessed. for when they read their own gossip in the local column it gave them a sort of proprietary interest in the paper, and bill had once thrashed a young clerk at huntingdon for questioning the truth of an item the sizers had contributed. one day when louise and arthur stopped at the farm, mollie ran out with an eager face to say that friday was her birthday and the sizers were to give a grand party to celebrate it. "we want you to come over an' write it up, mrs. weldon," said the girl. "they're comin' from twenty mile around, fer the dance, an' we've got the orchestry from malvern to play for us. pop's goin' to spend a lot of money on refreshments an' it'll be the biggest blow-out chazy county ever seen!" "i think i can write up the party without being present, mollie," suggested louise. "no; you come over. i read once, in a novel, how an editor come to a swell party an' writ about all the dresses an' things--said what everybody wore, you know. i'm goin' to have a new dress, an' if ever'thing's described right well we'll buy a lot of papers to send to folks we know in connecticut." "well," said louise, with a sigh, "i'll try to drive over for a little while. it is to be saturday, you say?" "yes; the birthday's friday and the dance saturday night, rain or shine. an' you might bring the chief editor, your husband, an' try a dance with us. it wouldn't hurt our reputation any to have you folks mingle with us on this festive occasion," she added airily. they had a good laugh over this invitation when it was reported at mr. merrick's dinner table, and patsy insisted that louise must write up the party. "it will be fun to give it a 'double head' and a big send-off," she said. "write it up as if it were a real society event, dear, and exhaust your vocabulary on the gowns. you'll have to invent some frenchy names to describe those, i guess, for they'll be wonders; and we'll wind up with a list of 'those present.'" so on saturday evening arthur drove his wife over to the sizer farm, and long before they reached there they heard the scraping of fiddles, mingled with shouts and boisterous laughter. it was a prohibition district, to be sure, but old sizer had imported from somewhere outside the "dry zone" a quantity of liquors more remarkable for strength than quality, and with these the guests had been plied from the moment of their arrival. most of them were wholly unused to such libations, so by the time arthur and louise arrived, the big living room of the farmhouse presented an appearance of wild revelry that was quite deplorable. molly welcomed them with wild enthusiasm and big bill, her adoring brother, demanded in a loud voice if arthur did not consider her the "belle of chazy county." "they ain't a stunner in the state as kin hold a candle to our molly," he added, and then with uncertain gait he left the "reporters" with the promise to "bring 'em a drink." "come, louise," said arthur, quietly, "let's get out of here." he drew her to the door and as a dance was just starting they managed to escape without notice. "what a disgraceful scene!" cried louise, when they were on their way home; "and to think of such a shocking carousal being held in good old chazy county, where morals are usually irreproachable! i shall not mention the affair in the _tribune_ at all." but patsy, who had a managing editor's respect for news of any sort, combatted this determination and begged louise to write up molly sizer's party without referring to its deplorable features. "it isn't policy to offend the sizers," she said, "for although they are coarse and common they have shown a friendly spirit toward the paper. moreover, the enmity of such people--which would surely result from our ignoring the birthday party--would keep us in hot water." so louise, though reluctantly, wrote up the party and the manuscript was sent over to miss briggs sunday afternoon, so it would get a place in monday morning's _tribune_. uncle john had the paper at breakfast on monday, and he gave an amused laugh as his eye caught the report of the sizer party. "this is a good one on you, louise," he exclaimed. "you say that miss molly, 'looking more lovely than ever in her handsome new gown, greeted her guests with a roughish smile.'" "a what?" demanded louise, horrified. "a 'roughish' smile." "oh; that's a mistake," she said, glancing at the item. "what i said was a 'roguish' smile; but there's been a typographical error which miss briggs must have overlooked in reading the proof." "nevertheless," remarked arthur, "the statement isn't far wrong. everything was rough, including the smiles, as far as i noted that remarkable gathering." "but--see here!" cried patsy; "that's a dreadful mistake. that spoils all the nice things you said about the girl, louise. i hope the sizers won't notice it." but the sizers did, and were frantic with rage over what they deemed was a deliberate insult to molly. several young men who had come from distances to attend the birthday party had stayed over sunday at the farmhouse, where the revelry still continued in a fitful way, due to vain attempts to relieve racking headaches by further libations. monday morning found the dissipated crew still the guests of the sizers, and when big bill slowly spelled out the assertion made by the _tribune_ that his sister had "a roughish smile" loud cries of indignation arose. molly first cried and then had hysterics and screamed vigorously; bill swore vengeance on the _millville tribune_ and all connected with it, while the guests gravely asserted it was "a low-down, measly trick" which the sizers ought to resent. they all began drinking again, to calm their feelings, and after the midday dinner bill sizer grabbed a huge cowhide whip and started to millville to "lick the editor to a standstill." a wagonload of his guests accompanied him, and molly pleaded with her brother not to hurt mrs. weldon. "i won't; but i'll cowhide that fresh husband of hers," declared bill. "he's the editor--the paper says so--and he's the one i'm after!" chapter xiii bob west interferes it was unfortunate that at that time thursday smith had gone up the electric line toward royal, to inspect it. in the office were patsy, hetty hewitt--who was making a drawing--arthur weldon, engaged upon his books, and finally, seated in an easy-chair from which he silently watched them work, old bob west, the hardware man. louise and beth had driven over to the junction to write up an accident, one of the trainmen having caught his hand in a coupling, between two freight cars. bob west often dropped into the office, which was next door to his own place of business, but he was a silent man and had little to say on these visits. in his early days he had wandered pretty much over the whole world, and he could relate some interesting personal adventures if he chose. in this retired village west was the one inhabitant distinguished above his fellows for his knowledge of the world. in his rooms over the store, where few were ever invited, he had a fine library of unusual books and a rare collection of curios gathered from foreign lands. it was natural that such a man would be interested in so unique an experiment as the _millville tribune_, and he watched its conduct with curiosity but a constantly growing respect for the three girl journalists. no one ever minded when he came into the office, nodded and sat down. sometimes he would converse with much freedom; at other times the old gentleman remained an hour without offering a remark, and went away with a brief parting nod. it was west who first saw, through the window, the wagonload of men from the sizer farm come dashing up the street at a gallop. instinctively, perhaps, he knew trouble was brewing, but he never altered his expression or his attitude, even when the wagon stopped at the printing office and the passengers leaped out. in marched bill sizer at the head of his following, cowhide in hand. patsy, her face flushing scarlet, stood up and faced the intruders. "stand back, girl!" cried sizer in a fierce tone; "it's that coward editor i'm after," pointing his whip with trembling hand at arthur. "my sister molly may be rough, an' hev a rough smile, but i'll be dinged ef i don't skin the man thet prints it in a paper!" "good fer you, bill!" murmured his friends, approvingly. arthur leaned back and regarded his accuser in wonder. the big table, littered with papers, was between them. "come out o' there, ye measly city chap, an' take yer medicine," roared bill, swinging his whip. "i'll larn ye to come inter a decent neighborhood an' slander its women. come outer there!" west had sat quietly observing the scene. now he inquired, in composed tones: "what's the trouble, bill?" "trouble? trouble, west? why, this lyin' scroundrel said in his paper thet our molly had a rough smile. that's the trouble!" "did he really say that?" asked west. "'course he did. printed it in the paper, for all to read. that's why i've come to cowhide the critter within an inch o' his life!" "good fer you, bill!" cried his friends, encouragingly. "but--wait a moment!" commanded west, as the maddened, half drunken young farmer was about to leap over the table to grasp his victim; "you're not going at this thing right, bill sizer." "why ain't i, bob west?" "because," answered west, in calm, even tones, "this insult is too great to be avenged by a mere cowhiding. nothing but blood will wipe away the dreadful stain on your sister's character." "oh, mr. west!" cried patsy, horrified by such a statement. "eh? blood?" said bill, stupefied by the suggestion. "of course," returned west. "you mustn't thrash mr. weldon; you must kill him." a delighted chorus of approval came from sizer's supporters. "all right, then," said the bully, glaring around, "i--i'll kill the scandler!" "hold on!" counselled west, seizing his arm. "this affair must be conducted properly--otherwise the law might cause us trouble. no murder, mind you. you must kill weldon in a duel." "a--a what? a duel!" gasped sizer. "to be sure. that's the way to be revenged. hetty," he added, turning to the artist, who alone of the observers had smiled instead of groaned at the old gentleman's startling suggestion, "will you kindly run up to my rooms and get a red leather case that lies under the shell cabinet? thank you, my dear." hetty was off like a flash. during her absence an intense silence pervaded the office, broken only by an occasional hiccough from one of mr. sizer's guests. patsy was paralyzed with horror and had fallen back into her chair to glare alternately at bob west and the big bully who threatened her cousin's husband. arthur was pale and stern as he fixed a reproachful gaze on the hardware merchant. from miss briggs' little room could be heard the steady click-click of the telegraph instrument. but the furious arrival of the sizer party had aroused every inhabitant of millville and with one accord they dropped work and rushed to the printing office. by this time the windows were dark with groups of eager faces that peered wonderingly through the screens--the sashes being up--and listened to the conversation within. while hetty was gone not a word was spoken, but the artist was absent only a brief time. presently she reentered and laid the red leather case on the table before bob west. the hardware man at once opened it, displaying a pair of old-fashioned dueling pistols, with long barrels and pearl handles. there was a small can of powder, some bullets and wadding in the case, and as west took up one of the pistols and proceeded to load it he said in an unconcerned voice: "i once got these from an officer in vienna, and they have been used in more than a score of duels, i was told. one of the pistols--i can't tell which it is--has killed a dozen men, so you are going to fight with famous weapons." both arthur and bill sizer, as well as the groups at the window, watched the loading of the pistols with fascinated gaze. "bob's a queer ol' feller," whispered peggy mcnutt to the blacksmith, who stood beside him. "this dool is just one o' his odd fancies. much he keers ef they kills each other er not!" "mr. west," cried patsy, suddenly rousing from her apathy, "i'll not allow this shameful thing! a duel is no better than murder, and i'm sure there is a law against it." "true," returned west, ramming the bullet into the second pistol; "it is quite irregular and--er--illegal, i believe. perhaps i shall go to jail with whichever of the duelists survives; but you see it is a point of honor with us all. molly sizer has seemingly been grossly maligned in your paper, and the editor is responsible. are you a good shot, bill?" "i--i guess so," stammered sizer. "that's good. weldon, i hear, is an expert with the pistol." arthur did not contradict this statement, although he was positive he could not hit a barn at twenty yards. "now, then, are we ready?" staid west, rising. "come with me, gentlemen." "what ye goin' to do, bob?" asked sizer, anxiously. "i'll explain," replied the hardware man, leading the way to the street. everyone followed him and the crowd at the windows joined the group outside. "of course you mustn't shoot in the main street, for you might hit some one, or break windows; but back of this row of buildings is a lane that is perfectly clear. you will stand back to back in the center of the block and then, at my word, you will each march to the end of the block and pass around the buildings to the lane. as soon as you come in sight of one another you are privileged to fire, and i suppose bill sizer will try to kill you, mr. weldon, on the spot, and therefore you will try to kill him first." "but--look a-here, bob!" cried sizer; "it ain't right fer him to take a shot at me. you said fer me to kill him, but ye didn't say nuth'n about _his_ shootin' at _me_." "that's all right, bill," returned west. "you're in the right, and the right ought to win. but you must give the man a chance for his life, you know." "that weren't in the bargain." "it is now, by the laws of dueling." "he--he might shoot me," urged bill. "it isn't likely. although he's a dead shot, you have right on your side, and you must be sure to fire as soon as you get within good range. it won't be considered murder; it will only be a duel, and the law will deal lightly with you." "that's right, bill," asserted one of sizer's friends. "bob west's a justice o' the peace himself, an' he orter know." "i do know," declared west gravely. he placed arthur weldon and bill sizer back to back in the middle of the street and handed each a pistol. "now, then," said he, "you both understand the rules, which i have explained, and the spectators will bear witness that, whatever happens, this affair has been conducted in a regular manner, with no favor shown to either. you are both brave men, and this duel will vindicate your honor. if you are fortunate enough to survive, you will be heroes, and all your differences will be wiped off the slate. but as one or both may fall, we, the citizens of millville, hereby bid you a solemn and sad farewell." impressed by this speech, sizer's friends began to shake hands with him. "all ready!" called west. "one--two--three----go!" at the word the two, back to back, started for the opposite ends of the little street, and at once the crowd made a rush between the buildings to gain the rear, where they might witness the shooting in the lane when the duelists met. arthur had been thinking seriously during these proceedings and had made up his mind it was in no degree his duty to be bored full of holes by a drunken countryman like bill sizer, just because there had been a typographical error in the _millville tribune_. so, when he got to the end of the street, instead of turning into the lane he made for the farm, holding the long dueling pistol gingerly in his hand and trotting at a good pace for home. footsteps followed him. in sudden panic he increased his run; but the other was faster. a heavy hand grasped his shoulder and swung him around, while old bob west, panting for breath, exclaimed: "stop, you fool--stop! the other one is running." "the other one!" echoed arthur, wonderingly. "of course. bill sizer was sure to run; he's a coward, as all bullies are. quick, weldon, save the day and your reputation or i'll never stand your friend again." arthur understood now. he turned and ran back faster than he had come, swung into the lane where the crowd was cautiously peering from the shelter of the buildings, and waving his pistol in a reckless way that made bob west shudder, he cried out: "where is he? where's sizer? why don't he show up and be shot, like a man?" no sizer appeared. he was even then headed cross-lots for home, leaving his friends to bemoan his cowardice. as for arthur, the crowd gave him a cheer and condemned his opponent's conduct in no measured terms. they were terribly disappointed by big bill's defection, for while not especially bloodthirsty they hated to see the impending tragedy turn out a farce. in the printing office patsy was laughing hysterically as her horror dissolved and allowed her to discover the comic phase of the duel. she literally fell on arthur's neck as he entered, but the next moment pushed him away to face the hardware merchant. "i beg your pardon, mr. west," said she with twinkling eyes. "i suspected you of being a cold-blooded ruffian, when you proposed this duel; but i now see that you understand human nature better than the whole caboodle of us put together! arthur, thank mr. west for saving you from a flogging." "i do, indeed!" said arthur fervently. chapter xiv the danger signal by this time the _tribune_ had become the pride of all millville, yet the villagers could not quite overcome their awe and wonder at it. also the newspaper was the pride of the three girl journalists, who under the tutelage of miss briggs were learning to understand the complicated system of a daily journal. their amateurish efforts were gradually giving way to more dignified and readable articles; beth could write an editorial that interested even uncle john, her severest critic; louise showed exceptional talent for picking up local happenings and making news notes of them, while patsy grabbed everything that came to her net--locals, editorials, telegraphic and telephone reports from all parts of the world--and skillfully sorted, edited and arranged them for the various departments of the paper. it was mighty interesting to them all, and they were so eager each morning to get to work that they could scarcely devote the proper time to old nora's famous breakfasts. "we made a mistake. uncle," said patsy to mr. merrick, "in starting the _tribune_ in the wrong place. in a few weeks we must leave it and go back to the city, whereas, had we established our paper in new york--" "then it never would have been heard of," interrupted practical beth. "in new york, patsy dear, we would become the laughing stock of the town. i shudder when i think what a countrified paper we turned out that first issue." "but we are fast becoming educated," declared patsy. "i'm not ashamed of the _tribune_ now, even in comparison with the best new york dailies." beth laughed, but uncle john said judicially: "for millville, it's certainly a marvel. i get the world news more concisely and more pleasantly from its four pages than when i wade through twenty or thirty of the big pages of a metropolitan newspaper. you are doing famously, my dears. i congratulate you." "but we are running behind dreadfully," suggested arthur, the bookkeeper, "even since thursday smith enabled us to cut down expenses so greatly. the money that comes in never equals what we pay out. how long can you keep this up, girls?" they made no reply, nor did uncle john discuss the financial condition of the newspaper. he was himself paying some heavy expenses that did not appear on the books, such as the associated press franchise, the telegraph bills and the electric power; but he was quite delighted to take care of these items and regretted he had not assumed more of the paper's obligations. he knew the expenses were eating big holes in the incomes of his three nieces, yet they never complained nor allowed their enthusiasm to flag. mr. merrick, who had tested these girls in more ways than one, was watching them carefully, and fully approved their spirit and courage under such trying conditions. major doyle, patsy's father, when the first copy of the _millville tribune_ was laid on his desk in the city, was astounded at the audacity of this rash venture. when he could command his temper to write calmly he sent a letter to mr. merrick which read: "taken altogether, john, you're the craziest bunch of irresponsibles outside an asylum. no wonder you kept this folly a secret from me until you had accomplished your nefarious designs. the _millville daily tribune_ is a corker and no mistake, for our patsy's at the head of your lunatic gang. i'll go farther, and say the paper's a wonder. i believe it is the first daily newspaper published in a town of six inhabitants, that has ever carried the associated press dispatches, but, allow me to ask, why? the lonely inhabitants of the desert of chazy county don't need a daily--or a weekly--or a monthly. a semi-annual would about hit their gait, and be more than they deserve. so i've decided it's merely a silly way to spend money--and an easy way, too, i'll be bound. oblige me by explaining this incomprehensible eccentricity." to this, a mild protest for the major, uncle john replied: "dear major doyle: yours received. have you no business of your own to attend to? affectionately yours, john merrick." the major took the hint. he made no further complaint but read the paper religiously every day, gloating over patsy's name as managing editor and preserving the files with great care. he really enjoyed, the _millville tribune_, and as his summer vacation was shortly due he anticipated with pleasure a visit to the farm and a peep at the workings of "our patsy's" famous newspaper. the other girls he ignored. if patsy was connected with the thing, her adoring parent was quite sure she was responsible for all the good there was in it. the paper printed no mention of the famous duel. but hetty made a cartoon of it, showing the lane, with its fringe of spectators, arthur weldon standing manfully to await his antagonist and big bill sizer, in the distance, sprinting across the fields in the direction of home. this cartoon was highly prized by those who had witnessed the adventure and peggy mcnutt pinned it on the wall of his real estate office beside the one hetty had made of himself. bill sizer promptly "stopped the paper," that being the only vengeance at hand, and when bob west sent a boy to him demanding the return of the pistol, bill dispatched with the weapon the following characteristic note, which he had penned with much labor: "bob west sir you beet me out uv my reeveng and made me look like a bag uv beens. but i will skware this thing sum da and yu and that edyter hed better watch out. i don't stand fer no throwdown like that wm. sizer." however, the bully received scant sympathy, even from his most intimate friends, and his prestige in the community was henceforth destroyed. arthur did not crow, for his part. he told the girls frankly of his attempt to run away and evade the meeting, which sensible intention was only frustrated by bob west's interference, and they all agreed he was thoroughly justified. the young man had proved to them his courage years before and none of the girls was disposed to accuse him of cowardice for not wishing to shoot or be shot by such a person as bill sizer. a few days following the duel another incident occurred which was of a nature so startling that it drove the sizer comedy from all minds. this time thursday smith was the hero. hetty hewitt, it seems, was having a desperate struggle to quell the longings of her heart for the allurements of the great city. she had been for years a thorough bohemienne, frequenting cafes, theatres and dance halls, smoking and drinking with men and women of her class and, by degrees, losing every womanly quality with which nature had generously endowed her. but the girl was not really bad. she was essentially nervous and craved excitement, so she had drifted into this sort of life because no counteracting influence of good had been injected into her pliable disposition. none, that is, until the friendly editor for whom she worked, anticipating her final downfall, had sought to save her by sending her to a country newspaper. he talked to the girl artist very frankly before she left for millville, and hetty knew he was right, and was truly grateful for the opportunity to redeem herself. the sweet girl journalists with whom she was thrown in contact were so different from any young women she had heretofore known, and proved so kindly sympathetic, that hetty speedily became ashamed of her wasted life and formed a brave resolution to merit the friendship so generously extended her. but it was hard work at first. she could get through the days easily enough by wandering in the woods and taking long walks along the rugged country roads; but in the evenings came the insistent call of the cafes, the cheap orchestras, vaudeville, midnight suppers and the like. she strenuously fought this yearning and found it was growing less and less powerful to influence her. but her nights were yet restless and her nerves throbbing from the effects of past dissipations. often she would find herself unable to sleep and would go out into the moonlight when all others were in bed, and "prowl around with the cats," as she expressed it, until the wee hours of morning. often she told patsy she wished there was more work she could do. the drawings required by the paper never occupied her more than a couple of hours each day. sometimes she made one of her cleverest cartoons in fifteen or twenty minutes. "can't i do something else?" she begged. "let me set type, or run the ticker--i can receive telegrams fairly well--or even write a column of local comment. i'm no journalist, so you'll not be envious." but patsy shook her head. "really, hetty, there's nothing else you can do, and your pictures are very important to us. rest and enjoy yourself, and get strong and well. you are improving wonderfully in health since you came here." often at midnight hetty would wander into the pressroom and watch thursday smith run off the edition on the wonderful press, which seemed to possess an intelligence of its own, so perfectly did it perform its functions. at such times she sat listlessly by and said little, for thursday was no voluble talker, especially when busied over his press. but a certain spirit of comradeship grew up between these two, and it was not unusual for the pressmen, after his work was finished and the papers were neatly piled for distribution to the carriers at daybreak, to walk with hetty to the hotel before proceeding to his own lodgings in the little wing of nick thorne's house, which stood quite at the end of the street. to be sure, the hotel adjoined the printing office, with only a vacant lot between, but hetty seemed to appreciate this courtesy and would exchange a brief good night with smith before going to her own room. afterward she not infrequently stole out again, because sleep would not come to her, and then the moon watched her wanderings until it dipped behind the hills. on the night we speak of, hetty had parted from thursday smith at one o'clock and crept into the hallway of the silent, barnlike hotel; but as soon as the man turned away she issued forth again and walked up the empty street like a shadow. almost to thompson's crossing she strolled, deep in thought, and then turned and retraced her steps. but when she again reached the hotel she was wide-eyed as ever; so she passed the building, thinking she would go on to little bill creek and sit by the old mill for a time. the girl was just opposite the printing office when her attention was attracted by a queer grating noise, as if one of the windows was being pried up. she stopped short, a moment, and then crept closer to the building. two men were at a side window of the pressroom, which they had just succeeded in opening. as hetty gained her point of observation one of the men slipped inside, but a moment later hastily reappeared and joined his fellow. at once both turned and stole along the side of the shed directly toward the place where the girl stood. her first impulse was to run, but recollecting that she wore a dark gown and stood in deep shadow she merely flattened herself against the building and remained motionless. the men were chuckling as they passed her, and she recognized them as mill hands from royal. "guess that'll do the job," said one, in a low tone. "if it don't, nothin' will," was the reply. they were gone, then, stealing across the road and beating a hasty retreat under the shadows of the houses. hetty stood motionless a moment, wondering what to do. then with sudden resolve she ran to thorne's house and rapped sharply at the window of the wing where she knew thursday smith slept. she heard him leap from bed and open the blind. "what is it?" he asked. "it's me, thursday--hetty," she said. "two men have just broken into the pressroom, through a window. they were men from royal, and they didn't steal anything, but ran away in great haste. i--i'm afraid something is wrong, thursday!" even while she spoke he was rapidly dressing. "wait!" he called to her. in a few moments he opened the door and joined her. without hesitation he began walking rapidly toward the office, and the girl kept step with him. he asked no questions whatever, but us soon as she had led him to the open window he leaped through it and switched on an electric light. an instant later he cried aloud, in a voice of fear: "get out, hetty! run--for your life!" "run yourself, thursday, if there's danger," she coolly returned. but he shouted "run--run--run!" in such thrilling, compelling tones that the girl shrank away and dashed across the vacant lot to the hotel before she turned again in time to see smith leap from the window and make a dash toward the rear. he was carrying something--something extended at arms' length before him--and he crossed the lane and ran far into the field before stooping to set down his burden. now he was racing back again, running as madly as if a troop of demons was after him. a flash cleft the darkness; a deep detonation thundered and echoed against the hills; the building against which hetty leaned shook as if an earthquake had seized it, and thursday smith was thrown flat on his face and rolled almost to the terrified girl's feet, where he lay motionless. only the building saved her from pitching headlong too, but as the reverberations died away, to be followed by frantic screams from the rudely wakened population of millville, hetty sank upon her knees and turned the man over, so that he lay face up. he opened his eyes and put up one hand. then he struggled to his feet, trembling weakly, and his white face smiled into the girl's anxious one. "that was a close call, dear," he whispered; "but your timely discovery saved us from a terrible calamity. i--i don't believe there is much harm done, as it is." hetty made no reply. she was thinking of the moments he had held that deadly thing in his hands, while he strove to save lives and property from destruction. the inevitable crowd was gathering now, demanding in terrified tones what had happened. men, women and children poured from the houses in scant attire, all unnerved and fearful, crying for an explanation of the explosion. "keep mum, hetty," said smith, warningly. "it will do no good to tell them the truth." she nodded, realizing it was best the villagers did not suspect that an enemy of the newspaper had placed them all in dire peril. "dynamite?" she asked in a whisper. "yes; a bomb. but for heaven's sake don't mention it." suddenly a man with a lantern discovered a great pit in the field behind the lane and the crowd quickly surrounded it. from their limited knowledge of the facts the explosion seemed unaccountable, but there was sufficient intelligence among them to determine that dynamite had caused it and dug this gaping hole in the stony soil. bob west glanced at the printing office, which was directly in line with the explosion; then he cast a shrewd look into the white face of thursday smith; but the old hardware merchant merely muttered under his breath something about ojoy boglin and shook his head determinedly when questioned by his fellow villagers. interest presently centered in the damage that had been done. many window panes were shattered and the kitchen chimney of the hotel had toppled over; but no person had been injured and the damage could easily be repaired. while the excitement was at its height thursday smith returned to his room and went to bed; but long after the villagers had calmed down sufficiently to seek their homes hetty hewitt sat alone by the great pit, staring reflectively into its ragged depths. quaint and curious were the thoughts that puzzled the solitary girl's weary brain, but prominent and ever-recurring was the sentence that had trembled upon thursday smith's lips: "it was a close call, _dear_!" the "close call" didn't worry hetty a particle; it was the last word of the sentence that amazed her. that, and a new and wonderful respect for the manliness of thursday smith, filled her heart to overflowing. chapter xv a clever idea neither thursday nor hetty allowed a word to escape concerning the placing of the bomb in the _tribune_ office, but the explosion was public knowledge and many were bothering their heads to explain its meaning. john merrick, when he heard the news, looked very grave and glanced uneasily into the unconscious faces of his three beloved nieces. a man of much worldly experience, in spite of his simple, ingenuous nature, the little man began carefully piecing together parts of the puzzle. thursday smith's defense of the girl journalists, whereby he had severely pounded some of the workmen who had insulted them, had caused the man to be denounced by the colony at royal. mr. skeelty, the manager, had demanded that smith be discharged by mr. mirrick, and being refused, had threatened to shut off the power from the newspaper plant. skeelty dared not carry out this threat, for fear of a lawsuit, but his men, who had urged the matter of smith's discharge upon their manager, were of the class that seeks revenge at any cost. at this juncture ojoy boglin, skeelty's partner and the owner of all the pine forest around royal, had become the enemy of the newspaper and was aware of the feeling among the workmen. a word from boglin, backed by skeelty's tacit consent, would induce the men to go to any length in injuring the _millville tribune_ and all concerned in its welfare. considering these facts, mr. merrick shrewdly suspected that the dynamite explosion had been the work of the mill hands, yet why it was harmlessly exploded in a field was a factor that puzzled him exceedingly. he concluded, from what information he possessed, that they had merely intended this as a warning, which if disregarded might be followed by a more serious catastrophe. the idea that such a danger threatened his nieces made the old gentleman distinctly nervous. there were ways to evade further molestation from the lawless element at the mill. the hon. ojoy could be conciliated; thursday smith discharged; or the girls could abandon their journalistic enterprise altogether. such alternatives were mortifying to consider, but his girls must be protected from harm at any cost. while he was still considering the problem, the girls and arthur having driven to the office, as usual, joe wegg rode over from thompson's crossing on his sorrel mare for a chat with his old friend and benefactor. it was this same young man--still a boy in years--who had once owned the wegg farm and disposed of it to mr. merrick. joe was something of a mechanical genius and, when his father died, longed to make his way in the great world. but after many vicissitudes and failures he returned to chazy county to marry ethel thompson, his boyhood sweetheart, and to find that one of his father's apparently foolish investments had made him rich. ethel was the great-granddaughter of the pioneer settler of chazy county--little bill thompson--from whom the little bill creek and little bill mountain had been named. it was he who first established the mill at millville; so, in marrying a descendant of little bill thompson, joe wegg had become quite the most important resident of chazy county, and the young man was popular and well liked by all who knew him. after the first interchange of greetings joe questioned mr. merrick about the explosion of the night before, and uncle john frankly stated his suspicions. "i'm sorry," said joe, "they ever started that mill at royal falls. most of the workmen are foreigners, and all of them rude and reckless. they have caused our quiet, law-abiding people no end of trouble and anxiety already. it is becoming a habit with them to haunt millville on saturday nights, when they are partly intoxicated, and they've even invaded some of the farmhouses and frightened the women and children. i've talked to bob west about it and he has promised to swear in lon taft and seth davis as special constables, to preserve order; but he admits we are quite helpless to oppose such a gang of rowdies. i've also been to see mr. skeelty, to ask him to keep his men at home, but he answered gruffly that he had no authority over his employees except during working hours, and not much authority even then." "skeelty doesn't seem the right man to handle those fellows," observed mr. merrick thoughtfully; "but as he owns the controlling interest in his company, and boglin is fully as unreasonable, we cannot possibly oust him from control. if the men determined to blow up all millville with dynamite i'm sure skeelty would not lift a finger to prevent it." "no; he's deathly afraid of them, and that's a fact," said joe. they sat in silence a while. "your report of skeelty's threat to cut off your electric power," said young wegg, "reminds me of a plan i've had in mind for some time. i find i've too much time on my hands, mr. merrick, and i cannot be thoroughly happy unless i'm occupied. ethel's farms are let on shares and i'm a drone in the world's busy hive. but we're anchored here at millville, so i've been wondering what i could do to improve the place and keep myself busy. it has seemed to me that the same rush of water in little bill creek that runs the dynamos at royal is in evidence--to a lesser extent--at the old milldam. what would you think of my putting in an electric plant at the mill, and lighting both millville and huntingdon, as well as all the farmhouses?" "not a bad idea, joe," said uncle john approvingly. "electric lights have a civilizing influence," continued the young man. "i'm quite sure all the farmers between here and huntingdon would use them, at a reasonable price. i can also run a line to hooker's falls, and one to chazy junction. plenty of poles can be cut from our pine forests and the wires will be the chief expense. i may not make money, at first, but i'll play pretty nearly even and have something to do." "do you think you could furnish enough power for our printing office?" asked mr. merrick. "yes; and a dozen factories, besides. i've an idea the thing may bring factories to millville." "then get at it, joe, and build it quick. i've a notion we shall have an open rupture with skeelty before long." joe wegg smiled. "you're going to accuse me, sir, of asking advice after i've made up my mind," said he; "but the fact is, i have bought the mill of silas caldwell already. he's been wanting to dispose of the property for some time." "good!" exclaimed uncle john. "also i--i've ordered a dynamo and machinery. it all ought to be here in a few days." "better yet!" cried mr. merrick. "you've relieved my mind of a great weight, joe." "now about thursday smith," said the young man. "don't you think it would be policy for you to let him go, mr. merrick?" "no." "he's a clever fellow. i can use him at my lighting plant." "thank you, joe; but that wouldn't help any. as long as he's in millville he will be an object of vengeance to those anarchistic mill hands. the only way to satisfy them in to drive smith out of town, and--i'll be hanged if i'll do it! he hasn't done anything wrong, and i'm interested in the fellow's curious history. i've put his case in the hands of a famous new york detective--fogerty--with instructions to discover who he is, and i can't let a lot of rowdies force me to abandon the man for no reasonable cause." "don't blame you, sir," said joe. "if it wasn't this thursday smith, some other would incur the hatred of the royal workmen, and as they're disposed to terrorize us we may as well fight it out on this line as any other. the whole county will stand by you, sir." "the only thing i dread is possible danger to my girls." "keep 'em away from the office evenings," advised joe. "during the day they are perfectly safe. if anything happens, it will be at night, and while the newspaper office may some time go flying skyward the girls will run no personal danger whatever." "maybe so, joe. how queer it is that such a condition should exist in millville--a little forgotten spot in the very heart of civilization and the last place where one might expect excitement of this sort. but i won't be cowed; i won't be driven or bullied by a pack of foreign hounds, i assure you! if skeelty can't discipline his men, i will." in furtherance of which assertion, mr. merrick went to town and wired a message to the great fogerty. chapter xvi local contribution we hear considerable of the "conventional people" of this world, but seldom meet with them; for, as soon as we begin to know a person, we discover peculiarities that quite remove him from the ranks of the conventional--if such ranks exist at all. the remark of the old scotch divine to his good wife: "everybody's queer but thee and me, nancy, and sometimes i think _thee_ a little queer," sums up human nature admirably. we seldom recognize our own queerness, but are prone to mark the erratic temperaments of others, and this is rather more comfortable than to be annoyed by a consciousness of our personal deficits. the inhabitants of a country town are so limited in their experiences that we generally find their personal characteristics very amusing. no amount of scholastic learning could have rendered the millville people sophisticated, for contact with the world and humanity is the only true educator; but, as a matter of fact, there was little scholastic learning among them, with one or two exceptions, and the villagers as a rule were of limited intelligence. every one was really a "character," and uncle john's nieces, who all possessed a keen sense of humor, enjoyed the oddities of the millvillites immensely. a humorous situation occurred through a seemingly innocent editorial of beth on authorship. in the course of her remarks she said: "a prominent author is stated to have accumulated a large fortune by writing short stories for the newspapers and magazines. he is said to receive ten cents a word, and this unusual price is warranted by the eager demand for his stories, of which the reading public is very fond. however, the unknown author does not fare so badly. the sum of from thirty to fifty dollars usually remitted for a short story pays the beginner a better recompense, for the actual time he is engaged upon the work, than any other occupation he might undertake." this was seriously considered the morning it appeared in the _tribune_ by peggy mcnutt and skim clark, as they sat in the sunshine on the former's little front porch. peggy had read it aloud in his laborious, halting way, and skim listened with growing amazement. "thirty dollars!" he cried; "thirty to fifty fer a short story! great snakes, peggy, i'm goin' into it." "heh? goin' into what?" asked peggy, raising his eyes from the paper. "i kin write a story," declared skim confidently. "ye kin, skim?" "it's a cinch, peggy. mother keeps all the magazines an' paper novils, an' we allus reads 'em afore we sells 'em. i've read the gol-durndest lot o' truck ye ever heard of, so i'm posted on stories in gen'ral. i'll write one an' sell it to the _millville tribune_. do ye s'pose they'll give me the thirty, er the fifty, peggy?" "anywheres between, they says. but one feller gits ten cents a word. whew!" "i know; but he's a big one, which i ain't--just now. i'll take even the thirty, if i hev to." "i would, skim," advised peggy, nodding approval. "but make 'em put yer photygraf in the paper, besides. say, it'll be a big thing fer millville to turn out a author. i didn't think it were in you, skim." "why, it hadn't struck me afore," replied the youth, modestly. "i've ben hankerin' to make money, without knowin' how to do it. i tell ye, peggy, it pays to read the newspapers. this one's give me a hint how to carve out a future career, an' i'll write a story as'll make them girl edyturs set up an' take notice." "make it someth'n' 'bout injuns," suggested peggy. "i ain't read a injun story fer years." "no; they're out o' fashion," observed skim loftily. "what folks want now is a detective story. feller sees a hole in a fence an' says, 'ha! there's ben a murder!' somebody asks what makes him think so, an' the detective feller says, takin' out a magnifie-in' glass, 'thet hole's a bullet-hole, an' the traces o' blood aroun' the edges shows the bullet went through a human body afore it went through the fence.' 'then,' says some one, 'where's the body?' 'that,' says the detective, 'is what we mus' diskiver.' so the story goes on to show how the body were diskivered an' who did the murderin'." "by jupe, thet's great!" cried peggy admiringly. "skim, ye're a wonder!" "ma allus said i were good fer somethin', but she couldn't tell what." "it's story-writin'," declared peggy "say, skim, i put ye onter this deal; don't i git a rake-off on thet fifty dollars?" "not a cent!" said skim indignantly. "ye didn't tell me to write a story; i said myself as i could do it. an' i know where to use the money, peggy, ev'ry dollar of it, whether it's thirty er fifty." peggy sighed. "i writ a pome once," he said. "wonder ef they'd pay fer a pome?" "what were it like?" asked skim curiously. "it went someth'n' this way," said peggy: "i sigh ter fly up high in the sky. but my wings is shy, so i mus' cry good-bye ter fly- in'." "shoo!" said skim disdainfully. "thet ain't no real pome, peggy." "it makes rhymes, don't it? all but the las' line." "mebbe it does," replied skim, with assumption of superior wisdom; "but it don't mean nuth'n'." "it would ef i got paid fer it," observed peggy. skim went home to his mother's tiny "emporium," took some note paper out of stock, opened a new bottle of ink and sat down at the sitting room table to write his story. the widow clark looked in and asked what he meant by "squanderin' profits that way." "shet up, mar. gi' me elbow room," said her dutiful son. "i'm writin' a fifty dollar story fer the _tribune_." "fifty dollars!" "thirty, anyhow; mebbe fifty," replied skim. "what's a good name fer a detective, mar?" the widow sat down and wiped her damp hands on her apron, looking upon her hopeful with an expression of mingled awe and pride. "kin ye do it, skim?" she asked softly. "i s'pose i kin turn out one a day, by hard work," he said confidently. "at thirty a day, the lowes' price, thet's a hunderd 'n' eighty a week, seven hunderd 'n' twenty a month, or over eight thousan' dollars a year. i got it all figgered out. it's lucky fer me the nabobs is rich, or they couldn't stan' the strain. now, mar, ef ye want to see yer son a nabob hisself, some day, jes' think up a good name fer a detective." "sherholmes locke," she said after some reflection. "no; this 'ere story's got ter be original. i thought o' callin' him suspectin' algernon. detectives is allus suspectin' something." "algernon's high-toned," mused the widow. "let it go at that, skim." all that day and far into the evening he sat at his task, pausing now and then for inspiration, but most of the time diligently pushing his pen over the strongly lined note paper and hopelessly straying from the lines. meantime, mrs. clark walked around on tiptoe, so as not to disturb him, and was reluctant even to call him to his meals in the kitchen. when skim went to bed his story had got into an aggravating muddle, but during the next forenoon he managed to bring it to a triumphant ending. "when i git used to the thing, mar," he said, "i kin do one a day, easy. i had to be pertickler over this one, it bein' the first." the widow read the story carefully, guessing at the words that were hopelessly indistinct. "my! but it's a thriller, skim," she said with maternal enthusiasm; "but ye don't say why he killed the girl." "that don't matter, so long's he did it." "the spellin' don't allus seem quite right," she added doubtfully. "i guess the spellin's as good as the readin'll be," he retorted, with evident irritation. "i bet i spell as well as any o' the folks thet takes the paper." "and some words i can't make out." "oh, the edytur'll fix that. say, air ye tryin' to queer my story, mar? do ye set up to know more'n i do about story writin'?" "no," she said; "i ain't talented, skim, an' you be." "what i orter hev," he continued, reflectively, "is a typewriter. when i git two er three hunderd ahead perhaps i'll buy one--secondhand." "kin ye buy one thet'll spell, skim?" she asked, as she made a neat roll of the manuscript and tied a pink hair ribbon around it. skim put on a collar and necktie and took his story across to the newspaper office. "i got a conter-bution fer the paper," he said to patsy, who asked him his business. "what, something original, skim?" she asked in surprise. "ye've hit it right, miss doyle; it's a story." "oh!" "a detective story." "dear me! then you'll have to see mrs. weldon, who is our literary editor." louise, who was sitting close by, looked up and held out her hand for the beribboned roll. "i don't jes' know," remarked skim, as he handed it across the table, "whether it's a thirty dollar deal, er a fifty." having forgotten beth's editorial, louise did not understand this remark, but she calmly unrolled skim's manuscript and glanced at the scrawled heading with an amused smile. "'suspecting algernon,'" she read aloud. "'it were a dark and teedjus night in the erly springtime while the snow were falling soft over the moon litt lanskape.' why, skim, how came you to write this?" "it were the money," he said boldly. "i kin do one a day like this, at thirty dollers apiece, an' never feel the wear an' tear." patsy giggled, but louise stared with a wondering, puzzled expression at the crabbed writing, the misspelled words and dreadful grammar. indeed, she was a little embarrassed how to handle so delicate a situation. "i'm afraid we cannot use your story, mr. clark," she said gently, and remembering the formula that usually accompanied her own rejected manuscripts she added: "this does not necessarily imply a lack of merit in your contribution, but is due to the fact that it is at present unavailable for our use." skim stared at her in utter dismay. "ye mean ye won't take it?" he asked with trembling lips. "we have so much material on hand, just now, that we cannot possibly purchase more," she said firmly, but feeling intensely sorry for the boy. "it may be a good story--" "it's the bes' story i ever heard of!" declared skim. "but we have no place for it in the _millville tribune,_" she added, handing him back the roll. skim was terribly disappointed. never, for a single moment, had he expected "sech a throwdown as this." "seems to me like a bunco game," he muttered savagely. "first ye say in yer blamed ol' paper a story's wuth thirty to fifty dollars, an' then when i bring ye a story ye won't pay a red cent fer it!" "stories," suggested louise, "are of various qualities, depending on the experience and talent of the author. an excellent story is often refused because the periodical to which it is offered is overstocked with similar material. such conditions are often trying, skim; i've had a good many manuscripts rejected myself." but the boy would not be conciliated. "i'll send it to munsey's, thet's what i'll do; an' then you'll be durn sorry," he said, almost ready to cry. "do," urged louise sweetly. "and if they print it, mr. clark, i'll agree to purchase your next story for fifty dollars." "all right; the fifty's mine. i got witnesses, mind ye!" and he flounced out of the room like an angry schoolboy. "oh, louise," exclaimed patsy, reproachfully, "why didn't you let me see the thing? it would have been better than a circus." "poor boy!" said the literary editor, with a sigh. "i didn't want to humiliate him more than i could help. i wonder if he really will have the audacity to send it to munsey's?" and now the door opened to admit peggy mcnutt, who had been watching his chance to stump across to the printing office as soon as skim left there. for peggy had reasoned, not unjustly, that if skim clark could make a fortune as an author he, marshall mcmahon mcnutt, had a show to corral a few dollars in literature himself. after lying awake half the night thinking it over, he arose this morning with the firm intention of competing with skim for the village laurels. he well knew he could not write a shuddery detective story, such as skim had outlined, but that early poem of his, which the boy had seemed to regard so disdainfully, was considered by peggy a rather clever production. he repeated it over and over to himself, dwelling joyously on its perfect rhyme, until he was convinced it was a good poem and that skim had enviously slandered it. so he wrote it out in big letters on a sheet of foolscap and determined to offer it to "them newspaper gals." "i got a pome, miss patsy," he said, with unusual diffidence, for he was by no means sure the "gals" would not agree with skim's criticism. "what! another contributor?" she exclaimed playfully. "has the whole town suddenly turned literary, peggy?" "no; jest me 'n' skim. skim says my pome's no good; but i sort o' like it, myself." "let me see it," said patsy, ignoring this time the literary editor, who was glad to be relieved of the responsibility of disappointing another budding author. peggy handed over the foolscap, and patsy eagerly read the "pome." "listen, louise! listen, beth!" she called, delightedly. "here is certainly a real 'pome,' and on aviation--the latest fad: "'sky high by marshall mcmahon mcnutt of millville dealer in real estate spring chickens &c. . i sigh too fly up high in the sky. . but my wings air shy and so i cry a sad goodby too fly- ing.'" a chorus of hilarious laughter followed the reading, and then patsy wiped her eyes and exclaimed: "peggy, you are not only a poet but a humorist. this is one of the best short poems i ever read." "it's short 'cause i run out o' rhymes," admitted peggy. "but it's a gem, what there is of it." "don't, dear," remonstrated louise; "don't poke fun at the poor man." "poke fun? why, i'm going to print that poem in the _tribune_, as sure as my name's patricia doyle! it's too good for oblivion." "i dunno," remarked peggy, uncertainly, "whether it's wuth fifty dollars, er about--" "about forty-nine less," said patsy. "a poem of that length brings about fifty cents in open market, but i'll be liberal. you shall have a whole dollar--and there it is, solid cash." "thank ye," returned peggy, pocketing the silver. "it ain't what i expected, but--" "but what, sir?" "but it's like findin' it, for i didn't expect nuth'n'. i wish i could do more of 'em at the same price; but i did thet pome when i were young an' hed more ambition. i couldn't think of another like it to save my neck." "i am glad of that, peggy. one of this kind is all a paper dare print. we mustn't get too popular, you know." "i s'pose you'll print my name as the one what did it?" he inquired anxiously. "i shall print it just as it's written, advertisement and all." she did, and peggy bought two extra copies, at a cent apiece. he framed all three and hung one in his office, one in the sitting room and a third in his bedroom, where he could see it the first thing when he wakened each morning. his fellow villagers were very proud of him, in spite of the "knocking" of the clarks. skim was deeply mortified that peggy's "bum pome" had been accepted and his own masterly composition "turned down cold." the widow backed her son and told all the neighbors that "peggy never hed the brains to write thet pome, an' the chances air he stole it from the 'malvern weekly journal.' them gal edyturs wouldn't know," she added scornfully; "they's as ignerunt as peggy is, mostly." a few days later mcnutt entered the printing office with an air of great importance. "goodness me! i hope you haven't done it again, peggy," cried patsy, in alarm. "no; i got fame enough. what i want is to hev the wordin' on my business cards changed," said he. "what'll it cost?" "what change do you wish made?" asked patsy, examining the sample card. "instead of 'marshall mcmahon mcnutt, dealer in real estate an' spring chickens,' i want to make it read: 'dealer in real estate, spring chickens an' poetry.' what'll it cost. miss patsy?" "nothing," she said, her eyes dancing; "we'll do that job free of charge, peggy!" chapter xvii the penalties of journalism two strange men appeared in millville--keen, intelligent looking fellows--and applied to joe wegg for jobs. having received a hint from mr. merrick, joe promptly employed the strangers to prepare the old mill for the reception of the machinery for the lighting plant, and both of them engaged board at the hold. "thursday," said hetty, as she watched the pressman that night, "there's a new york detective here--two of them, i think." "how do you know?" "i recognized one of them, who used to prowl around the city looking for suspicious characters. they say they've come to work on the new electric plant, but i don't believe it." thursday worked a while in silence. "mr. merrick must have sent for them," he suggested. "yes. i think he suspects about the bomb." "he ought to discharge me," said thursday. "no; he's man enough to stand by his guns. i like mr. merrick. he didn't become a millionaire without having cleverness to back him and i imagine he is clever enough to thwart skeelty and all his gang." "perhaps i ought to go of my own accord," said thursday. "don't do that. when you've found a friend like mr. merrick, stick to him. i imagine those detectives are here to protect you, as well as the printing plant. it won't be so easy to set a bomb the next time." smith looked at her with a smile. there was a glint of admiration in his eyes. "you're not a bad sleuth yourself, hetty," he remarked. "no detective could have acted more wisely and promptly than you did that night." "it was an accidental discovery, thursday. sometimes i sleep." that was a good deal of conversation for these two to indulge in. hetty was talkative enough, at times, and so was thursday smith, when the humor seized him; but when they were together they said very little. the artist would stroll into the pressroom after the compositors had finished their tasks and watch the man make up the forms, lock them, place them on the press and run off the edition. then he would glance over the paper while thursday washed up and put on his coat, after which he accompanied her to the door of her hotel and with a simple "good night" proceeded up the street to his own lodging. there are surprises in the newspaper business, as our girl journalists were fast discovering. it was a real calamity when miss briggs, who had been primarily responsible for getting the _millville daily tribune_ into proper working order, suddenly resigned her position. they had depended a great deal on miss briggs, so when the telegraph editor informed them she was going back to new york, they were positively bewildered by her loss. questions elicited the fact that the woman was nervous over the recent explosion and looked for further trouble from the mill hands. she also suspected the two recent arrivals to be detectives, and the town was so small and so absolutely without police protection that she would not risk her personal safety by remaining longer in it. "perhaps i'm homesick," she added. "it's dreadfully lonely here when i'm not at work, and for that reason i've tried to keep busy most of the time. really, i'm astonished to think i've stood this isolation so long; but now that my mind is made up, i'm going, and it is useless to ask me to remain." they offered her higher wages, and mr. merrick himself had a long talk with her, but all arguments were unavailing. "what shall we do, thursday?" asked patsy in despair. "none of us understands telegraphy." "hetty hewitt does," he suggested. "hetty! i'm afraid if i asked her to assume this work she also would leave us." "no; she'll stay," he said positively. "but she can't edit the telegraph news. suppose she took the messages, who would get the night news in shape for the compositors? my uncle would not like to have me remain here until midnight, but even if he would permit it i have not yet mastered the art of condensing the dispatches and selecting just such items as are suitable for the _tribune_." "i'll do that, miss doyle," promised smith. "i've been paying especial attention to the work of miss briggs, for i had an idea she was getting uneasy. and i can take all the day messages, too. if hetty will look after the wires evenings i can do the rest of the telegraph editor's work, and my own, too." "good gracious, thursday!" exclaimed patsy; "you'll be running the whole paper, presently." "no; i can't do the typesetting. but if the dwyer girls stick to their job--and they seem quite contented here--i'll answer for the rest of the outfit." "i'm glad the dwyer girls seem contented," she answered; "but i'm afraid to depend upon anyone now--except you." he liked that compliment, but said nothing further. after consulting with louise and beth, patsy broached the subject to hetty, and the artist jumped at the opportunity to do something to occupy her leisure time. the work brought her in contact with thursday smith more than ever, and when miss briggs departed bag and baggage for new york, the paper suffered little through her defection. "newspaper folk," remarked major doyle, who was now at the farm enjoying his vacation and worshipping at the shrine of the managing editor in the person of his versatile daughter, "are the most unreliable of any class in the world. so i've often been told, and i believe it. they come and go, by fits and starts, and it's a wonder the erratic rascals never put a paper out of business. but they don't. you never heard of a newspaper that failed to appear just because the mechanical force deserted and left it in the lurch. by hook or crook the paper must be printed--and it always is. so don't worry, mavourneen; when your sallow-faced artist and your hobo jack-of-all-trades desert you, there'll still be a way to keep the _millville tribune_ going, and therefore the world will continue to whirl on its axis." "i don't believe thursday will ever desert, and hetty likes us too well to leave us in the lurch; but suppose those typesetters take a notion to flit?" "then," said matter-of-fact beth, "we'll fill the paper with ready-made plate stuff and telegraph for more compositors." "that's it," agreed the major, "those people are always to be had. but don't worry till the time comes. as me grandfather, the commodore, once said: 'never cross a bridge till ye come to it.'" "it wasn't your grandfather who originated that remark," said uncle john. "it was, sir! i defy you to prove otherwise." "i'm not certain you ever had a grandfather; and he wasn't a commodore, anyhow." "sir!" cried the major, glaring at his brother-in-law, "i have his commission, somewhere--laid away." "never mind," said patsy, cheerfully, for these fierce arguments between her father and uncle--who were devotedly attached to one another--never disturbed her in the least, "the _tribune's_ running smoothly just now, and the work is keeping us delightfully busy. i think that never in my life have i enjoyed myself more than since i became a journalist." "is the thing paying dividends?" inquired the major. arthur laughed. "i've just been figuring up the last month's expenditures and receipts," said he. "the first month didn't count, for we were getting started." "and what's the result?" asked the major. "every paper we send out--for one cent--costs us eighty-eight cents to manufacture." there was a painful silence for a time, broken by the major's suggestive cough. "i hope," said the old soldier, solemnly, "that the paper's circulation is very small." "the smallest of any daily paper in all the civilized word, sir," declared the bookkeeper. "of course," remarked louise, with dignity; "that is what distinguishes it. we did not undertake this publication to make money, and it does not cost us more than we are willing to pay for the exceptional experiences we are gaining." the major raised his eyebrows; arthur whistled softly; uncle john smiled; but with one accord they dropped the disagreeable subject. chapter xviii open warfare joe wegg's machinery and dynamos arrived promptly and the electric plant was speedily installed at the old mill. so energetically had the young man supervised his work that poles and wires were all in place as far up the road as thompson's crossing and a branch line run to the wegg farm, by the time the first test was made. all millville celebrated that first night when its streets shone resplendent under the glare of electric lights. there was a public bonfire near the mill, speeches were made, and afterward mr. merrick served a free supper to the villagers, in the hall over sam cotting's general store, where the girls assisted in waiting upon the guests, and everybody was happy and as hilarious as the fumes of good coffee could make them. more speeches were made in the hall, and one of these was by peggy mcnutt, who had painted his wooden foot blue with red stripes in honor of the occasion. he said, according to the report afterward printed in the tribune: "feller citizens! this 'ere town's bloomin' like a new mown rose. i'll bet anybody anything there ain't another town in ameriky what's gone ahead like we hev in the past few months that's jest past. (applause.) if i do say it myself, we're the mos'--eh--the mos'--eh--progressioning community in--in--this community. our community hes put out a daily paper what's a credit to--to--our community, especially the poetry; we've got a paper mill at royal what makes paper fer new yoruk; an' now, to cap the climate, our community hes lighted our community with 'lectric lights fit fer lundon, new yoruk, canada or--or--or--our community. (laughter and cries of "cut out the community, peggy!") no! never, feller citizens, will i cut out a community what's done so much fer our--our community. if i do say it myself, the eyes of the com--of the world is upon us, an' i'm proud of the things that's ben did by our feller citizens, with my full approval, in this 'ere--this 'ere--er--community!" (cheers and a sandwich, which last offering was received by mr. mcnutt in his back hair as he turned to descend from the rostrum.) joe wegg is reported to have said: "neighbors, this electric plant is no plaything. it is going to give you all better light, at no more cost to you than kerosene. but it will do more than that: it will run machinery of all kinds better than steam will. you've seen electricity running the newspaper press, and the same current has operated the big paper mills at royal. here in this audience is a gentleman from connecticut who has accepted my invitation to look over our village with a view to building a factory here, using the power i shall hereafter be able to furnish. i am in correspondence with two other manufacturers, whom i hope to induce to locate in millville. (enthusiastic cheers.) job fisher, who used to live at malvern, is planning to start a lumber mill, to cut the pine just north of here; so you see we are about to arouse from our long sleep and have a great future before us if we keep wide awake. another item of news merits your attention. bartlett has sold sixty acres of his farm to dr. adam matthews, for many years a prominent physician of boston, who is going to build a good house on the land and become a citizen of millville. we've always had to go to huntingdon for a doctor, but now dr. matthews has promised to look after the health of the millville people, although he has retired from city practice. more people will come here from time to time, attracted by our enterprise and the rugged beauty of our county; real estate will become more valuable, trade will prosper and every one of the old inhabitants will find opportunities to make money." (great applause.) a general discussion followed concerning the "doin's of joe wegg" and the prophecies he had made. opinion seemed divided as to whether the promised "boom" was desirable for millville or not. some of the good villagers were averse to personal activity and feared the new order of things might disturb their comfort; in others a mild ambition had been awakened. but while they feasted at mr. merrick's expense and gravely canvassed the situation, the newly installed electric lights suddenly failed. darkness fell upon the assemblage and there was an awed hush until sam cotting lighted the old reliable kerosene lamps. joe wegg was as much astonished as anyone. "there has been an accident to the machinery," he said to mr. merrick. "i'll run over to the mill and see what has happened." "i will go with you," said arthur weldon, and major doyle also decided to accompany the young man. uncle john and his three nieces remained in the hall, and mr. merrick took occasion to make a little speech in which he explained that a hitch in the working of the electric plant was liable to happen at first, but after a few days the dynamos could be fully depended upon. he had scarcely finished this explanation when arthur came running back into the hall in much excitement. he approached mr. merrick and said in a low voice: "the machinery is all right, sir. some one has cut the wires." "cut the wires!" "yes. joe thinks it's the work of the mill hands. the wires are cut in all directions, and several of the men from royal have been seen loitering around by cox and booth, the detectives." the girls overheard this assertion, and patsy exclaimed: "i'm going to the office, to make sure our power hasn't been tampered with." the meeting broke up at once and the villagers trooped out to investigate. mr. merrick and arthur walked with the girls to the printing office, where they found thursday smith and hetty working by the light of tallow candles. "the power is off," said smith quietly. "then the wire from royal has also been cut," said patsy. "what shall we do? his paper must come out to-morrow morning, in spite of anything and everything!" "do you know who cut the wires?" inquired thursday. "we think the mill hands must have done it." "not with skeelty's consent, i'll be bound," said mr. merrick. "the manager is too fearful of a damage suit to play any tricks." "a cut wire may be repaired," suggested the pressman, and even as he spoke joe wegg came in, accompanied by the two detectives and the major. "cox has interviewed one of the workmen from royal," said joe, "and the fellow says there's a strike at the mill and everything is closed down. skeelty is barricaded in his office building, wild with fear, for the men have captured the company's store and helped themselves to the stock of liquors. the man cox spoke with, who seems to be a well disposed fellow, predicts all kinds of trouble, and perhaps rioting, before this thing is ended." they listened to this report in amazement. "i conjecture," said the major, "that the rascally manager has given his men too much leeway. he's encouraged them in mischief until they've taken the bit between their teeth and turned against even their master. i have no personal acquaintance with the villain, but i imagine it serves him right." "but, dear me!" cried patsy, wringing her hands; "what'll become of the paper? it's nearly ten o'clock now." thursday turned to joe wegg. "can't we connect our supply wire with your new plant, so as to use your power?" he asked. "easily. an hour's work will serve to make the connection. but unless we watch the wire every minute those fellows will cut it again. the town's full of the rascals, and they're not exactly sober, either." "watch the wire; that's the idea," said uncle john. "it's only a short distance to the mill, and i'm sure the villagers will volunteer for this duty." "of course," said joe. "major doyle, will you mount guard over my men at the dynamos, to see they're not interfered with, while i look after the wire?" "sure enough; it'll remind me of the old war times," said the major readily. "where is arthur?" asked louise. "we left him at the mill." they left the office at once, joe to get his line-men at work, and the major to join weldon in guarding the dynamos. one of the detectives went with mr. wegg, but the other, whose name was booth, remained to guard the printing office. mr. merrick now proposed that he take the girls home. patsy and beth refused to leave until the emergency was past, when the major and arthur could drive them to the farm, but louise was tired and went with uncle john in his buggy, the surrey being left for the rest of the party to use. arthur ran over for a moment to say everything was quiet at the mill and he did not think there would be any further trouble, and the report considerably reassured them. chapter xix a mere matter of revenge hetty and thursday continued to work on the paper. "we'll have everything ready by the time the line is connected," said the artist. "then it will be but a few moments' work to run off the edition." patsy and beth held candles for them, for the electric lights had been cut off with the power; so, seeing them all busily engaged, arthur weldon decided to return to the mill to join the major. booth sat in the front office, near the door, and in the darkness arthur nearly stumbled over him. "going away, sir?" asked the man. "yes; i'll see if i can be of any assistance at the mill." "be careful. those workmen have been drifting into town in squads, the last few minutes, and most of them are reckless with drink." "i'll watch out," said arthur. in the middle of the road a group of mill hands conversed excitedly in some foreign tongue; but they paid no attention to weldon as he passed them. others joined them, presently, and one began a harangue in a loud voice, to which they listened eagerly. then bob west slipped across from the hardware store and ran against the detective in the doorway of the printing office. "who's this?" he demanded, holding the man in a firm grip. "booth, sir." "good. i could not recognize you in this darkness. are you armed?" "yes." "then you and i will defend this door. who is inside?" "the pressman--thursday smith--and three of the girls." "the compositors?" "no; they've gone to the hotel. miss doyle, miss degraf, and--hetty hewitt." west went into the hack room, which was faintly illumined by candles stuck here and there. the girls and smith were all bending over the imposing stone, where the forms of the paper were being made up. "here," said west, taking a revolver from his pocket and laying it on the table; "i'm afraid there may be an attack on this office in a few minutes, for i understand the language of those strikers and have been listening to them. if any of the mill hands attempt to break into this room don't be afraid to shoot." "why should the men wish to attack us, sir?" asked patsy wonderingly. "there are several reasons. they're after smith, for one thing. they've an old grudge against him to settle. aside from the mere matter of revenge i overheard one of them telling his friends to smash the press and keep the paper from coming out, and mr. boglin would pay them well for the job." smith carelessly thrust the revolver into his hip pocket. "the paper will come out if mr. wegg gives us the power," he said. "can you let me have a revolver, mr. west?" asked hetty. "could you use it?" "i think so." he looked at her a moment and then took a second revolver from his pocket. "i've robbed my hardware stock," he said with a smile. "but i advise you girls to keep your hands off the thing unless a crisis arises. i don't imagine the gang will get past me and booth at the entrance, but if any stragglers come your way smith has authority to drive them back. i'm justice of the peace, and i hereby appoint you all special officers of the law." he said this lightly, fearing to alarm the girls unnecessarily, and then passed through the doorway and joined booth at the front. the telephone rang and patsy answered it. "how soon will the forms be ready?" asked arthur's voice. "in ten minutes--perhaps five," she answered. "we'll have the power on in ten minutes more. tell smith not to lose an instant's time in running off the edition, for we don't know how long we can keep the line open. the strikers are threatening us, even now." "all right," called patsy; "just give us the power for a few minutes, and we'll be through for to-night." she went back to thursday and reported. "there may be a few typographical errors, and i'm afraid it's a bad make-up," he remarked; "but i'll have the thing on the press in five minutes." with mallet and shooting-stick he tightened the quoins, then lifted the heavy iron frames filled with type and slid them onto the bed of the press. they gave him all the light the flickering candles afforded as he adjusted the machinery, and all were bending over the press when a low, distant growl was heard, rising slowly to a frenzied shout. a revolver popped--another--followed by wild cries from the street. the girls grew a little pale, but thursday smith put his hand on the lever of the press and said: "all right. the moment they give us the current we're ready to run." patsy straightened up with a sigh of relief, then gave a low cry as the screens of the two windows of the pressroom were smashed in and through the openings men began to tumble into the room. at once hetty confronted them with leveled revolver and the sight caused them to hesitate. "out o' the way, you women!" called a burly fellow who wore a green sweater and an oilskin hat; "we don't want to hurt you if we can help. there's the one we're after!" he pointed a finger at thursday smith. "you can't have him," retorted beth, half shielded behind the militant hetty. "this is private property, and you're trespassing. unless you go away at once you will suffer the consequences." this defense seemed to surprise them, for they fell back a little toward the windows. at that moment, with a low rumble, the press started, moving slowly at first but gradually acquiring speed. the sight aroused the resentment of the invaders. "stop that press!" yelled their spokesman excitedly. "stop it, smith, or we'll put both you and the machine out of business." thursday paid no attention to anything but his press. the huge cylinder of white paper was unrolling, passing under the platen and emerging at the other end as neatly folded copies of the millville daily tribune. with a roar of rage the big fellow leaped forward, but at the action a shot rang out and he fell headlong almost at the foot of the press. beth and patsy turned their heads an instant to glance at hetty. the artist's face was white and set; her eyes sparkled brilliantly; she held the still smoking weapon in readiness for another shot. but the men were awed by the fall of their leader. they watched beth leap to the platform beside thursday smith and draw his revolver from his pocket, where he had placed it. hetty's courage had inspired her, and beth had handled pistols before. the men read the determined eyes fixed upon them; they noted smith's indifference to their threats. the defenders of the press and pressman were only girls, but they were girls evidently not afraid to shoot. no advance was made and the tableau was dramatic. smith watched his press with undivided attention and it clattered away at full speed until the frail building shook with its powerful, steady motion. then suddenly it began to slow down. the power was off, and the machine came to an abrupt stop. thursday stepped from the platform and looked at the index of the counter. "four hundred and sixty-three. twenty-two short, miss doyle," he announced. "that'll do, thursday." he came to her side, then, facing the sullen, glowering group of mill hands. "boys," said he, "it won't do you any good to interfere with us to-night. the paper for to-morrow morning is already printed, and ojoy boglin isn't a big enough man to stop it, now or ever. better go back to royal and settle your troubles with skeelty, for if you stay here the citizens of millville are in the mood to shoot you down like dogs." they stood undecided a moment, but the argument had evidently struck home. "what's the matter with harris?" asked one, pointing to the motionless form of the man in the green sweater. "is he dead?" "i suppose so," answered thursday coolly; but he stooped to examine hetty's victim, rolling him over so that his face was upward. "no; he isn't hurt much, i'm sorry to say. the bullet glanced off his forehead and stunned him, that's all. take the brute, if you want him, and go." they obeyed in silence. several stepped forward and raised the unconscious harris, bearing him to the window, where they passed him to those without. then they also retreated through the windows and the room was cleared. only then did hetty and beth venture to lower their weapons. "oh, dear!" cried patsy, in a low, agitated voice; "i'm so glad you didn't kill him, hetty." "i'm not," returned the artist doggedly. "he deserved death, at the least, and by killing him i'd have cheated the gallows." then she glanced around at the horrified faces of her friends and burst into tears. chapter xx defending the press in the front room bob west and the detective were having a busy time. at the first rush they each fired a shot over the heads of the mob, merely to let them know the place was guarded. in the darkness it was impossible for the strikers to tell how many armed men confronted them, so they fell back a little, but formed a cordon around the entire building. from the printing office to the old mill was a distance of only a few hundred feet, and every able-bodied inhabitant of millville except peggy mcnutt and sara cotting--who had discreetly disappeared at the first sign of danger--was assisting joe wegg to protect the electric cable he was trying to connect. the men from royal were scattered all along the line, peering through the dim light to discover a vulnerable point of attack but deterred from interfering by the determination of the stalwart defenders. mobs are invariably cowardly, and this one, composed of the lowest strata of mixed american and foreign laborers, was no exception to the general rule. however, when word was finally passed along from the mill that the dynamo was running and supplying power to the printing press, a howl of rage went up and a sudden rush was made for the line, the attack concentrating at one point. the defenders promptly grouped themselves in front of the threatened pole and seth davis, the blacksmith, wielding a heavy sledge hammer, did valiant service, clearing a space around him with little difficulty. joe wegg, arthur weldon, cox the detective, lon taft, nick thome and even little skim clark were all in the melee, fighting desperately for time to enable thursday smith to work his press, using whatever cudgels they had been able to pick up to keep the assailants from the pole. slowly, however, they were forced back by superior numbers until finally one of the mill hands clambered up the pole and cut the wire. "never mind," said arthur to joe, as they retreated fighting toward the printing office; "i think they've had time to run off the edition, provided smith was ready with the forms." the mob was by this time in an ugly mood and the nearer joe and arthur edged toward the printing office the more numerous their enemies became. the millville people were getting rather the worst of the scrimmage when out rushed thursday smith, swinging a stout iron bar he had taken from the press, and with this terrible weapon he struck out so vigorously that the diversion in their favor enabled the retreating villagers to gain the office, where booth and bob west fired several shots that effectually checked the mob. "stand back, ye villains!" cried a loud voice, as major doyle marched calmly down the road from the mill; "how dare ye interfere with a gentleman?" one of the leaders confronted him menacingly. the major slapped his face with the flat of his hand and then kicked the fellow in the shins. "didn't i say to get out o' my way?" he roared, and to the surprise of everyone--even the major, perhaps--they fell hack and allowed him to walk leisurely into the printing office. having succeeded in their primary attempt to cut the wire, and finding the determined band of defenders more dangerous than they had thought, the workmen retreated in the direction of royal, where there was more to be gained by rioting than in millville. when at last the town was clear of them, arthur, who was considerably battered and bruised but pleased with the triumphant ending of the adventure, drove the girls and the major to the farm. they urged hetty to accompany them, but she declared she was not a bit nervous and preferred to sleep at the hotel. "i think the trouble is over for to-night," said west, and all agreed with him. cox and booth decided to sleep in the printing office, and after the girls had driven away with their escorts and the villagers had dispersed to their homes, thursday put on his coat and walked to the hotel with hetty. "all that row was about me," he remarked disconsolately. "but they didn't get you," said hetty, triumph in her voice. "no." he did not mention her bravery, or the loyal support of beth and patsy, but after a moment he added: "i'm not worth defending." "how do you know?" asked hetty. "it occurs to me, mr. smith, that you are as much a stranger to yourself as to us." "that is true." "and in emergencies you are not averse to defending others. of course miss degraf and her cousin wanted the paper printed, at all hazards. i don't blame them for that; but i--" she hesitated. "you simply stood by a comrade. thank you, hetty." "good night, thursday." "will you be able to sleep to-night?" "i'm going straight to bed. the rumpus has quieted my nerves." "good night, then." in the early morning mr. merrick was awakened by a red glare that flooded his bedroom. going to the window he found the sky at the north full of flame. he threw on his bathrobe and went to the door of arthur weldon's room, arousing the young man with a rap on the panels. "the settlement at royal is burning," he reported. arthur came out, very weary and drowsy, for he had not been asleep long and the strenuous work of the night had tired him. "let it burn," he said, glancing through a window at the lurid light of the conflagration. "we couldn't be of any use going over there and, after all, it isn't our affair to relieve skeelty." then he told uncle john of the riot in the village, for the old gentleman had been sound asleep when the party returned to the farm. "the blaze is the work of those crazy strikers, i suppose," said mr. merrick. "it looks from here as if they had set fire to their own homes, as well as to the paper mills and office and store buildings. it will be fortunate if the forest does not also burn." "don't worry, sir," advised arthur. "we'll discover the extent of the fire by daylight. for my part, i'm going back to bed, and it will be well for you to follow my example." "another item for the paper," whispered a soft voice, and there was patsy beside them at the window. mr. merrick sighed. "i had no idea so much excitement could possibly happen at millville," said he. "if this keeps on we'll have to go back to new york for quiet. but let us get to bed, my dear, for to-morrow is likely to be a busy day for us all." chapter xxi the coming of fogerty the homeless mill hands flocked to chazy junction next day, from whence a freight train distributed them over other parts of the country. the clearing at royal falls was now a heap of charred embers, for every one of the cheap, rough-board buildings had been consumed by the fire. skeelty had watched the destruction of his plant with feelings of mingled glee and disgust. he was insured against loss, and his rash workmen, who had turned upon him so unexpectedly, had accidentally settled the strike and their own future by starting the fire during their drunken orgies. there being no longer a mill to employ them they went elsewhere for work, rather glad of the change and regretting nothing. as for the manager, he stood to lose temporary profits but was not wholly displeased by the catastrophe. transportation of his manufactured products had been so irregular and undefendable that even while he watched the blaze he determined to rebuild his plant nearer the main line of a railway, for many such locations could be found where the pine was as plentiful as here. at dawn he entered the hotel at millville with his arms full of books and papers which he had succeeded in saving from the fire, and securing a room went directly to bed. it was afternoon when he awoke and after obtaining a meal he strolled out into the village and entered the newspaper office. "here's an item for your paper," he said to patsy, who was busy at her desk. "the mills at royal will never be rebuilt, and millville has lost the only chance it ever had of becoming a manufacturing center. the whole settlement, which belonged to boglin and myself, went up in smoke, and i'm willing to let it go at that. i shall collect the insurance, make myself good, and if anything's left over, that fool boglin is welcome to it. i admit i made a mistake in ever allowing him to induce me to build at royal. boglin owned the land and i used his money, so i gave up to him; but i'm through with the _honer'ble_ ass now. put it all in the paper; it'll make him feel good. you might add that i'm taking the evening train for new york, shaking the dust of your miserable village from my feet for good and all." "thank you, sir," said patsy, brightly; "the millville people will appreciate their good luck, i'm sure." skeelty hung around the town for awhile, sneering at the new electric light plant and insolently railing at any of the natives who would converse with him. then he hired nick thorne to drive him over to chazy junction, and that was the last millville ever saw of him. during this day joe wegg's men succeeded in repairing all the wires which had been tampered with and in making a proper and permanent connection of the cable to the printing office. that evening the village was again brilliantly lighted and thereafter the big dynamos whirled peacefully and without interruption. the girls had a busy day, as uncle john had predicted, for all the exciting incidents of the evening and night before had to be written up and the next day's paper teemed with "news" of a character to interest all its readers. beth's editorial declared the neighborhood well rid of the paper mill, which had been of little advantage but had caused no end of annoyance because of the rough and mischievous character of the workmen employed. in this statement nearly everyone agreed with her. several had been wounded in the riot of the eventful evening, but none seriously injured. the workmen took away their damaged comrades and lon taft drove over to huntingdon and had his head sewed up by the doctor. other villagers suffered mere bruises, but all who engaged in the fight posed as heroes and even peggy mcnutt, who figured as "not present," told marvelous tales of how he had worsted seven mill hands in a stand-up fight, using only his invincible fists. the following forenoon the liveryman at the junction brought to millville a passenger who had arrived by the morning train--a quiet, boyish-looking man with a shock of brick-red hair and a thin, freckled face. he was driven directly to the merrick farm, where uncle john received him cordially, but with surprise, and at once favored the new arrival with a long interview in his private room. the girls, who had not yet gone to the office, awaited somewhat impatiently the result of this conference, for they already knew the red-headed youth to be the great fogerty--admitted by even his would-be rivals, the king of new york detectives. also they knew that uncle john had employed him some time ago to ferret out the mystery of the identity of thursday smith, and the fact of fogerty's presence indicated he had something to report. however, when mr. merrick came out of the private room his usually cheery countenance wore a troubled expression. fogerty was invariably placid and inscrutable, so no explanation could be gleaned from his demeanor. "ready for town, my dears?" asked uncle john. "yes; the surrey is waiting," answered louise. "then go along, and fogerty and i will join you at the office presently. i want to confer with the major and arthur before--before taking any steps to--" "what's the news, uncle?" demanded patsy, impatiently. "you shall know in good time." "who is thursday smith?" "by and by, dear. don't bother me now. but that reminds me; you are to say nothing to--to--thursday about mr. fogerty's arrival. treat him--thursday, you know--just as you have always done, for the present, at least. whatever we determine on in regard to this man, during our conference, we must not forget that he has acted most gallantly since he came to millville. we really owe him a debt of gratitude." with this somewhat incomprehensible statement the girls were forced to content themselves. feeling quite helpless, they drove to the office and left the men to settle the fate of thursday smith. the "pressman" was now the man-of-all-work about the modest but trim little publishing plant. he attended to whatever job printing came in, made the etchings from hetty's drawings, cast the stereotypes, made up the forms and operated the press. but aside from this mechanical work smith took the telegraphic news received by hetty, edited and condensed it and wrote the black-letter headings over the various items. all this, with a general supervision over the girl compositors, kept the man busy from daybreak to midnight. in spite of this, the tribune was essentially a "girls' paper," since thursday smith was the only man employed on it--not counting the "dummy" editor, arthur weldon, who did nothing but keep the books, and found this not an arduous task. hetty, at miss briggs' desk, attended the telegraph instrument and long-distance telephone, receiving news over both wires, and still found time to draw her daily cartoons and additional humorous sketches which she "worked in" whenever the mood seized her. the typesetting was done by the dwyer sisters--a colorless pair but quite reliable--while the reportorial and editorial work was divided between louise, beth and patsy, none of whom shirked a single duty. indeed, they had come to love this work dearly and were enthusiastic over the _tribune_, which they fondly believed was being watched with envious admiration by all the journalistic world. this belief was not wholly due to egotism. their "exchanges," both city and country, had shown considerable interest in the "millville experiment," as they called it, and only a few days before the leading journal of a good-sized city had commented at length on the "girls' newspaper" and, after indulging in some humorous remarks, concluded quite seriously with the statement that "its evident sincerity, clean contents and typographical neatness render the _millville daily tribune_ worthy a better setting than the somnolent country village whose census is too low to be officially recorded." "but that's all right," said patsy, smiling at the praise; "we'd never have dared to start a newspaper anywhere else, because a journal that will do for millville might not make a hit if it bumped against experienced competition." "we were woefully ignorant when we began, a few weeks ago," commented beth, glancing with pride at her latest editorial, which she thought had caught the oracular tone of the big city newspapers. "and we're not expert journalists, even yet," added louise, with a sigh. "we've improved, to be sure; but i imagine there is still lots of room for improvement." "one trouble," said patsy, "is that every inhabitant of millville wants to see his or her name in print every day, whether he or she has done anything worthy of publication or not. if the name isn't printed, we've made an enemy; and, if it is, the paper is sure to suffer more or less ridicule." "that is quite true, my dear," responded louise, the reporter. "i've said everything, about every one of them, that has ever happened, or threatened to happen, since we started the paper, and it is driving me crazy to discover anything more about these stupid natives that will do to print." hetty had overheard this conversation and now looked up with a smile. "has your 'local happenings' column been prepared for to-morrow, mrs. weldon?" she inquired. "no; i'm about to start out to unearth some items," replied louise, wearily. "let me do it for you. i've an hour or so to spare and i won't need to leave my desk," suggested the artist. "it is my duty, you know, hetty, and i've no right to evade it." "evade it for to-day. go home and rest. i'll do your column for to-morrow, and after the vacation you can tackle the thrilling situations with better courage." "thank you, hetty. but i won't go home. i'll wait here to see fogerty." "fogerty!" exclaimed the artist, with a start of surprise. "do you mean the detective?" "yes," said louise, regretting she had inadvertently mentioned the name. "but what is there now to detect?" asked hetty suspiciously. "our troubles seem ended with the burning of the mill and the flitting of skeelty and his workmen." louise hardly knew how to reply; but patsy, who trusted the queer girl artist, said quite frankly: "there remains the mystery of thursday smith to fathom, you know." hetty flushed and an indignant look swept over her face. "what right has anyone to solve that mystery?" she asked defiantly. "isn't that thursday smith's own business?" "perhaps," returned patsy, somewhat amused; "but smith hasn't been able to discover who he is--or was, rather--and seems really anxious to know." hetty bent over her desk for a time. then she looked up and her thin features were white and drawn with anxiety. "when you discover who thursday smith is," said she, "the millville tribune will lose its right bower." "why?" "before his accident, or whatever it was that made him lose his memory, he was an unusual man, a man of exceptional ability. you know that." "we are all inclined to admit it," answered patsy. "but what then?" "men of ability," declared hetty slowly, "are of two classes: the very successful, who attain high and honorable positions, or the clever scoundrels who fasten themselves like leeches on humanity and bleed their victims with heartless unconcern. what will you gain if you unmask the past of thursday smith? you uncover a rogue or a man of affairs, and in either case you will lose your pressman. better leave the curtain drawn, miss doyle, and accept thursday smith as he is." there was so much good sense in this reasoning that all three girls were impressed and began to regret that uncle john had called fogerty to untangle the skein. but it was now too late for such repentance and, after all, they were curious to discover who their remarkable employee really was. even while the awkward silence that had fallen upon the group of girls continued, the door opened to admit uncle john, fogerty, major doyle and arthur weldon. except for the detective they were stern-faced and uncompromising. chapter xxii unmasked quintus fogerty was as unlike the typical detective as one could imagine. small in size, slight and boyish, his years could not readily be determined by the ordinary observer. his face was deeply furrowed and lined, yet a few paces away it seemed the face of a boy of eighteen. his cold gray eyes were persistently staring but conveyed no inkling of his thoughts. his brick-red hair was as unkempt as if it had never known a comb, yet the attire of the great detective was as fastidiously neat as if he had dressed for an important social function. taken altogether there was something mistrustful and uncanny about fogerty's looks, and his habit of eternally puffing cigarettes rendered his companionship unpleasant. yet of the man's professional ability there was no doubt; mr. merrick and arthur weldon had had occasion to employ him before, with results that justified their faith in him. the detective greeted the young ladies with polite bows, supplemented by an aimless compliment on the neatness of their office. "never would have recognized it as a newspaper sanctum," said he in his thin, piping voice. "no litter, no stale pipes lying about, no cursing and quarreling, no excitement whatever. the editorial room is the index to the workshop; i'll see if the mechanical department is kept as neatly." he opened the door to the back room, passed through and closed it softly behind him. mr. merrick made a dive for the door and followed fogerty. "what's the verdict, arthur?" asked louise curiously. "why, i--i believe the verdict isn't rendered yet," he hastily replied, and followed mr. merrick into the pressroom. "now, then," cried patsy, grabbing the major firmly, "you'll not stir a step, sir, until you tell us the news!" "what news, patricia?" inquired the old gentleman blandly. "who was thursday smith?" "the identical individual he is now," said the major. "don't prevaricate, sir! who was he? what did he do? what is his right name?" "is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?" "be good, daddy! tell us all about it," said patsy coaxingly. "the man thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of robinson crusoe's man friday." "major, you're trifling!" "or mayhap an ex-president of the united states, or forby the senator from oklahoma. belike he was once minister to borneo, an' came home in a hurry an' forgot who he was. but john merrick will be wanting me." he escaped and opened the door. then, with his hand on the knob, he turned and added: "why don't ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun for yerselves? i suspect there's an item in store for ye." then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in a fluttering group. fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intently watching the dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow mr. merrick was explaining in a casual voice how many "m's" were required to make a newspaper column. in another part of the long room arthur weldon was leaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if critically examining them. smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning and oiling the big press. "a daily newspaper," said the major, loudly, as he held up a warning finger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom hetty's pale face appeared, "means a daily grind for all concerned in it. there's no vacation for the paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold; it's the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, and has no conscience. just as regularly as the world rolls 'round the press rolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes little difference to either of the revolutionists." while he spoke the major led the way across the room to the stereotyping plant, which brought his party to a position near the press. smith glanced at them and went on with his work. it was not unusual to have the pressroom thus invaded. presently fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the complicated machine. smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective fogerty gave a cleverly assumed start and exclaimed: "good god!" instantly thursday smith straightened up and looked at the man questioningly. fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder: "why, melville, old man, what are you doing here? we wondered what had become of you, all these months. shake hands, my boy! i'm glad i've found you." smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes. everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressed excitement. "what's wrong, harold?" continued fogerty, as if hurt by the other's hesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. "you haven't forgotten me, have you? i'm mccormick, you know, and you and i have had many a good time together in the past." smith passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture. "what name did you call me, sir?" he asked. "melville; harold melville, of east sixty-sixth street. i'm sure i'm right. there can't be two like you in the world, you know." thursday smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gait walked to a stool, on which he weakly sank. he wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and looked at fogerty with a half frightened air. "and you--are--mccormick?" he faltered. "of course." smith stared a moment and then shook his head. "it's no use," he said despairingly; "i can't recall a single memory of either harold melville or--or his friend mccormick. pardon me, sir; i must confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previous to the last two years. until this moment i--i could not recall my own name." "h'm," muttered fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you?" "no. you tell me my name is melville, and you seem to recognize me as a man whom you once knew. i accept your statement in good faith, but i cannot corroborate it from my own knowledge." "that's queer," retorted fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man's face. "let me explain, please," said smith, and related his curious experience in practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to mr. merrick. "i had hoped," he concluded, "that if ever i met one who knew me formerly, or heard my right name mentioned, my memory would come back to me; but in this i am sorely disappointed. did you know me well, sir?" "pretty well," answered the detective, after a slight hesitation. "then tell me something about myself. tell me who i was." "here--in public?" asked fogerty, with a suggestive glance at the spectators, who had involuntarily crowded nearer. smith flushed, but gazed firmly into the faces surrounding him. "why not?" he returned. "these young ladies and mr. merrick accepted me without knowledge of my antecedents. they are entitled to as full an explanation as--as i am." "you place me, melville, in a rather embarrassing position," declared fogerty. "this is a queer case--the queerest in all my experience. better let me post you in a private interview." smith trembled a bit, from nervousness; but he persisted in his demand. "these people are entitled to the truth," said he. "tell us frankly all you know about me, and do not mince words--whatever the truth may be." "oh, it's not so bad," announced the detective, with a shrug; "or at least it wouldn't be in new york, among your old aristocratic haunts. but here, in a quiet country town, among these generous and simple-hearted folks who have befriended you, the thing is rather difficult to say." "say it!" commanded smith. "i will. many new yorkers remember the firm of melville & ford, the cleverest pair of confidence men who ever undertook to fleece the wealthy lambs of the metropolis." "confidence men!" gasped smith, in a voice of horror. "yes, putting it mildly. you were both jolly good fellows and made a host of friends. you were well-groomed, rode in automobiles, frequented good clubs and had a stunning establishment on sixty-sixth street where you entertained lavishly. you could afford to, for there was where you fleeced your victims. but it wasn't so very bad, as i said. you chose the wealthy sons of the super-rich, who were glad to know such popular men-about-town as harold melville and edgar ford. when one set of innocents had been so thoroughly trimmed that they compared notes and began to avoid you, you had only to pick up another bunch of lambs, for new york contains many distinct flocks of the species. as they could afford to lose, none of them ever complained to the police, although the central office had an eye on you and knew your methods perfectly. "finally you made a mistake--or rather ford did, for he was not as clever as you were. he brought an imitation millionaire to your house; a fellow who was putting up a brazen front on the smallest sort of a roll. you won his money and he denounced you, getting away with a pack of marked cards for evidence. at this you both took fright and decided on a hasty retreat. gathering together your plunder--which was a royal sum, i'm convinced--you and ford jumped into a motor car and--vanished from new york. "the balance of your history i base on premise. ford has been located in chicago, where, with an ample supply of money, he is repeating his new york operations; but harold melville has never been heard of until this day. i think the true explanation is easily arrived at. goaded by cupidity--and perhaps envy of your superior talents--ford took advantage of the situation and, finding the automobile speeding along a deserted road, knocked you on the head, tumbled you out of the car, and made off with your combined winnings. the blow had the effect--not so uncommon as you think--of destroying your recollection of your past life, and you have for two years been wandering in total ignorance of what caused your affliction." during this recital smith sat with his eyes eagerly fixed upon the speaker's face, dwelling upon every word. at the conclusion of the story he dropped his face in his hands a moment, visibly shuddering. then again he looked up, and after reading the circle of pitying faces confronting him he bravely met mr. merrick's eyes. "sir," he said in a voice that faltered in spite of his efforts to render it firm, "you now know who i am. when i first came to you i was a mere irresponsible hobo, a wandering tramp who had adopted the name of thursday smith because he was ignorant of his own, but who had no cause to be ashamed of his manhood. to-day i am discovered in my true guise. as harold melville, the disreputable trickster, i am not fit to remain in your employ--to associate with honest men and women. you will forgive my imposition, i think, because you know how thoroughly ignorant i was of the truth; but i will impose upon you no longer. i am sorry, sir, for i have been happy here; but i will go, thanking you for the kindly generosity that prompted you to accept me as i seemed to be, not as i am." he rose, his face showing evidence of suffering, and bowed gravely. hetty hewitt walked over and stood by his side, laying her hand gently upon his arm. but thursday smith did not know john merrick very well. the little gentleman had silently listened, observing meanwhile the demeanor of the accused, and now he smiled in his pleasant, whimsical way and caught smith's hand in both his own. "man, man!" he cried, "you're misjudging both me and yourself, i don't know this fellow melville. you don't know him, either. but i do know thursday smith, who has won my confidence and by his manly acts, and i'll stand by him through thick and thin!" "i am harold melville--the gambler--the confidence man." "you're nothing of the sort, you're just thursday smith, and no more responsible for harold melville than i am." "hooray!" exclaimed patsy doyle enthusiastically. "uncle's right, thursday. you're our friend, and the mainstay of the _millville daily tribune_. we shall not allow you to desert us just because you've discovered that your--your--ancestor--wasn't quite respectable." "that's it, exactly," asserted beth. "it's like hearing a tale of an ancestor, thursday, or of some member of your family who lived before you. you cannot be responsible, in any way, for another man's wickedness." "as i look at it," said louise reflectively, "you are just two years old, thursday, and innocent of any wrongdoing before that day you first found yourself." "there's no use our considering melville at all," added uncle john cheerfully. "i'm sorry we ever heard of him, except that in one way it clears up a mystery. thursday smith, we like you and trust you. do not doubt yourself because of this tale. i'll vouch for your fairness and integrity. forget melville, who has never really existed so far as any of us are concerned; be yourself, and count on our friendship and regard, which thursday smith has fairly won." hetty was crying softly, her cheek laid against thursday's sleeve. the man stood as if turned to stone, but his cheeks were flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his head proudly poised. fogerty lighted a fresh cigarette, watching the scene with an imperturbable smile. suddenly smith awoke to life. he half turned, looked wonderingly at hetty, and then folded her thin form in his arms and pressed a kiss on her forehead. fogerty coughed. uncle john jerked out his handkerchief and blew his nose like a bugle call. the major's eyes were moist, for the old soldier was sympathetic as a child. but patsy, a little catch in her voice, impulsively put her arms around the unashamed pair and murmured: "i'm so glad, hetty! i'm so glad, thursday! but--dear me--aren't we going to have any paper to-morrow morning?" that relieved the tension and everybody laughed. thursday released hetty and shook uncle john's hand most gratefully. then they all wanted to shake hands, and did until it came to fogerty's turn. but now smith drew back and looked askance at the detective. "i do not know you, mr. mccormick," he said with dignity. "my name's not mccormick; it's fogerty," said the other, without malice. "i was simply testing your memory by claiming to be an old friend. personally i never knew harold melville, but i'm mighty glad to make thursday smith's acquaintance and will consider it an honor if you'll shake my hand." smith was too happy to refuse. he took fogerty's hand. chapter xxiii the journalists abdicate mr. merrick told thursday smith, in an apologetic way, how he had hired fogerty to unravel the mystery of his former life, and how the great detective had gone to work so intelligently and skillfully that, with the aid of a sketch hetty had once made of the pressman, and which mr. merrick sent on, he had been able to identify the man and unearth the disagreeable details of his history. thursday was too humble, by this time, and too grateful, besides, to resent uncle john's interference. he admitted that, after all, it was better he should know the truth. "i've nothing to bother me now but the future," he said, "and with god's help i mean to keep the name of thursday smith clean and free from any reproach." after the interview he went about his duties as before and hetty sat down at her desk and took the telegraphic news that came clicking over the wire as if nothing important in her life had occurred. but the girl journalists were all excitement and already were beginning to plan the things they might do to make hetty and thursday happier. cox and booth had gone away and mr. merrick thanked fogerty for his skillful service and gave him a fat check. "it's a mighty interesting case, sir," declared the detective, "and i'm as glad as any of you that it has ended so comfortably. whatever melville might have been--and his record is a little worse than i related it--there's no doubt of thursday smith's honesty. he's a mighty fine fellow, and fate played a proper trick when she blotted out his unscrupulous mind and left him as innocent as an unborn babe. he will do well in his new life, i'm sure, and that girl of his, hetty hewitt--i've know of her reckless ways for years--has also redeemed herself and turned out a regular brick! all of which, mr. merrick is unusual in real life, more's the pity, and therefore it makes even a cold-blooded detective feel good to witness it." mr. merrick smiled benignantly and fogerty drove over to the junction to catch his train. after luncheon, patsy, while arranging her galley proofs, inquired of louise for the local column. "hetty said she'd attend to it," was the reply; "but we are all upset to-day and things are at sixes and sevens." "the column is all prepared, miss doyle," announced hetty. "where is it?" "thursday has made it ready for the press. it's--illustrated," she confessed. "i'd rather you wouldn't see it until the paper is out, if you can trust me." "to be sure," said patsy. "that's one responsibility i'm relieved of, anyhow." the paper was a bit uneven in appearance next morning, but when patsy came down to breakfast she found both uncle john and the major roaring with laughter over hetty's locals. the first item stated that "mrs. thorne took tea at sam cotting's last evening," (the cottings being notoriously inhospitable) and the picture showed mrs. thorne, a sour-faced woman, departing from the store with a package of tea. then came the announcement that "eph hildreth got shot at west's hardware store," and there was a picture of west weighing out a pound of buckshot for his customer. the next item said: "our distinguished fellow citizen, marshall peggy mcnutt, was discovered unconscious on his front porch at p.m." the drawing of mcnutt was one of the best of the series. it was his habit to "snooze" in an easy chair on his porch every afternoon, and hetty depicted the little man with both feet--meat and wood--on the rail, his mouth open and eyes shut, while lusty snores were indicated by radiating lines and exclamation points. the widow clark's cow occupied the next square, being tethered to a stake while skim approached the animal with pail and milking-stool. below the drawing were the words: "mr. skimton clark, cowward." a few other local hits were concluded by a picture of hon. ojoy boglin shaking his fist at mr. skeelty, who held a package of money in his grasp labeled "insurance." below was the simple legend: "o joy!" the artist's cleverness became the subject of conversation at the breakfast table, and arthur remarked: "you won't be able to hold hetty in millville long. her talent enables her to draw big salaries in new york and it isn't likely she will consent to bury herself in this little town." "i'm not so sure," said patsy. "if we can hold thursday smith we can hold hetty, you know." "we won't need to hold either of them for long," observed beth; "for in another three weeks or so we must leave here and return to the city, when of course the _millville daily tribune_ must suspend publication." "i've been thinking of that," said uncle john. "so have i," declared patsy. "for a long time i was puzzled what to do, for i hated dreadfully to kill our dear _tribune_ after we've made it such a nice paper. yet i knew very well we couldn't stay here all winter and run it. but last night i had an inspiration. thursday will marry hetty, i suppose, and they can both stay here and run the tribune. they are doing most of the work now. if uncle john agrees, we will sell out to them on 'easy terms.'" "good gracious, patsy!" chuckled the major, "wherever can the poor things borrow money to keep going? do you want to load onto an innocent bride an' groom the necessity of meeting a deficit of a couple of hundred dollars every week?" patsy's face fell. "they have no money, i know," she said, "except what they earn." "and their wages'll be cut off when they begin hiring themselves," added the major. "no; you can't decently thrust such an incubus on hetty and thursday--or on anyone else. you've been willing to pay the piper for the sake of the dance, but no one else would do it." "quite true," agreed arthur. "the days of the _millville tribune_ are numbered." "let us not settle that question just yet," proposed mr. merrick, who had been deep in thought. "i'll consider patsy's proposition for awhile and then talk with thursday. the paper belongs to the girls, but the outfit is mine, and i suppose i may do what i please with it when my nieces retire from journalism." even the major could not demur at this statement and so the conversation dropped. during the next few days uncle john visited the printing office several times and looked over the complete little plant with speculative eyes. then one day he made a trip to malvern, thirty miles up the railway line from the junction, where a successful weekly paper had long been published. he interviewed the editor, examined the outfit critically, and after asking numerous questions returned to millville in excellent spirits. then he invited thursday smith and hetty to dine at the farm on saturday evening, which was the one evening in the week they were free, there being no sunday morning paper. thursday had bought a new suit of clothes since he came to the _tribune_, and hetty, after much urging, finally prevailed upon him to accept the invitation. when the young man appeared at the farm he wore his new suit with an air of perfect ease that disguised its cheapness, and it was noticed that he seemed quite at home in the handsome living-room, where the party assembled after dinner. "i am in search of information, thursday," said uncle john in his pleasant way. "will you permit me to question you a bit?" "certainly, sir." "and you, hetty?" "ask anything you like, sir." "thank you. to begin with, what are your future plans? i understand, of course, you are to be married; but--afterward?" "we haven't considered that as yet, sir," replied thursday thoughtfully. "of course we shall stay with the _tribune_ as long as you care to employ our services; but--" "well?" "i have been given to understand the young ladies plan to return to new york at the end of september, and in that case of course the paper will suspend." "my nieces will be obliged to abandon journalism, to be sure," said mr. merrick; "but i see no reason why the paper should suspend. how would you and hetty like to remain in millville and run it?" both thursday and hetty smiled, but it was the man who answered; "we cannot afford such a luxury, sir." "would you care to make your future home in millville?" "oh, yes!" exclaimed hetty. "i love the quaint little town dearly, and the villagers are all my friends. i'm sure thursday doesn't care to go back to new york, where--where harold melville once lived. but, as he truly says, we couldn't make a living with the _tribune_, even if you gave us the use of the plant." "let us see about that," said uncle john. "i will admit, in advance, that a daily paper in such a place is absurd. none of us quite understood that when we established the _tribune_. my nieces thought a daily the only satisfactory sort of newspaper, because they were used to such, but it did not take long to convince me--and perhaps them--that in spite of all our efforts the _millville daily tribune_ would never thrive. it is too expensive to pay its own way and requires too much work to be a pleasant plaything. only unbounded enthusiasm and energy have enabled my clever nieces to avoid being swamped by the monster their ambition created." "that," said patsy, with a laugh, "is very clearly and concisely put, my dear uncle." "it was never intended to be a permanent thing, anyhow," continued mr. merrick; "yet i must express my admiration for the courage and talent my nieces have displayed in forcing a temporary success where failure was the logical conclusion. shortly, however, they intend to retire gracefully from the field of journalism, leaving me with a model country newspaper plant on my hands. therefore it is i, thursday and hetty, and not my nieces, who have a proposition to place before you. "while a daily paper is not appropriate in millville, a weekly paper, distributed throughout chazy county, would not only be desirable but could be made to pay an excellent yearly profit. through the enterprise of joe wegg, millville is destined to grow rapidly from this time on, and chazy county is populous enough to support a good weekly paper, in any event. therefore, my proposition is this: to turn the plant over to mr. and mrs. thursday smith, who will change the name to the _millville weekly tribune_ and run it as a permanent institution. your only expense for labor will be one assistant to set type and do odd jobs, since you are so competent that you can attend to all else yourselves. we will cut out the expensive news service we have heretofore indulged in and dispense with the private telegraph wire. joe wegg says he'll furnish you with what power you need free of all charge, because the paper will boost millville's interests, with which his own interests are identified. now, then, tell me what you think of my proposal." hetty and thursday had listened attentively and their faces proved they were enthusiastic over the idea. they said at once they would be glad to undertake the proposition. "however," said thursday, after a little reflection, "there are two things that might render our acceptance impossible. i suppose you will require rent for the outfit; but for a time, until we get well started, we could not afford to pay as much as you have a right to demand." "i have settled on my demands," replied mr. merrick, "and hope you will agree to them. you must pay me for the use of the outfit twenty per cent of your net profits, over and above all your operating and living expenses. when this sum has reimbursed me for my investment, the outfit will belong to you." thursday smith looked his amazement. "that seems hardly business-like, sir," he protested. "you are right; but this isn't entirely a business deal. you are saving my nieces the humiliation of suspending the paper they established and have labored on so lovingly. moreover, i regard you and hetty as friends whom i am glad to put in the way of a modest but--i venture to predict--a successful business career. what is your second objection?" "i heard mr. west say the other day that he would soon need the building we occupy to store his farm machinery in." "true; but i have anticipated that. i have completed plans for the erection of a new building for the newspaper, which will be located on the vacant lot next to the hotel. i purchased the lot a long time ago. the new building, for which the lumber is already ordered, will be a better one than the shed we are now in, and on the second floor i intend to have a cozy suite of rooms where you and hetty can make a home of your own. eh? how does that strike you, my children?" their faces were full of wonder and delight. "the new building goes with the outfit, on the same terms," continued mr. merrick. "that is i take one-fifth of your net profits for the whole thing." "but, sir," suggested thursday, "suppose no profits materialize?" "then i have induced you to undertake a poor venture and must suffer the consequences, which to me will be no hardship at all. in that case i will agree to find some better business for you, but i am quite positive you will make a go of the _millville weekly tribune_." "i think so, too, mr. merrick, or i would not accept your generous offer," replied smith. "what do you think, hetty?" "the idea pleases me immensely," she declared. "it is a splendid opportunity for us, and will enable us to live here quietly and forget the big outside world. new york has had a bad influence on both you and me, thursday, and here we can begin a new life of absolute respectability." "when do you intend to be married?" asked patsy. "we have scarcely thought of that, as yet, for until this evening we did not know what the future held in store for us." "couldn't you arrange the wedding before we leave?" asked beth. "it would delight us so much to be present at the ceremony." "i think we owe the young ladies that much, thursday," said hetty, after a brief hesitation. "nothing could please me better," he asserted eagerly. so they canvassed the wedding, and patsy proposed they transfer the paper to thursday and hetty--to become a weekly instead of a daily--in a week's time, and celebrate the wedding immediately after the second issue, so as to give the bridal couple a brief vacation before getting to work again. neither of them wished to take a wedding trip, and mr. merrick promised to rush the work on the new building so they could move into their new rooms in the course of a few weeks. chapter xxiv a cheerful blunder "we would like to ask your advice about one thing, sir," said thursday smith to mr. merrick, a little later that same evening. "would it be legal for me to marry under the name of thursday smith, or must i use my real name--harold melville?" uncle john could not answer this question, nor could the major or arthur. hetty and her fiancé had both decided to cling to the name of thursday smith thereafter, and they disliked to be married under any other--especially the detestable one of harold melville. "an act of legislature would render your new name legal, i believe," said mr. merrick; "but such an act could not be passed until after the date you have planned to be married." "but if it was made legal afterward it wouldn't matter greatly," suggested the major. "i do not think it matters at all," asserted hetty. "it's the man i'm marrying, not his name. i don't much care what he calls himself." "oh, but it must be legal, you know!" exclaimed patsy. "you don't care now, perhaps, but you might in the future. we cannot be certain, you know, that thursday is entirely free from his former connection with harold melville." "quite true," agreed the major. "then," said smith, with evident disappointment, "i must use the hateful name of melville for the wedding, and afterward abandon it for as long as possible." the nieces were greatly pleased with uncle john's arrangement, which relieved them of the newspaper and also furnished thursday and hetty, of whom they had grown really fond, with a means of gaining a livelihood. millville accepted the new arrangement with little adverse comment, the villagers being quite satisfied with a weekly paper, which would cost them far less than the daily had done. everyone was pleased to know thursday smith had acquired the business, for both he and hetty had won the cordial friendship of the simple-hearted people and were a little nearer to them than "the nabob's girls" could ever be. preparations were speedily pushed forward for the wedding, which the nieces undertook to manage themselves, the prospective bride and groom being too busy at the newspaper office to devote much attention to the preliminaries of the great event. the ceremony was to take place at the farmhouse of mr. merrick, and every inhabitant of millville was invited to be present. the minister would drive over from hooker's falls, and the ceremony was to be followed by a grand feast, for which delicacies were to be imported from new york. the girls provided a complete trousseau for hetty, as their wedding present, while arthur and the major undertook to furnish the new apartments, which were already under construction. uncle john's gift was a substantial check that would furnish the newly married couple with modest capital to promote their business or which they could use in case of emergencies. it was the very day before the wedding that fogerty gave them so great and agreeable a surprise that uncle john called it "fogerty's wedding present" ever afterward. in its physical form it was merely a telegram, but in its spiritual and moral aspect it proved the greatest gift thursday and hetty were destined to receive. the telegram was dated from new york and read as follows: "harold melville just arrested here for passing a bogus check under an assumed name. have interviewed him and find he is really melville, so thursday smith must be some one else, and doubtless a more respectable character. shall i undertake to discover his real identity?" uncle john let thursday and hetty answer this question, and their reply was a positive "no!" "the great fogerty made such a blunder the first time," said hetty, who was overjoyed at the glorious news, "that he might give poor thursday another dreadful scare if he tackled the job again. let the mystery remain unfathomable." "but, on the contrary, my dear, fogerty might discover that thursday was some eminent and good man--as i am firmly convinced is the truth," suggested mr. merrick. "he's that right now," asserted hetty. "for my part, i prefer to know nothing of his former history, and thursday says the present situation thoroughly contents him." "i am more than contented," said thursday, with a happy smile. "hetty has cured me of my desire to wander, and no matter what i might have been in the past i am satisfied to remain hereafter a country editor." the torch bearer by reina melcher marquis new york and london d. appleton and company copyright, , by d. appleton and company printed in the united states of america to my husband for without his heartening faith in my work, his generous sympathy with it, and his discerning criticism of it, this book would never have been written. the torch bearer chapter i peter burnett stood on the top-most of the broad white steps leading to the "shadyville seminary for young ladies." he had just closed the door of that sacred institution behind him, and with a sigh of relief which was incompatible with the honors of his professorship. but peter had never duly valued his position of instructor to shadyville's feminine youth, though his reverence for scholarship was deep and sincere. it was friday afternoon, and freed from the chrysalis of his bread-winning duties, he was about to spread his wings for the flight of his inclination. he looked out on the april greenery of the town with the fastidious gaze of one who has the world to choose from; for though he was a poor young school-master, clad in a shirt that had been darned too often, he was also a burnett of kentucky and born to a manner of leisure and arrogance. slowly, and with this manner at its best, he began to descend the steps. his whole lax figure assumed an air of indolence that, for all his lack of imposing proportions, subtly invested him with distinction, and he set a dallying, aristocratic foot upon the quiet street. in that descent he triumphed over the mended shirt--and forgot it. from friday afternoon until monday morning--the brief interval when little girls are reprieved from lessons--he had indeed the world to choose from; or, to be accurate, the social world of shadyville, of kentucky, and of the larger south. within that radius he might take his amusements where he would and it was a matter of some amazement to those less privileged than he that he made such unspectacular use of his opportunities. why, thought they, should peter burnett waste his holidays over a country walk or a copy of theocritus when he might be fashionably golfing, dancing a cotillion or flirting at a house party? not that peter neglected these pursuits--being a more astute young man than his reserved face and tranquil gray eye would indicate--but that he paused occasionally in the round of them for what his admirers considered less worthy diversions. and he was pausing now, as he loitered along the wide, silent street with its trees in pale, sweet leafage and its old-fashioned houses showing a prim gayety in the bloom of their garden closes. he loved this street which stretched the length of the town; beginning in homes of a humble sort; breaking, a little farther on, into a feverish importance as it ran along before the doors of the shops; gathering dignity unto itself as it gained the site of the shadyville seminary; and finally advancing, in the evolution of a social consciousness, through the select upper end of town, where it spread itself ingratiatingly beneath the feet of the "prominent citizens" and clung smugly to well-trimmed hedges instead of skirting shop doors, and dingy fences. peter called its course its "rise in life"--so obvious was its snobbery, its persistent climbing; but his ridicule was the tolerant ridicule of affection. he knew the street like the nature of an old friend; he saw it like the face of one; and if he laughed now and then at its weaknesses, he was none the less certain to enjoy its company. to walk along _with_ a street--not merely upon it--was one of his favorite pastimes, and this afternoon he pursued it in great contentment, with no thought of what its end should be, nor any definite desire. for it was his theory that to walk with a street, divining its moods and discovering its little dramas, was in itself an adventure, and need not lead to one. but though he was content to stroll with the street, particularly in this pleasant neighborhood of its upper end, he soon halted, perforce, at the greeting: "peter, you _won't_ pass me by?" it was a blithe voice that addressed him, pretty and clear, but it was not the voice of youth; and peter, glancing toward the veranda whence it came, saw sitting there an old lady who was like the voice, pretty and blithe and brave, though with no affectation of a youth long gone. his face lighted at sight of her, and he hastened up her garden path. "dear mrs. caldwell!" he cried, both hands extended. and then, with pleased alacrity, he settled himself upon the step at her feet. "it's worth while taking a walk up this way," he remarked appreciatively. "now confess," laughed the old lady, "confess that _i_ am not the adventure you are seeking this afternoon!" "i wasn't seeking one at all," disclaimed peter, "but i couldn't refuse a divine accident." and as she shook a chiding head at his flattery, he went on firmly: "it's the wayside adventures like this which have long since decided me to start out with none in view. the gods presiding over a wayfarer's destiny always offer him something better than he could have provided for himself!" "oh, peter! peter!" protested the old lady, "what a book of pretty speeches you are!" but the two smiled at each other with the happy understanding of friends to whom disparity of years was no barrier. "and how does your garden grow, mistress mary?" peter presently inquired. mrs. caldwell looked out upon her trim flower beds where bloomed tulip and crocus in april festival. "my silver bells and cockle shells grow very well," she answered, in the spirit of the rhyme, "but"--and her delicate old face quivered into an anxious quickening of life--"but, oh, peter! i fear my pretty maid grows too fast for her own good." "sheila? then you've seen?" and peter sat up eagerly, shedding the garment of his indolence. "then you've seen!" returned mrs. caldwell. "but what have you seen, peter? what do you think of her?" "i think," said he slowly, "that she has the most delightful mind i've ever encountered." pride leapt into mrs. caldwell's eyes, but, as if to make quite certain of him, she demurred: "she's only a little girl, peter--only a little twelve-year-old girl." "yes," he assented. "that's why i'm so sure of her quality. at her age--to be what she is! why, mrs. caldwell, her mind is like light! and it isn't just a wonderfully acute intelligence either. she has the feeling, the intuition, too. it's as if she thinks with her heart sometimes!" and his face glowed as it never did save for something precious and rare. "have you considered her future?" he added. mrs. caldwell smiled: "what do you suppose i'm living for?" "to make her like you, i hope," answered peter gallantly. his grandfather had loved mrs. caldwell, and his appreciation of her was inherited. "to make her so much wiser!" "wiser?" and peter looked fondly up at the lovely old face above him. for it was lovely, lovely with living, with the very years that might have withered and spoiled it. to him the wisdom of such living was beyond compare. but she insisted: "yes, so much wiser. peter, in my youth it wasn't ladylike to be too wise. i had a few womanly accomplishments. i sewed. i sang. i read jane austen and miss edgeworth and charlotte brontë. and i gardened a little--with gloves on and a shade hat to protect my complexion. and sometimes i made a dessert. peter dear, i was a very nice girl, but--!" and she flung up her hands with a gesture that mocked at her futility. "sheila can never be nicer!" he persisted loyally. "oh, yes, she can--if some one wiser than i teaches her!" "i," said peter importantly, "i teach her rhetoric at the shadyville seminary. '"i," quoth the sparrow, "with my little bow and arrow!"'" mrs. caldwell leaned forward and touched his shoulder. "i'm very serious," she said. "here's my little orphaned sheila--my dead boy's child--with no near kin in the world but me. and i'm not fit for the task of helping her to grow up. oh, peter, will _you_ help?" "you know i will! at least, i'll try." she smiled at him through her earnestness. "your rhetoric isn't enough," she warned him. "all you know isn't enough. you'll have to keep on learning too, peter, if you're really going to help her." "i will," he promised again. "i'm twenty-eight, and a lazy beggar--but i can still learn." mrs. caldwell drew a quick breath of relief: "thank you, peter. to tell you the truth, i've been really a little frightened lately." "about sheila? but she's so sweet!" "and so strange! she isn't like a child. and it's not because she's outgrowing her childhood, for she's not like a young girl either. peter"--and mrs. caldwell's voice sank to a whisper now, as if she communicated a dangerous thing--"peter, she's like--_a poet_!" peter laughed outright at her timid pronouncement of the word. "but is that so terrible?" he teased. "all poets are not mad, after all." "oh, you may laugh. i dare say my terror of a thing like genius is funny. but it's genuine terror, peter. what should i do with a poet on my hands? i tell you, i'm not wise enough to--to trim the wick of a star!" "well," he suggested comfortably, "she may not be a poet. what makes you think she's likely to be?" "you know how she reads--quite beyond the ordinary little girl's appreciation?" "yes--but she may have an extraordinary mind without being a genius of any sort. and i'm responsible for her reading. it isn't so precocious after all. i've just given her simple, beautiful things instead of simple, silly ones." "but, peter, i've another reason besides her reading. she goes off by herself and sits brooding--dreaming--for hours at a time. i've come on her unexpectedly once or twice and she didn't even realize that i was there--she was so rapt. she looked as if she were seeing visions!" "perhaps she was," said peter softly. "i've seen visions in my time, and i'm no poet. haven't you--when you were as young as sheila? confess now--haven't you?" but mrs. caldwell resolutely shook her head: "not like sheila does. and neither have you, peter. sheila is different from you and me. you know her mother was irish--full of whimsical fancy and quaint superstitions." "ah, i had forgotten about her mother." "of course. you were only a boy when she died." and her eyes filled with slow, remembering tears as she went on, "she always believed in fairies--even when she was face to face with a reality like death. and sheila believes in them, too, though her mother didn't live long enough to tell her about them. she never says anything about it, but i know that she has a whole world which i can't share--the dream-world her mother bequeathed to her." "but that's beautiful!" cried peter. "yes," she admitted, "it's beautiful. but, peter, it's sad for me because--because i can't follow her there." she fell silent for a moment, her eyes wistful and anxious; and suddenly he saw the pathos of age in her face as well as its finely tempered beauty, the pathos of all the closed doors that would open no more--among them the door of fairyland. "it's true," she said bravely, as if they had looked at those closed doors together and she were answering his thought. "i'm an old woman and i've lost the way to fairyland. so i want you to go with sheila in my place. i want you to guard her dream--and keep _her_ safe, too. i'm afraid for her, peter--i'm afraid!" "dear mrs. caldwell, how can i walk where your foot is too heavy?" and peter's voice was very gentle. "ask your poets that. i was never one for the poets. i can sew a fine seam and make my garden grow--nothing more. but you have the store of poetry--and you have youth." "there," said peter, pointing to a lad of fourteen or thereabout who was coming toward them, "there is what sheila calls youth." "and there," retorted mrs. caldwell, "is what _i_ call the heavy foot. but theodore kent is a good boy. he's just not good enough for sheila. i can't understand the child's liking him!" theodore came up to them briskly, his cap off, his yellow-brown hair shining in the sunlight with a vigorous glory, his face ruddy and smiling. his body and his features were alike, strong and somewhat bluntly fashioned, the body and the features of the very sturdy, closely akin to the earth's health and kindliness. "where's sheila, mrs. caldwell?" he asked, happily unconscious of a critical atmosphere. "in the back garden. what do you want, ted?" he lifted a battered volume. "she promised to help me with this rhetoric stuff," he announced, quite unabashed at the admission of sheila's superior cleverness. "well, run along and find her." and mrs. caldwell glanced at peter as if to add, "didn't i tell you he wasn't good enough for sheila?" "but what, after all, does an understanding of rhetoric amount to? what has it done for _me_?" murmured peter, answering the glance. and then, as the boy still lingered before them, "i'll go with you, ted. i must make my bow to sheila before i leave." the back garden belied its humble name. the kitchen windows opened upon it, it is true, but they did not discourage its prideful aspect. indeed, it might just as well have been a front garden, for it had never been the shelter of the useful cabbage and its homely relations. the young grass was close-cropped with the same care that had been bestowed upon the front lawn, and simple, gay flowers flourished in bright beds and along the smooth walk. toward the end of the garden, and as if for a charming climax, several cherry trees shook blossoming branches to the spring wind. and beneath those trees lay sheila, her eyes lifted to their bloom, a still, enraptured little figure, quite unconscious that intruders were drawing near. at sight of her, peter halted and laid a staying hand on ted's arm. "don't speak to her!" he whispered. and so the two stood and looked at her, and yet she did not stir nor grow aware of their presence. she was a slender little shape, lying there on the fresh grass--a thin child, with a pale face and black hair braided away from it; a child who was not actually pretty, nor, to the eyes of the casual observer, in any other way remarkable. but to peter she seemed touched, for the moment, with the glamour of enchantment, this small dreamer communing with her fays. "don't speak to her!" he said again, as ted moved restively. "she's as far away as if she were in a different world," he added softly, and only to himself. but ted, overhearing, nodded comprehendingly. "sheila does make you feel like that sometimes, even if she _is_ standing right by you all the time. she's queer--sheila is. but," and he spoke boastfully, though still in the cautious undertone peter had used, "but i always call her back!" peter looked down at him, at the frank, wholesome, unimaginative face, fatuous now with the vanity of power. "_i_ always call her back!" the boy repeated proudly. "yes," said peter slowly, "you--and people like you--will always call her back. but not this time, ted--not this time. i'll help you with your rhetoric myself. sheila has better things to think of just now." and putting his hands on the boy's shoulders, he turned him about for retreat. it occurred to peter then that he was fulfilling mrs. caldwell's trust, but he shook his head dubiously, nevertheless. he had saved one dream, but--the future was long and the people like ted were many and intrepid. suddenly he saw what life might do to a being like sheila and something of the fear and tenderness that mrs. caldwell had felt smote upon his heart. chapter ii it was on a saturday of late october that it happened--the adventure which, in after years, sheila was to see as so significant. sheila and ted had gone to the woods with a nutting-party--a party too merry to do much but frolic, and eat as they gathered. by afternoon their baskets were not nearly full, and ted surveyed his own with chagrin. he liked to accomplish what he set out to do, not because he was particularly industrious, but because a sense of power within him, partly sheer physical vigor and partly a naturally dominant will, demanded deeds for its satisfaction. if he could stay an hour longer, if he could go a little deeper into the woods, he could fill his basket, he reflected; whereas now--and he looked with contempt and a genuine distress at his meagre store of hazel nuts. in his discontent he had already lagged behind his companions. the other children had set their faces homeward; sheila walked just ahead of him, her arm around the waist of charlotte davis, a girl of her own age whom she had taken, with solemn vows, for her dearest friend. he might call the two girls, he thought, and together they could soon have a fine harvest, but his inclination rejected charlotte almost as quickly as the idea occurred to him. for charlotte, with her pert little freckled nose and her shrewd blue eyes, was not a comrade to ted's taste. she had never shown him a proper reverence, and he was at the stage when a boy desires feminine tribute even while he affects to scorn it. charlotte had never understood him. or was it what he did not suspect--that she had always understood him too well? at any rate she had a disconcerting way of gazing at him, her head cocked impudently on one side, her eyes half speculative, half amused. and her sharp, teasing tongue was even more disconcerting than her naughty, quizzical stare. he could imagine, from past experience at her hands, what would happen now if he included her in his plan. "what do you want of more nuts?" she would ask, with the inquiring innocence that he had learned to distrust. "haven't you got all you can eat?" "yes, but--" he would begin to explain. and she would interrupt him in the middle of his sentence with: "oh, i see! you just want to do more than anybody else, don't you? theodore kent always does more than anybody else! don't he, sheila?" and this with a great show of admiration. yet even to sheila, whose loyal mind conceived with difficulty of any disrespect to him, the mockery of the apparent admiration would be obvious. yes, that was what would happen if he invited charlotte to stay, and he felt himself flush at the fancied conversation. but he would ask sheila. she really admired him! she appreciated him! if she was sometimes queer, she was a nice little thing in spite of that. "sheila!" he called. she paused and looked back at him. "come here a minute," he urged. "i want to tell you something." and when she would have drawn charlotte with her, he added: "it's a secret." at which transparent hint, charlotte flung off sheila's arm and marched on, singing maliciously: "ted has got a secret--secret--secret! like a little gir-rul--gir-rul--gir-rul!" and hearing himself thus effeminized, ted winced and wondered if he had not better have asked her after all. sheila came up to him with a troubled face. the feud between him and charlotte always hurt and bewildered her. "you've made charlotte feel bad," she chided reproachfully. but with charlotte's taunt still ringing in his ears, ted was ruthless: "fiddlesticks! if she feels bad about that, she's silly. and i can't tell secrets to silly girls." sheila was sorry for charlotte, but she began to feel vaguely flattered on her own account: "what's the secret?" "i know a place--just a little way back yonder--that's _fat_ with nuts!" sheila looked disappointed. it seemed, at this hour, rather a poor secret. but ted, still with the air of honoring her above all others of her sex, went on: "i'm going back and get some. and"--this impressively--"i'm going to let you come with me!" sheila brightened at the magnanimous offer, but a moment later grew uneasy: "grandmother would be scared if i didn't come home with the others." "how'd she find it out? your house is farthest. she won't see the rest of 'em." "but--but when i tell her--" said sheila uneasily. "you _needn't_ tell her! don't you understand? she'll never know you _didn't_ come home with the others!" ted had a scrupulous personal honor, a pride, as it were, in his integrity. he told the truth about his own transgressions and paid the piper without complaint. but for others his truth was sometimes equivocal, his morality comfortably lax. and these lapses from grace on his part always filled sheila with a shocked dismay. "oh," she protested, "i couldn't do that! why, it would be _lying_!" "fiddlesticks! where's the lie? you wouldn't _tell_ one!" "it _would_ be a lie," persisted sheila. "it would be a lie if i let her think what wasn't so." "fiddlesticks!" he pronounced again. but he looked at her approvingly, nevertheless. sheila was always "square," and he liked her the better for it. "well, you go along with charlotte, then," he added regretfully. but he had tempted her more successfully than he knew, and her mind was busily working toward some compromise with her conscience. she cast an eye in the direction charlotte had taken, and that glance decided her. "charlotte's out of sight," she said. "i--i believe i'll stay, ted--_but i'll tell when i get home_!" it was late afternoon when they did at last start homeward--with baskets as full as ted had predicted. going through the bright-hued woods, where the scarlet and burnished yellow of long-lived leaves still flaunted ribbons of flame and the dead and dun-colored broke crisply beneath their feet, they fell amicably silent, trudging briskly along with the impetus of health and hunger. ted's silence was the content of a body drenched all day in sunshine and clean, cold air, and now deliciously placid; but sheila's quiet was of a different quality. for her the woods were full of mysteries and miracles; she was sure that little people, as quick and elusive as shadows, darted hither and thither at her very feet, and that enchantment was spread there like a fine-spun web. as she walked onward, brooding over things unseen and yet so surely true for her, there recurred to her a dream of the night before, and so vivid was her remembrance of it that she seemed to be dreaming a second time. in the dream, oddly enough, she had been walking through these same woods. here and there she had seen a bright leaf blowing; she had heard her own footsteps on the brittle leaves beneath; a slender shaft of sunlight--the last of the day--had stolen downward and touched her like a long finger. then, suddenly, the golden finger had withdrawn and the dusk had fallen, not gradually, but in swift, downward billows of mist that flooded upon her and blinded her. she had closed her eyes against them for a moment, and when she opened them again, the mist had disappeared, leaving her in a space of clear gray light. through this light some one had come toward her, a shape at first vague and ethereal, as if it were a lingering spirit of the mist, but gathering substance and definite outline as it advanced until it became the figure of a woman with arms that reached toward her for embrace. involuntarily sheila's own arms had reached forth in answer; she had taken a stumbling step forward; through the pale light there had glimmered on her, for an instant of revelation, the shadow's face. _and she had wakened with the cry: "mother!"_ a strange dream, especially for a little girl whose mother had died soon after her birth. but that dead mother had always been a dear familiar of sheila's thoughts; her picture had been like a living companion. and though the sleeping vision of her had driven the child, startled to the very soul, to her grandmother's bed, now, as she trod the woods that had been the scene of the dream-miracle, she remembered it without fear. "what if, after all, dreams sometimes came true?" the thought quickened her breath, but not her feet. in the night she had fled from a dream too poignant, but now she felt no impulse for flight. rather, she delayed her steps, thrilling as she recognized about her the dream's landmarks. for now there arose before sheila's dazed eyes that rare and marvellous phenomenon of a dream reproduced, at least in its physical aspects, by reality. and in such an experience, given perhaps to one in a thousand, it is the reality that seems to tremble--threatened by some older and stronger truth--beneath one's feet. so it trembled now for sheila as she saw again those features in the face of the woods that had impressed her sleep. here were the few rich leaves, fluttering lightly in the evening wind as they had fluttered in her dreaming vision of them! and now her heart fluttered with them, so much stranger than the dream itself was its incredible repetition. there--just ahead--yes, surely! there was the same long finger of pale sunlight striking downward through the stripped trees! presently she would pass beneath its touch, feeling it faintly warm upon her cheek--as she had felt it in her dream! afterwards would be the dusk. and then--_what if dreams came true_? she was not afraid, but instinctively she drew nearer the boy beside her. "ted," she breathed, in an awed whisper. "huh?" he asked, roused from his own silent well-being. but she did not answer, and he strode cheerfully on without troubling himself to question her again. "what if dreams come true?" she was saying within herself, but she could not, after all, put the thought into words for ted to scoff at. and then, before she reached it, the finger of sunlight vanished and the dusk was upon her, not swiftly billowing, but slipping softly downward like a silken veil. she was not afraid, she told herself, but the dusk chilled her and she shivered. after the dusk--if dreams came true!--would be-- and then her heart seemed to stop its beating. for dim in the distance, but coming toward her through the trees, there walked a shadow. and even while she watched, it gathered shape and substance unto itself; it ceased to be a floating fragment of mist and became a woman! but now sheila's heart began to beat again--riotously. her hesitations, her unacknowledged fears, were succeeded by a sense of exquisite exultation. the miracle was at hand--and she rushed upon it. "ted!" it was not a whisper this time, but a cry, and the boy turned sharply. but sheila had already started forward, calling wildly: "_mother! mother! mother!_" and though the woman was still but a distant figure, she heard that piercing call and answered it with one as clear and passionate: "_my little girl! i'm coming! i'm coming!_" for an instant ted stood motionless, struck to the earth by that simple horror of the unusual, the abnormal, which the very sane and unimaginative always feel. then, with a single bound, he overtook sheila and laid a detaining hand on her shoulder: "sheila, _stop_! it's crazy lisbeth! i know her voice!" he was right. the advancing figure was not the beautiful mother-spirit of sheila's dream, but a flesh and blood mother who, years before, had lost her husband and only child, and become crazed by her grief. ever since then her heart had been wandering on a piteous quest for her dead, and her wits with it. and because she was very poor and quite harmless, suffering only the illusion that she would sooner or later find her husband and little daughter, the town was kind to her; set her to work when she would; fed her when she would not work; and left her free for her sad and futile search. sheila and ted knew her well and no fear of her had ever touched them before, but now, as she came onward with her insanity strong upon her, both terror and repugnance seized on ted. "she thinks you're her child," he said angrily. "and no wonder! what made you do such a thing?" sheila turned to him with her explanation on her lips--the whole confession of her dream and her momentary belief that it had come true--but at sight of him looking at her so protectingly and yet so severely, her impetuous words faltered and grew cold. "i--i was thinking of my mother," she stammered shyly. the unexpected reply embarrassed him. he wanted to scold her, but at this mention of her dead mother he could not. so he only dug his foot into the ground and gazed toward lisbeth, who was now almost upon them, stumbling in her happy haste. "we can't run away from her," said sheila. "she thinks you're her child!" he protested again, but less harshly. "yes," admitted sheila gently, "like i thought she--" and then, at some sudden counsel of her heart, she exclaimed: "you stay here. i'll know what to do!" it seemed to ted an unbelievable thing that he saw happen before him then. for sheila stepped quickly forward to meet the hurrying, pitiful creature who sought her; stepped forward and straight into the woman's arms. as he stared, a shudder of disgust shook ted from head to foot. "it's horrible!" he muttered to himself. "it's horrible for sheila to let crazy lisbeth hug her!" but he could not go and draw sheila away. his repulsion would not permit him to approach the spectacle that excited it. and meanwhile the little girl was murmuring, still in the fold of lisbeth's arm, words that he could not understand, but that drifted to him with the soft sounds of pleadings and promises. "sheila!" he called peremptorily. she did not reply, but talked on to lisbeth, interrupted now and then by the latter, but evidently not discouraged in her purpose of persuasion. "sheila!" ted called again, and this time uneasily. and now she answered, over her shoulder, and with a motion that held him back: "we're going home!" at that he understood what she was bent upon. she had been coaxing lisbeth to go home. but why should she concern herself about one who was used to roam the whole countryside at any hour of the day or night, walking unmolested in the desolate safety of her affliction? why, above all, should sheila go home _with_ her? for that, apparently, was what sheila meant to do. she had already started onward with her self-appointed charge, and though the woods had grown more shadowy, ted could see the two figures plainly, walking close together and linked by the woman's arm. that arm about sheila's shoulder--crazy lisbeth's arm!--set him shuddering again as violently as the first embrace had done. it was an affront to every fiber of his thoroughly normal being. but still he could not go nearer to remove it; by the law of his own nature he had to stay outside the circle of lisbeth's madness and sheila's folly. and his sense of responsibility had, perforce, to appease itself with his following them at a discreet range--a distant and sulking protector. it seemed to him, as he strode on behind them with irate steps, that they would never get out of the woods. little woodland sounds, a snapping bough, a breaking leaf, a scurrying squirrel, sounds that he would not ordinarily have noticed, now startled him into fright. the gradual failing of the light oppressed him almost to panic; and when the early twilight settled somberly over the woods, such weird, moving shadows rose up all around him that he would fain have taken to his heels had he not feared what lay before him more. crazy lisbeth scrubbing his mother's kitchen floor was only a harmless "innocent," the pensioner of his condescending pity; but crazy lisbeth in the woods at nightfall--ah, then she became a different and a dreadful creature, one to shake the heart and alarm the nerves of the bravest. sheila appeared to think otherwise and to find lisbeth docile enough, for despite ted's conviction that the homeward way was interminable, these two went steadily onward and at a fair pace. and after no long interval their attendant knight had the satisfaction of following them from the covert of the woods into the open spaces of the town. here ted's alarms left him, abruptly and completely. he could have laughed aloud at the bogies he had escaped. his self-respect came swaggering back, and with it the determination to assert a belated mastery of sheila. she was not a block ahead, and now he hailed her. but as she had done in the woods, she merely called to him over her shoulder: "we're going home!" crazy lisbeth lived on the other side of the town, in a mean little cottage that more fortunate householders had deserted. it was a long walk there and the hour was already late, seven at the least. a vision of mrs. caldwell watching for sheila flashed across ted's mind and strengthened his resistance against this further perversity. "you must go with me right away!" he exclaimed, hastening after sheila. "your grandmother'll be scared to death!" "oh," cried sheila, stopping now, but with her hand still resolutely gripping lisbeth's, "oh, i know it, ted! but i can't help it!" and though her tone was sharp with distress, she turned obstinately on. there was nothing for him but to follow her to the end of her adventure. ted knew it from experience. sheila in one of her moods, obsessed by some "queer notion," was immovable, though sweetly reasonable at all other times. so with a bad grace he went on in her wake, beset now, not by fear, but by keen resentment of the whole absurd situation. thus they came at last, the ill-assorted trio, to lisbeth's cottage, sitting lonely and unlit by lamp or fire upon a bare hillside. sheila and lisbeth paused, and ted stopped, too, still a few yards from them, but expectant of some further freak and ready to spring forward with a rebuke that would end the mad episode on the spot. but just then the moon swung slowly out from some prisoning cloud, flooding the hillside with light, and as ted saw lisbeth's face, he forgot his intention of remonstrance and could but stand and gaze. for a moment he thought that the woman before him could not be crazy lisbeth at all, and then he thought that the moonlight tricked him. but of one thing he was sure; be the cause what it might, he saw a lisbeth magically and beautifully changed. foolish and pathetic and middle-aged she had been only yesterday, but to-night love and joy had had their way with her for a little while and had transformed her almost into youth and comeliness again. unconscious of ted's watchful and hostile presence, as she had been from the first, she turned to sheila with a simple and moving tenderness: "come," she said, opening her gate. but sheila stood motionless, her face soft with a pity that could no longer protect. "come," urged lisbeth, "come, darling precious! this is home!" but sheila did not stir. "i--i can't," she answered gently. "you can't? _you can't_? oh, it's been a dream!--a dream!--a dream! you're not real--you're never real! i see you--and see you--and see you! _but when i reach you, you're not real--not real_! i believed it was different this time--but it's always the same! _you're not real_!" and with that despairing cry, the lisbeth whom ted knew so well stood there before him again, old and foolish and piteous, whimpering softly and plucking at her ragged dress. sheila put her hand on the bent shoulder--bent to its long burden. "i _am_ real," said the child in a clear, steadfast voice that somehow, penetrated lisbeth's sad whimsies, "i _am_ real!--and i'll come back!" "you'll come back?" and lisbeth ceased her whimpering and laid pleading hold on her. "you'll come back? i don't believe you're real now--i _can't_ believe it any more! but i don't mind that if you'll come back anyway. you will? you promise?" "i promise," answered sheila. "if you are good--if you go straight into the house--i'll come back." lisbeth looked at her for an instant with an odd shrewdness in her poor foolish face. then she nodded, evidently satisfied with what she saw. "i'll be good," she agreed. "i'll go in. oh, my pretty darling! my dearest precious! lisbeth will be good!" and after a quick clasping of sheila, she went obediently into the mean little house and, without even a backward glance, closed the door behind her. sheila stepped toward ted. "i'll go home now," she said wearily. then she added, as if she were stretching out a wistful hand to his sympathy: "oh, ted, she thought--until the last--that i was her little girl!" "yes," he said, all his resentment returning, "and you let her! you _let_ her, sheila! how could you do such a thing?" "but it comforted her. it comforted her to think so, ted." "she wasn't comforted when she thought you weren't real!" "yes, she was--even then. she was when i promised to come back." "you can't keep your promise." "why can't i?" "your grandmother won't let you. you know that as well as i do. 'tisn't your place to comfort crazy lisbeth, and mrs. caldwell will tell you so. her troubles aren't any of your business." "they are!" cried sheila, with an anger now that matched his own, "they are--because i understand how she feels! i haven't any mother--and lisbeth hasn't any child. don't you see that it's just the same for both of us? and _her_ little girl may be comforting _my_ mother up in heaven right now!" "and she may _not_!" he retorted, "i believe it!" she proclaimed, carried away by the imaginary scene she had evoked. "well," said ted, with his most exasperating tone of superior intelligence, "_i_ don't!" she glanced up at him as he trudged beside her, his face firm with his substantial beliefs, his feet sturdily treading a very solid earth. and though she was only a little girl, unlearned in the finger-posts of character, sheila felt what she could not name nor analyze. she remembered that she had almost told him her dream, and she shivered at the thought. "no," she remarked ruefully, "you don't believe anything that you can't _see_, do you, ted?" "i don't believe lies!" he replied crisply, "not even when i tell 'em myself." "_lies_?" she repeated in astonishment. he stopped and faced her. "look here! you said you couldn't let your grandmother think you came home with the rest of 'em when you didn't because that would be lying." "yes," agreed sheila with conviction. "but you let lisbeth think what wasn't so!" the words flashed their accusation at her with unmistakable clarity. "yes," she assented once more, slowly, "i did." and then, with pained surprise, "why, that _was_ a lie, wasn't it?" "and now," finished ted ruthlessly, "you're making up lies about heaven for yourself! what's the matter with you, sheila?" they had reached mrs. caldwell's gate, and for a moment they stood staring at each other, the question hanging in the air between them. then there came to sheila a swift, inward vision of the contradictions of her own temperament, a vision untempered by the merciful knowledge that, in the final analysis, all human nature is very much alike. "oh," she cried, "what _is_ the matter with me?" and with a sob, she fled up the path to the house, leaving ted frightened, ashamed, and more bewildered than ever. chapter iii the moment when sheila had that terrifying inward vision of her own inconsistencies marked the beginning of her self-consciousness. for a while this was acute and painful. she was always afraid of finding herself, quite unintentionally, involved in a labyrinth of untruth, and her conscience, which passionately rejected any dishonesty that it perceived, was continually occupied in analyzing her emotions and impulses, her most guileless thoughts and her simplest actions. "i am naturally a liar," she told herself solemnly. "i must watch myself all the time--because i am naturally a liar!" but she said nothing of her self-revelation and ensuing struggles to mrs. caldwell. it was a thing to be overcome in shame and silence, and alone, this innate wickedness of hers. her shame was indeed so genuine that she met ted, for the first time after he had shown her failing to her, with deep reluctance. he must have been thinking of her awful tendency ever since they had parted--as she had been. and he could not possibly respect her! but to her amazement, he greeted her with his usual manner of untroubled good fellowship. clearly, she had not sunk in his estimation. she was astounded, and shocked at him as well as at herself, until it occurred to her that he might have forgotten the matter altogether. this was incredible, but more honorably incredible than that he should remember and not care. and if it were the case, she must not take advantage of his forgetfulness; she must not unfairly keep his esteem. "ted," she said, with an effort worthy of a more saintly confessor, "ted, i reckon i ought to remind you about the way i acted with lisbeth." "what about it? did your grandmother scold you much?" "why, no. don't you understand what i mean?" it was too painful to put her sin into words. "has lisbeth been after you again?" but the question was obviously not one of sympathy, for ted's voice was sharp now. at the mention of lisbeth he had recalled his grievance. "no," repeated sheila. "i meant i ought to remind you about--_me_." and as ted stared at her with no gleam of comprehension in his eyes, she was forced to become explicit: "i mean--the way i let lisbeth believe what wasn't so." ted looked at her speculatively for a moment, wondering if he had better rebuke her again for her folly, so that she should not commit it a second time. she would be capable of doing the whole thing over, under the impression that she was benefiting lisbeth. she was so queer! "you were very silly," he said finally. "i was wicked!" she exclaimed in a fervor of repentance. ted continued to regard her with that speculative gaze. "well, you _are_ a queer one!" he ejaculated slowly. sheila flushed. she had abased herself in penitence, and he only thought her queer. he _always_ thought her queer! she turned on him with a flare of temper that burned up her humility so far as he was concerned: "how _dare_ you call me queer? how _dare_ you call me silly? i hate you, theodore kent! i never want to see you again as long as i live! you're--_you're an abomination in the eyes of the lord_!" and with this scriptural anathema, plagiarized from the presbyterian minister's latest sermon, she flung away from him in a fit of wrath that did much to restore her normal self-respect. however, though she felt no further uneasiness in the presence of ted--whom she forgave the next day with the readiness that is the virtue of a quick temper--she continued her vigil over herself until time softened her impression of her iniquity. and even then, when her self-criticism had relaxed, her consciousness of her individual temperament remained. she had discovered herself, and this self, like her shadow which she had discovered with wild excitement in her babyhood, would be her life companion. after she ceased to fear it, as a possible moral monster, she began to take a profound interest in it and its behavior. "what will you be doing next?" she would inquire of it quaintly, "what _will_ you be doing next, other-sheila?" she did in fact credit this newly realized self of hers with a very distinct and separate personality. all her caprices, her unexpected and unexplainable impulses, her mystic imaginings, she laid at its door, and in her fantastic name for it--"other-sheila"--she probably found the true name for something that the psychologists define far more clumsily. but stung into sensitiveness by ted's taunt about her queerness, she kept her discovery of other-sheila to herself. not even to mrs. caldwell, who was a friend as well as a grandmother; not even to peter, who was all the while feeding her eager young mind with food both wholesome and stimulating, and becoming, in his task, a comrade who rivalled ted in her affections, did she confide the existence of this other self. with self-consciousness came the instinct of reserve--not a lack of frankness, but a kind of modesty of the soul. she had passed her fifteenth birthday before other-sheila roused her to unrest. until that time, the shadowy self dwelling deep within her, and every now and then flashing forth elusively just long enough to manifest its reality, had been a secret and delightful companion, one with whom she held animated conversations when alone, and from whose acquiescence to all her wishes and opinions she extracted considerable comfort. "other-sheila," she would say to herself, "is the only person who always agrees with me." and then she would add, with a glint of whimsical humor in her gray eyes, "i reckon that's what an other-sheila is _for_!" but after a while other-sheila became less acquiescent and more assertive. and for the first time in her life, sheila felt within her the troubling spirit of discontent. she wanted something, wanted it desperately as the very young always do, but she did not know what that something was. it was a tantalizing experience, and she saw no end to it. "if i could only find out _what_ i want, i might get it," she mused. and then, "don't you know what it is, other-sheila?" but other-sheila was provokingly unresponsive, though it was probably her desire that fretted the objective sheila's mind. mrs. caldwell saw the unrest in the young girl's face and recognized it for what it was--the unrest of growth. it was a look of unborn things stirring beneath the surface, stirring and quivering as flowers must stir and tremble beneath the ground before they break their way through to the sun. but though she watched eagerly from day to day, ready to do her part when the hour for it should come, mrs. caldwell was too wise a gardener to hasten bloom. "peter," said she one day, when he had paused in an indolent stroll to chat with her over her garden hedge, "peter, it's a terrible thing to be young!" "is it?" he laughed. "why?" "so many things have to happen to you!" and out of the security of her placid years mrs. caldwell spoke with an earnest pity. peter laughed again. "well, i'm young--at least, i suppose i would be so considered. and _nothing_ ever happens to me!" mrs. caldwell surveyed him with mischievous eyes. "no, peter," she contradicted, "you're not young--yet. you're not even alive yet. you're too lazy to really live! but you'll have to come to it some day. we all have to be born finally." he chuckled at her comprehension of him. then a disturbed look fluttered across his face: "do you actually mean that there's no escape?" "none! it's better to yield gracefully--and have it over. and if you don't hurry a bit, sheila will be through her growing pains while yours are still before you!" "little sheila? the master's star pupil?" "yes," she insisted, "little sheila. you'll be taking her to parties in a long frock before you know it. she graduates from the seminary next year." but peter was nearer to meeting sheila in a long frock than either he or mrs. caldwell dreamed. for at that moment sheila was planning to wear one before she was a week older. she and charlotte davis were in the latter's dainty room, and spread on the bed before them was charlotte's new party frock. charlotte's father was the wealthiest man in shadyville, and both she and her frock did his wealth justice. she was now at home, for the easter vacation, from a fashionable boarding-school in baltimore, the shadyville seminary not satisfying mr. davis's requirements for his youngest and favorite daughter. her absence from the little town during the greater part of the past two years had enabled her to erase its traces. she had become a typical city-bred girl and she appeared pert, smartly dressed and, for her sixteen years, amazingly mature. she had always been prettier than sheila, though no one had ever realized it and probably no one ever would. for her prettiness was so informed with sharp intelligence that her face had a challenging and almost aggressive quality. boys had never admired her, and men were not likely to do so either, so lacking was she in the softer and more appealing charms of her sex. even at sixteen her bright blue eyes were a trifle hard, not because of what they had seen--for she was, in experience, still the nice little ingénue--but of what they had seen _through_. the veil of credulity never dimmed her clear, bold glance. but for sheila she was always gentle, so strong in this shrewd, fastidious young creature was her one deep and uncritical affection. as the two girls examined the frock on the bed--a rose chiffon over silk that fairly shrieked of expense--sheila sighed. "will you wear it friday night?" she inquired wistfully. for on friday night charlotte was to give a party--a real evening party to which the debutantes and even the older set were coming, as well as the school-girls and boys. it would be sheila's first grown-up party--and she had only a white muslin and a blue sash to make herself fine with. thus mrs. caldwell had dressed for parties until her marriage, and it had never occurred to her to provide any other costume for sheila, who was not yet quite sixteen. besides, in mrs. caldwell's opinion--and even in the exquisite peter's--there was no sweeter sight than a young girl in white muslin and blue ribbons. but to sheila, in comparison with charlotte's splendor, the white muslin seemed unspeakably dowdy. and so, when she asked charlotte about her toilette for the great occasion, it was with a heart of unfestive heaviness. "of course i'll wear this. that's what i got it for. oh, sheila, aren't the little sleeves cunning? just half way to the elbow--it's lucky my arms aren't thin!" but sheila only sighed again in response to charlotte's enthusiasm, and now charlotte heard the sigh and glanced at her with sudden attentiveness. "what will you wear?" she demanded. "i'll have to wear my white muslin. i haven't anything else." "oh, sheila, that's too bad!" "i wouldn't mind so _very_ much except for--" and sheila's eyes, wandering sadly toward charlotte's chiffon, finished the sentence. but charlotte's dismay had already vanished. "you won't have to wear your white muslin either," she announced in her positive, capable way. "you can wear one of my frocks, sheila. you must! why"--this in a burst of generosity--"why, you can wear this one!" "oh, no, i couldn't do that. not your new frock, charlotte! but you're a dear to offer it!" and sheila gave her friend a grateful hug, though charlotte never encouraged caresses. "well, then, perhaps not this one," agreed charlotte, to whom, used though she was to her pretty clothes, it would have been something of a hardship to surrender the first wearing of them to anyone else, "perhaps not this one--rose is more my color than yours. but another--a blue silk mull that will be lovely with your blue-gray eyes and black hair. i've worn it only two or three times, and never in shadyville." "no, i couldn't," said sheila again. "grandmother wouldn't let me. i'm sure she wouldn't." "i don't see why." "she wouldn't," persisted sheila regretfully. "now look here, sheila. she wouldn't _know_. you're going to spend the night with me and dress after you get here. and _she's_ not coming to the party." it was the same form of temptation which ted had offered sheila in the woods three years before, but now it was tenfold stronger. then a mere good time was at stake; now the gratification of her young vanity, of her first girlish desire to make herself charming, was to be gained. and as she had hesitated that day in the woods, for the sake of the fun, she hesitated now for the sake of this new, clamoring instinct. "i'd have to tell her," she temporized. "then tell her," assented charlotte impatiently, "but don't tell her until afterwards." it was sheila's own method of that earlier time--a middle path between conscience and desire, and lightly skirting both. "i might do that," she remarked thoughtfully. "if i told her--even afterwards--it wouldn't be quite so wicked. and i _want_ to wear the frock dreadfully!" "just tell her as if it's nothing at all," advised charlotte cleverly, "as if we never even thought of it until after you got here that evening. then she won't mind it a bit. you'll see she won't!" "yes, she will. she won't like my wearing your clothes. she won't think it's _nice_. and when i tell, i'll tell the whole thing--the way it really happened. but"--and sheila's full-lipped, generous mouth straightened into a thin line of resolution--"i'm going to do it anyway, charlotte!" three days intervened before the party, and they were not happy days for sheila. her sense of guilt depressed every moment of the time, especially when she was in mrs. caldwell's trusting presence. for sheila was not equipped by nature to sin comfortably. but when the eventful night arrived, and she beheld herself at last in charlotte's blue silk mull, with its short sleeves and little round neck frothy with lace, and its soft skirt falling to her very feet, she forgot every scruple that had been sacrificed to that enchanting end. charlotte, gay as a bright-hued bird with her blue eyes and yellow hair and rose-colored gown, and her mother and young mrs. bailey, her married sister, all stood around sheila in an admiring circle, every now and then breaking out anew into delighted exclamations over their transformed cinderella. "isn't she too sweet?" "and look at her eyes--as blue as charlotte's, aren't they?" "and what a young lady she seems! isn't that long skirt becoming to her?" cried charlotte. charlotte had worn her party frocks long for the last year, and she approved emphatically of the dignity thus attained for a few hours. it gave her a delicious foretaste of the real young ladyhood to come, when she meant to be very dignified and very brilliant indeed. but to all their pleased outcry, sheila said nothing at all. she merely stood, radiant and silent, before them until they had to leave her for a last survey of the rooms downstairs, the flowers and the supper. then, sure that she was quite alone, cinderella stole to the mirror. for a long time she gazed at the girl in the glass; a straight, slim girl in a delicate little gown that somehow brought out fully, for the first time, the charming delicacy of her face--not the delicacy of small features, of frail health, nor of a timid temper, but of an exceeding and subtle fineness, partly of the flesh, partly of the spirit, like the fineness of rare and gossamer fabrics. sheila, of course, did not perceive this, which was always to be her one real claim to beauty, but she saw the frock itself, and white young shoulders rising from it, and above it a pair of shining eyes. and suddenly an ache came sharply into her throat and the shining eyes filled with tears. "oh," she whispered, leaning to the figure in the mirror, "oh, _this_ is what i wanted! _i wanted to be beautiful_!" chapter iv the evening was half over when sheila, still up-borne on the tide of her feminine exultation, glanced across the room to find that peter stood there quietly regarding her. straightway she forsook the youth who was administering awkward flattery to her new-born vanity, and hastened to the side of her old friend. "oh, peter, don't i look nice?" she demanded eagerly. but peter ignored the frank appeal for a compliment. "i think you'd better call me mr. burnett," said he. and his tone was so serious that she failed to catch the banter of his eyes. "why, i've always called you peter, just like grandmother does--always!" "yes," admitted peter, "and it's been very jolly and friendly. but, sheila, i must have _something_ to remind me that you're still a little girl and my pupil. there's nothing in your appearance to suggest it, but perhaps--if you will address me with a great deal of respect----" at that, sheila laughed and patted her frock: "oh, i understand you now! do i really seem so grown-up?" "so grown-up that i can't understand how mrs. caldwell came to let you do it." "oh, peter! _oh, peter_!" "why, what's the matter?" he asked, surprised at the poignant exclamation. but she turned abruptly away from him, and presently he saw her blue gown flutter through a distant doorway. "now i wonder," he pondered, "what in the world i've done. offended her by appearing to criticize mrs. caldwell, i suppose." but peter had done a much graver thing than that. unconsciously, he had summoned sheila's conscience to its deserted duty; and already, like any well-intentioned conscience that has taken a vacation, it was making up for lost time. with that comment of peter's--"i can't understand how mrs. caldwell came to let you do it"--sheila's little house of pleasure suddenly tumbled to the ground. she had not meant to be sorry about the deception of the frock until _after_ the party, and until her encounter with peter she had been successful enough in holding penitence at bay. that vision of herself in the mirror, seeming to answer some longing of her very soul, had indeed kept her forgetful of everything but a sense of fulfillment and triumph. but now, reminded of her grandmother, she began to be sorry at once--impatiently, violently sorry. "i must go home," she murmured to herself distressfully, as she slipped unobserved through the crowded rooms. "i must go home. i can't wait until morning! i must tell grandmother _now_!" and so it happened that mrs. caldwell, looking out from her sitting-room window into the early spring night, saw a slim figure speed up her garden path as if urged by some importunate need; and the next moment sheila was kneeling before her, with her face hidden upon her shoulder. "why, sheila!--dear child!" "oh, grandmother, will you forgive me?" "what should i forgive you? i'm sure you've done nothing wrong this time!" and mrs. caldwell, who was accustomed to the rigors of sheila's conscience, smiled above the face on her breast with tender amusement. but sheila sprang to her feet and stepped back a pace or two. "don't you _see_?" she cried tragically. and then mrs. caldwell discovered the transformation of her cinderella. no demure little maiden this, in the white muslin and blue ribbons of an ingenuous spirit, but a fashionably clad "young lady," who appeared to have grown suddenly tall and rather stately with the clothing of her slim body in the long, soft gown. "sheila!" exclaimed mrs. caldwell involuntarily. and then, with her hands outstretched to the impressive young culprit, "tell me all about it, dear." and sitting on the floor at her grandmother's feet, regardless of charlotte's crushed flounces, sheila poured out her impetuous confession, from the first moment of temptation and yielding to the final one of peter's awakening words. "and when he spoke of you, grandmother, i just couldn't _bear_ it! i wondered how i could have been happy at all--i wondered how i could have forgotten you for a minute! i hated the frock! i hated the party! and i hated myself most of all! i had to come home and ask you to forgive me right away!" and down went her head into mrs. caldwell's lap. "do you---think--you can forgive me?" came the muffled plea. for answer mrs. caldwell bent and kissed the prostrate head, and it burrowed more comfortably against her knee. but mrs. caldwell did not speak. she was waiting for something, and when sheila continued to burrow, in the contented silence of a penitence achieved, she inquired quietly: "well, dear?" sheila lifted her head at that, and looked straight into the wise, sweet eyes above her: "i wanted something! i wanted something dreadfully! and i didn't know what it was. and then, when i saw myself in charlotte's frock--and so changed--i thought i'd found what i wanted. i thought--i thought i'd wanted to be beautiful!" "yes," said mrs. caldwell gently, "i used to think that, too." "oh, grandmother, did you? then you understand how i felt! but--but, you see, it didn't last. i wanted to be good _more_. that's what made me come home. grandmother, do you suppose _that's_ what i've wanted all the time, without knowing it--to be good?" at the question, mrs. caldwell, wise gardener that she was, realized that one of the flowers which she had divined, stirring in the depths of sheila's being, was pushing its way upward to the light, and that the moment had come for her to help it. she slipped her arms around the girl kneeling before her, as if seeking in love's touch inspiration for love's words. "i think you will always want to be good," she said, "and i think you will always want to be beautiful. women do, sheila dear--even the women who are least beautiful and least--good. it's part of being a woman--just like loving things that are little and helpless. "but, sheila, being beautiful isn't enough! even being good isn't enough, though of course it ought to be. it's essential, but it isn't enough. every woman must have something else besides to make her happy--something that is hers, _her own_! she must have that to be beautiful _for_, and to be good for--she must have that to live for! "and that is what you want, dear--the thing that is your own. you have been born for that--you cannot be complete or content without it." mrs. caldwell's voice rose, grave and rich with the harmonies of life, through the peaceful room, and sheila quivered responsively in the circle of her arms. to the young girl, womanhood, that only yesterday had been so far away, now seemed to be drawing thrillingly near with all its attendant mysteries. and in her next question she took a step to meet it: "grandmother, what is it?--the thing that will be mine?" "dear, how can i tell? it isn't the same for us all. for one woman it is love; for another it is work; for some it is, blessedly, both work and love. for me--now--it is _you_! how can i tell what it will be for my little girl?" "i want it!" whispered sheila. "i want it!" "you must wait for it, dear. you must wait for it to come to you. you can't hurry life." "but can't i do _anything_?" "you can be good, and you can be beautiful, so that you'll be ready for it when it comes. but"--and now mrs. caldwell smiled, and with her smile the stress of the moment passed--"but not in charlotte's frock! it wouldn't be fair to make yourself beautiful with borrowed plumage, would it, little bird of paradise? you'd only get a borrowed happiness out of that--one that you hadn't a right to, and couldn't keep." sheila rose from her knees, smiling, too. "i'll go right upstairs and take it off," she declared. "i want to play fair from the start--i only _want_ what's really mine!" and so, coming back, under mrs. caldwell's tactful guidance, from the deep waters to the pleasant, shallow wavelets that lap the shores of commonplace life, she began to busy herself with the small duties of the night, closing the windows and putting out the lamps. then, with bed-time candles after the fashion of mrs. caldwell's own girlhood, the two started up the stairs, sheila leading and lighting the way--as youth always will, despite the riper wisdom of age. once she smiled over her shoulder; and before they had gained the top of the flight, she paused and reached back her hand to help her grandmother up the last few steps. there was something gracious and strong in the gesture--something that had not been in the nature of the sheila who had bent her head to mrs. caldwell's knee an hour before. it was as if the womanhood of which mrs. caldwell had spoken had already awakened in her and with it, not only the longing for something of her own, but that kindred tenderness for things little and helpless--or helpless and old. "take my hand," she said sweetly, and there was in her voice the lovely gentleness that young mothers use toward their children. the next day, when charlotte came to inquire why her guest had flown, without warning and apparently without cause, she found a sheila who, though garbed once more in her own short frock, seemed in some mysterious way more grown-up than she had in the trailing splendor of the night before. "what's happened to you?" demanded charlotte shrewdly, when the two girls were shut into the privacy of sheila's little white bedroom, a room that resembled the despised white muslin and blue sash which had been discarded for charlotte's furbelows. "i know _something's_ happened to you. you're--different. did somebody make love to you?" "goodness, no!" denied sheila in a horrified tone, and the alarmed young blood rose in a slow, rich tide over her neck and face and temples. "oh, you needn't be so shocked. somebody will some day!" and charlotte laughed lightly out of her own precocious experience. of the two girls, sheila was the one to be loved, but charlotte was the one to be made love to--if the love-making were only the pastime of the hour. charlotte was clever and daring and cold, and could take care of herself. she knew, even at sixteen, all the rules of the game: when to advance, when to retreat, and, most important of all, when to laugh. but sheila would never be able to laugh at love or love's counterpart. "somebody _will_ make love to you some day!" repeated charlotte teasingly. "well, nobody has yet!" sheila assured her crossly. "and what's more, i hope nobody will! _that_ isn't what i want!" "what do you want?" asked charlotte curiously, detecting the underlying earnestness of the words. but she received no response, and so, bent upon an interesting topic, she harked back to sheila's flight from the party: "if nobody made love to you, why did you run away? did your conscience hurt you, sheila?" "yes," admitted sheila, "that was what made me come home. but i stayed home because of something else." "what?" sheila groped for the language of mrs. caldwell's lesson: "because i--i didn't want to be pretty in somebody else's clothes. i was happy for a little while, but it didn't last. you see, i'd borrowed that--the happiness--along with the frock. and of course i couldn't keep it. i just want what belongs to me after this, charlotte. it isn't fair to take anything else--and it isn't any use either." charlotte stared at her with puzzled eyes. "you _are_ queer," she remarked reflectively. "you _are_ queer, sheila. theodore kent always said so, and he was right. i wonder what he'll think of you when he gets back from college." but sheila, who had blushed painfully at the suggestion of a lover who did not exist, heard ted's name without a flush or a tremor; and in despair of any conversation about dress or beaux, the guest presently took her departure. a few days later charlotte went back to her city school for further "finishing," though she had already been sharpened and polished to a bewildering edge and brilliancy. and left to herself, sheila resumed her unsophisticated, girlish life. "we aren't going to have any young ladies at our house after all, peter," mrs. caldwell announced triumphantly over her teacup one afternoon. and peter, lounging on the leafy veranda and appreciatively sipping mrs. caldwell's fragrant amber brew, lifted a languidly interested face: "how are you going to stop time for sheila? of course you've done it for yourself, but not even you, fairy godmother, can do that for other people." "i don't intend to try. i don't want to try. because--when my little girl goes--it's time that will bring me some one better." "the young lady, dear mrs. caldwell. the young lady--inevitably." "no, peter--the woman!" and mrs. caldwell's voice rang with pride and confidence. "there's the making of one in sheila, peter--of a real woman!" "what's become of the poet you used to see in her?" he inquired. "oh, you've shut that safely into a cage of books. i'm not afraid of it any more." "it can still sing behind the bars, you know," he warned her. "no," she said, growing serious again, "it wouldn't--in sheila's case. at least it wouldn't unless it got into just the right cage, hung in the sunshine and the south wind. that's what i'm afraid of, peter--that sheila herself will be snared into the wrong cage!" but even while mrs. caldwell spoke, sheila was standing at the open door of the right cage, gazing in with illumined eyes. the spring was at its height, as warm and ripely blooming as early summer, and sheila had slipped away to her favorite haunt of the back garden. she had taken a book with her, one of peter's recommendation, and as she lay on the soft, fresh grass, she idly turned the pages, not from any desire to read, but for the pleasure of touching the leaves and knowing that, if she liked, she had only to look within for words that would create a fairyland as easily as the fingers of the spring had done. but presently, sated with mere earth-sweetness, she lifted herself on her elbow and opened the book widely where her hand had finally rested. it was the choice of chance, that page; but, as happens every now and then, chance and the shaping power were at that moment one. for shining on the white leaf, as if written in silver, were the lines that have stirred every potential poet to rapture and self-knowledge: --magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. sheila read them with no fore-warning of their moving music. they flashed, winged, into her tranquil world--and shook it to its foundations. for the first time the full sense of beauty rushed upon her, and she caught her breath with the keen, aching ecstasy of it: --magic casements opening on the foam of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. she read the lines again, and now aloud, softly, with a beauty-broken breath. she had wanted something, and all the while this--_this_--had been waiting for her. compared to the joy of it, what was the joy of looking into a mirror and finding oneself fair? what was any other beauty beside this beauty of words, of subtle harmony and exquisite imagery? and then there came to her the thought that some one--some one just human like herself--yes, human and young--had written these lines, had drawn them from the treasure house of himself. "oh," she whispered, "how happy he must have been! how happy! to have written this! if i had done it----" she paused and sat up straight and still, the book falling unheeded from her hand. slowly her eyes widened, filled first with light and then with tears. "if i had written this! if i could write _anything_!" and suddenly, for that moment and for life, she knew! "_that_ is what i want--to _write_!--to _make_ something beautiful!" and then her guardian angel should have pushed her into the cage and fastened its door. for the sun was shining and the south wind was blowing--and it was the right cage! chapter v one september afternoon, peter lingered in his class-room after his duties were done and his pupils had departed. he usually lost no time in shaking the dust of academic toil from his feet--and from his mind--but to-day an unwonted longing for some steadying purpose, some _raison d'être_, made him remain to dally with the tools of his occupation, perhaps in a wistful hope that he might discover a hitherto unsuspected charm in the teaching of rhetoric to reluctant young girls. "if they only cared," he thought, "if they only cared a little for the english language, it wouldn't be such a deadly grind to teach i them. but _they'll_ never 'contend for the shade of a world.' it's just a dull necessity to them--this business of learning how to use their mother tongue--except, of course, to sheila. and next year she won't be here to help me endure it. oh, how i wish i could get away--to something better, something bigger!" but with the wish, there came to him also the certainty of its futility. he wouldn't get away; the next year, and the year following, and the year after that would find him still at his uninspiring post in the shadyville seminary, teaching bored pupils the properties of speech, and inwardly cursing himself for doing it. for peter knew that he would always be the victim of his own laziness; that every impulse toward a broader life and its achievements would be checked and overcome by what he termed his "vast inertia." in spite of his mental capacity, his social gifts, his assets of birth and excellent appearance, he would go through all his years without attaining either honors or profits--merely because, in his unconquerable languor, he would not exert himself to the extent of reaching out his hand for them. he taught in the seminary because he must; because, otherwise, his bread would go unbuttered, or rather, there would be no bread to butter. for he was the last of a family whose fortune had been their "blood" and their brains, and not their material possessions. nothing had been left to him but the prestige of his birth and his inherited intellect, and the connections which they opened to him. and these connections were rosebuds for him to wear in his buttonhole rather than beefsteak to swell his waistcoat. they entitled him to lead a cotillion, but not to direct a bank. his natural parts, as he fully realized, would at any time have secured a career to him, if he had had the industry to use them assiduously. a little enterprise, a little initiative would long since have despatched him to the opportunities and successes of a city. but, always defeated by the "inertia" which he regarded as a fatal malady of his temperament--and also, perhaps, by a native distaste for the vulgar scramble and unsavory methods of the modern business world--his fine intelligence wasted itself in small tasks and his ambitions dissolved like dream-stuff in the somnolent atmosphere of shadyville. the only success available to him under such conditions was an advantageous marriage. this he could more than once have accomplished, for it cost him no effort to practice the abilities of the lover, and he had, indeed, a reputation for gallantry that invested him with a dangerous glamour as a suitor. but here he was thwarted each time by a quality that dominated him as ruthlessly to his undoing as did his laziness--and this quality was fastidiousness. for him only the exquisite was good enough. he wanted a woman with a face like an angel or a flower, and a soul to match it. and this the eligible girl had never had. so, although he had several times reached the verge of a leap into matrimonial prosperity, he had always drawn back before the crucial moment. a laugh--just a note too broad and loud--had once restrained him from the easy capture of half a million. he could not live with a woman who laughed like that, he told himself! and on the other hand, though marriage appealed to him, he could not accept the exquisite in poverty. a few years before, he had spent a summer in courting a girl whose profile had enchanted him. in imagination he saw it always against a background of dull gold--the pure, slender throat; the sweet, round chin; the delicate, proud lip and nostril; the dreaming eye. but in fact, there was no background of gold, dull or otherwise; and when peter reflected on the size of his salary and the shifts to which poverty must needs resort--the shabby clothes, the domestic sordidness, the devastating finger-marks of weariness and anxiety upon even the fairest face--his courage failed him, and he surrendered the profile to one who could give her a kentucky stock farm, a town house in new york and a box at the opera there. after that episode, he resigned his hope of romance. fate was perverse and offered him impossible combinations, and he had not the energy to seek and seize for himself. so love, like the other big prizes of life, eluded him, and at thirty-three he was a confirmed bachelor as well as a professional idler. he still pursued the graceful, aimless flirtations that are the small change of intercourse at dances and dinners--just as he still read theocritus--but neither his heart nor his mind engaged in any more serious endeavor. and yet, every now and then, he felt a faint desire for something more, for something that should not be a pastime, nor a mere bread-and-butter chore--something that would demand and exhaust the best of him and give him in return the pride of work worth the doing and doing well. this afternoon the desire was more than usually persistent, and it had held him at his desk long after school hours were over, fingering his pen and ink bottle, glancing through the weekly essays which had that day been handed in for criticism, and turning the leaves of a history of english literature with which he had vainly striven to awake enthusiasm in the minds of his class. the school-room was a pleasant place, as school-rooms go. there were potted plants on the window sills and a few good engravings on the walls, and the afternoon sunshine was streaming gaily in. but to peter the room was the disillusioning scene of unwilling labors--both on the part of his pupils and himself--and its chalky atmosphere was heavy and depressing. "what's the use of pretending that _this_ is a 'life-work'--a 'noble profession'?" he muttered, after his casual examination of a particularly discouraging essay. "they don't _want_ to learn. they only want to get through and away. after sheila graduates, i'll he without a single responsive pupil. for i won't get another like her--not in years, and probably never. why don't i chuck it all? why _don't_ i go away? there's nothing to _stay_ for! but my confounded antipathy to a tussle in the hurly-burly of my fellow-men----" at that moment a tap sounded upon the door panel. "come in," called peter carelessly, supposing that a pupil had returned for some forgotten possession. and he did not even look around until an amused voice inquired: "so absorbed, professor peter?" then he turned to see mrs. caldwell, an old-fashioned picture in silvery gray, smiling at him from the doorway. "i've come for a serious talk," said she, when he had seated her beside the sunniest window and established himself close by. "well," he answered ruefully, "you've come to the right place and the right person. i was just considering--in these scholarly surroundings--how i am wasting my life!" "really?" and she beamed on him hopefully. "because that's the beginning of better things. you _could_ amount to so much, peter!" but he shook his head: "not here. and i'm too lazy to leave shadyville." "why not here? i don't want you to leave shadyville. i can't do without you! but i want you to do something splendid here. peter, why don't you write a book?" he laughed: "dear mrs. caldwell, to write a book requires more than the determination or the wish to write one." "genius?" "not necessarily. but at least a special kind of ability. the divine fire has never burned on my hearth--not even a tiny spark of it!" "then you think it's rather a great thing to be able to write?" "i do indeed!" and the reverence of the book-lover thrilled through his tone. "i'm glad you feel that way about writers, peter," she remarked archly, "because--we have one up at our house." and she extended a note-book to him, a thin, paper-backed book such as his class used for compositions. "you mean--sheila?" for he had expected this. "yes. it's happened!--as i told you it would." and her voice was very grave now. he opened the book--and discovered that sheila's efforts were poems. "i'll read them to-night," he said cautiously. but mrs. caldwell would not let him escape so easily: "no, peter, please. if you have the time, read them now. there are only a few, and i can't go home without a message from you about them. sheila's waiting up there--and she's simply tense!" "then she knows you've brought them to me?" "of course. do you think i'd have done it without her permission? peter, don't neglect your manners with your grandchildren." "i deserve the rebuke, mrs. caldwell. but if sheila wants me to see her poems, why hasn't she brought them to me herself?" "too shy! peter, poets are _very_ sensitive. it's an awful thing to have one in your family!" "oh, you won't find it so bad." "yes, i shall. i always told you it would happen. and i always told you, too, that i couldn't cope with such a--calamity." "well, there's still hope that this may be a case of 'sweet sixteen' instead of genius. i'll take a peep and give you a verdict." "she's a _poet_," insisted mrs. caldwell, obstinately convinced of the worst. and she fixed her eyes on peter's face, as he read, with an eagerness that, save for her lamentations, might have seemed anxiety to have her opinion confirmed. presently peter chuckled. "what are you laughing at, peter?" "have you read the 'ode to the evening star'?" "yes, i've read them all." "well, then----" "well, then--_what_?" "you know why i'm laughing." "you think it's _funny_?" and there was an unmistakable note of indignation in the question. "of course i think it's funny! don't you?" there was no reply, and peter looked up from the note-book. "_don't_ you think it's funny?" he repeated. and then he stared at her. her cheeks were pink with excitement, her eyes were glittering with angry tears. "why, i thought--" he began. but she interrupted him: "i certainly don't think it's funny. i think it's a _lovely_ poem! i think they're _all_ lovely poems! i expected you to appreciate them, but as you don't--" and she put out a peremptory hand for the book. but as peter continued to stare at her, she perceived his amusement, and her resentment gave way to mirth. "oh, peter, do forgive me for being cross to you, but you see----" "i see that you're proud of these poems!" he exclaimed, his own eyes twinkling merrily. "yes," she admitted, "i am proud of them. i really do think they're the loveliest poems ever written!" and she met his laughing gaze quite shamelessly. "and you're glad--yes, _glad_--that she's turned out a poet!" he accused. "yes," confessed mrs. caldwell again, "i'm glad!" and she leaned earnestly toward him: "_oh, peter, isn't she wonderful_?" but peter regarded her severely. "ah, the deceit of woman! and i believed you when you claimed to be distressed! i sympathized with you!" but mrs. caldwell was not to be abashed: "i've been a shocking hypocrite, haven't i? but you're so clever, peter, that i expected you to see through me." "i trusted you!" he mourned. "oh, peter! peter! that's the way a man always seeks to excuse his stupidity when a woman gets the best of him! but you can trust my sincerity now. and you can sympathize with me if sheila's _not_ a poet. you seem to doubt her being one!" "she isn't a poet--yet. she may become one. i can't tell about that. what i am sure of is that she has a remarkable mind--as i told you long ago. she has things to express, and evidently the time has come when she wants to express them. that's the hopeful point." "then she is promising--for all your laughter?" "indeed she is! these poems are funny--but every now and then there's a flash of light through them. mrs. caldwell, i believe in the _light_. i don't know what sheila will do with it, but it's there--and it's wonderful!" the tears were in mrs. caldwell's eyes again, not the bright tears of anger, but the soft mist that rises from a heart profoundly moved. as peter spoke, the drops overflowed and rolled slowly down her cheeks, but she was unconscious of them. "you don't know what this means to me!" she said. "i didn't know you would feel like this about it. you deceived me so thoroughly! but now i wonder why i didn't realize, in spite of all your protestations, that you'd care just this deeply. i should have understood what things of the mind are to you--you were my grandfather's friend!" "yes, i was your grandfather's friend. and he was a marvellous man, peter. it's the proudest thing i can say of myself--that i was his friend." then, quickly, as if she had closed a treasure box, she turned from the subject of her old friendship--which peter knew might have been more--to that of sheila. "what shall i do with my poet, peter? i'm as much afraid of her as i said i should be--and as unfit to help her." "let me help her! will you let me train her?" "oh, my dear, i hoped you'd ask to do it!" "then it's a bargain--not only for the present, but for the future--after she graduates--as long as she needs me?" mrs. caldwell flashed a keen glance at him: "as long as you will, peter! i'll trust her to you gratefully." but if there was any deeper significance in her words than her acceptance of the present compact, peter failed to catch it. as he stood in the seminary doorway a few moments later, watching mrs. caldwell's retreating figure up the shady street, there came to him, however, a sense of having something to work for at last. "what was it mrs. caldwell once said?" he murmured to himself. "that she wasn't wise enough to 'trim the wick of a star'? yes, that was it. well," he added whimsically, "i don't suppose i'm fit for the job either, but i'm going to undertake it. it'll be worth while staying here--it'll be worth while living--if i can trim the wick of a star and help it to shine!" chapter vi there was nothing spectacular or startlingly precocious about sheila's development during the next few years. on her seventeenth birthday, her frocks were lowered to her slender ankles; on her eighteenth, she permanently assumed the dignity of full length skirts; on her nineteenth, she lifted her hair from its soft, girlish knot on her neck to a womanly coronet upon the top of her head. but despite her regal coiffure, she remained very much of a child. mrs. caldwell had achieved the apparently impossible; she had eliminated the rôle of the "young lady" from sheila's _repertoire_. at nineteen the girl was ready, at the touch of fate, to merge the child in the woman; but there was nothing of the conventional young lady about her, though she led the same life as other girls in shadyville, a life that abounded in parties---in town through the winter and at the country houses in the summer--and little sex vanities and love affairs. sheila herself had never had a love affair. she was a charming young person--not quite pretty, but more alluring in her shy, wistful fashion, than handsomer girls--so it followed that susceptible youths sued for her favor. but they sued in vain. she smiled upon them until they said some word of love, and then she was on the wing like a wild bird. whatever ardor there was in her she had expended thus far upon her ambition to write. under peter's restraining tutelage, she had long since foresworn odes to the evening star for prose fantasies, and these were in turn being superseded by what promised to become a clean-cut, brilliant gift for narrative. she had a rich imagination, an unusual facility for characterization, a certain quaint, whimsical humor--that she never displayed in her speech; all of which raised her work, crude though it still was, distinctly above the level of the commonplace. she had recently sold a little sketch, in her later and better manner, to an eastern magazine with a keen eye for young talent, and the event had been to her as truly the pinnacle of romance as a betrothal would have been to another girl. it had shed a veritable glory over life for her, and all her dreams were now of further triumphs, of approving editors and an applauding public. she would be a famous woman, she told herself, with the naïve assurance of youth. that was her destiny! so it was small wonder, after all, that shadyville lads had not induced her to regard them seriously. she would marry some time, of course. everyone married--at least in shadyville, where the elemental simplicities of existence prevailed for very lack of its complexities. there was really nothing to do in shadyville except to participate, in one capacity or another, in birth, marriage and death. sheila therefore considered marriage an inescapable end, but she thought very little about it along the way thither. and yet, when the hour of sex romance finally struck for sheila, when, for the first time, she realized love's moving power and beauty, her surrender to it was tenfold quicker and more unquestioning than would have been that of a girl who had dallied with sentiment from the days of her short frocks. her very years of indifference were her undoing. owing to them, love came to her with the shock of an instant and supreme revelation; she who had been blind suddenly beheld a whole undreamed of world, as it were, and the vastness of the vision inevitably dazed her to a degree that made clear perception of it impossible. perhaps sheila would have been less ingenuously innocent, and more effectually prepared for this crisis, had charlotte davis been at hand during the formative period of her girlhood. but charlotte had been traveling in europe for a couple of years, and her letters--clever, witty, worldly-wise--were too infrequent to equip sheila for the defense of her heart. so she went forward--profoundly unconscious, pitifully unready--to capture. she was nineteen years old, and the season was summer, and the moon was shining--when it began. and summer is an opulent thing in kentucky; a blue and golden thing by day; a thing of white witchery by night; and whether in the burnished glamour of the sun, or the pallid glamour of the moon, too sweet, too full-blooded, too poignant with the forces and the purposes of nature to leave the pulse unstirred. sheila, restless with this earth-magic, was standing at the garden gate one evening, when a young man came up and paused, smiling, before her. at first glance, and in the uncertain moonlight, she thought him a stranger, but a second look revealed his sturdy identity. "why, _ted_!" and ted he was; a ted grown to a fine, vigorous manliness--the manliness of a thoroughly healthy body and a cheerful, literal mind. it was obvious at once that there was not a subtlety in him; that, in his early maturity, he was of the same substantial quality that he had been as a child. sheila had not seen him for a long time--as time is measured at nineteen--for during his first year at college, his family had removed to lexington, and neither they nor he had ever returned. but it seemed as natural to her to have him there as if they had parted only yesterday, as natural to have him, and as natural to admire him. she had admired him devoutly when she was a little girl, though she had sometimes had disconcerting glimpses of his limitations. and she admired him now. instantly she felt that splendid, radiant materialism of his as a charm. she walked up the path to the house at his side, in a flutter of girlish delight--all sex, all softness, the weaker, the submissive creature. so he had dominated her in the past--except in her rare, "queer" moments when the wings of her quick fancy had lifted her on some flight beyond his reach. her wings did not lift her now, however; they were folded so meekly against her shoulders that they might as well not have been there at all. they sat down on the veranda together, and a climbing rose shook down a shower of night fragrance upon them, and the moonlight streamed over their faces as if with the intent to glorify each to the other. mrs. caldwell was playing whist at the house next door, so sheila and ted were there alone, save for the cook's tuneful presence in the kitchen. her song floated out to them in her warm, caressing negro voice--"weep no mo', my lady! oh, weep no mo' to-day!" and suddenly sheila felt that she would never weep again--life was such a joyous thing! ted sat on a step at her feet, and he leaned his head back against a pillar of the veranda as he talked. she noticed how crisp and strong his fair hair was, and the sense of his vitality weighed upon her like a compelling hand. he was telling her what had brought him back. the editorship of the _shadyville star_, the town's semi-weekly paper--the editorship and part ownership in fact--was open to him, and, alert as ever, he was seizing the opportunity. "it's a chance--a good chance--to go into the newspaper game as my own boss, or as part proprietor anyhow," he explained. "mr. orcutt is making the _star_ into a daily, and he wants a live man--a young man--to take charge of it. father's let me have a couple of thousand dollars, and i've borrowed three thousand more, and i'm going in with mr. orcutt as a partner. it's a big thing for me if i can pull it through. and i _will_ pull it through. i was editor of our college magazine, and i've worked on one or another of the louisville papers every summer, so i know a little about the game--and i like it tremendously. oh, i'll succeed all right!" "of course you will!" she agreed heartily. at the mere sound of his bright, confident voice she believed in his ability to succeed in anything whatever. "yes, of course i will. and it's nice to have _you_ say so. the only question about it," he pursued, "is whether it's a big _enough_ opportunity for me. but i'll _make_ it big enough. i'll make the paper grow--and the paper will make the town grow. see? all shadyville needs is enterprise--enterprise and advertising." "yes," she agreed again. an hour earlier she would have been ready to protect shadyville's sacred precincts from the vandals of "enterprise" and "advertising" with her own slim fist, but here she was handing over the keys of the town to modern commercialism without a qualm of hesitation. "_you're_ just what shadyville needs, ted," she added earnestly. "i thought you'd feel that way about it!" and his voice was exultant. "you always were a good pal, sheila!" and at the tribute sheila had a swift conception of woman's mission as the perfect comrade. oh, that was a mission to thrill and inspire one, to move one to high and selfless endeavor! and she dedicated herself, in the secrecy of her own mind, to the cause of ted and the _shadyville star_. throughout the next few weeks she was, indeed, the perfect comrade. she who had never before been interested in the spectacle of actual, contemporary life, flung herself now, with a fervor which not even her personal ambitions had excited, into the business of life's presentment through the daily press, and in particular through the medium of the _shadyville star_. she read newspapers avidly; she suggested subjects for editorials to ted; she came down to the office of the _shadyville daily star_--under mrs. caldwell's reluctant chaperonage--to see the linotype machine which had been installed in honor of ted's reign. she even read proof on the tumultuous day which preceded the transformed _star's_ first appearance. peter watched her in amazement. "but i thought newspapers bored you!" he exclaimed one afternoon when, coming to read his beloved theocritus with her, he found sheila immersed in a whirlwind of new york papers, from which she was industriously clipping items for reprint in the _star_. "oh," she cried, in the rapturous voice of the devotee, "i didn't understand how wonderful newspaper work could be! why, peter--i've got my finger on the pulse of the world!" at which peter put his theocritus back into the safety of his pocket lest even its tranquil spirit be corrupted by the fever of journalism. to ted sheila's magnificent energy in his behalf, her unflagging comprehension and sympathy, were steps by which he mounted blithely to his goal. how _could_ he fail with sheila to stimulate him, to assist him, to believe in him? and indeed, the _star_ did reward the efforts of both its new editor and his silent partner. it made a triumphant debut, and it continued daily to fulfill the expectations which that debut had aroused. toward the end of the summer, ted at last drew a breath of complete security. he was on mrs. caldwell's veranda at the time, and he and sheila were alone together. it was just such a night as the first one of his return to shadyville; the moonlight poured prodigally downward upon them, showing to each the other's face, silver-clear; the scent of the climbing roses stole to them on the light wind; from kitchenward came the soft notes of black mandy's song as she finished her evening tasks--"weep no mo', my lady!" everything was as it had been on that first night two months before--and yet everything was different. within those two months ted had proved himself as a man--a man who could do his chosen work. and sheila--ah, what had she not taught him--what had she not taught herself--of the woman's part in a man's work--a man's life? the same? no, everything was different! ted was sitting at sheila's feet, in what had become his accustomed place. he glanced up at her, sweet and serene in the moonlight, and something rose within him as resistlessly as a mighty tide. "i'm winning!" he said triumphantly, "i'm winning! but i couldn't have done it without you. oh, sheila, you've been the making of me! what a girl you are!--what a woman! _you'd_ always back a man up in his undertakings--if you loved him--wouldn't you?" "oh--if i loved him!--" and she looked past him with dreamy eyes. she had never looked like that before, though love had been named to her by others and in more persuasive language. to back up a man in his undertakings--because she loved him-- why, that would be _life_! ted had never had the superfine discernment of natures more delicately wrought than his, but he had the discernment of sex--as all young and healthy creatures have. he saw her dreaming look, and he knew something of the kindred thought. "sheila"--and his voice was less sure and bold--"sheila, have you ever been in love? is there--anybody else?" "no," she answered simply. and she drew her gaze down from the stars to his upturned face. that which was in her eyes made him catch his breath and close his own for an instant; but she was unaware of the shining thing he had seen--the soul, not only of one woman, just awakening, but of all womanhood, at once innocent and passionate, brave and piteous. he had not needed any subtlety to perceive that--so frank and beautiful was its betrayal. "sheila"--and he fixed his eyes upon her now--"sheila, maybe the town does need me--as you said when i first came back. i'll do my best to make it need me. because--because i want to earn the right to a home. i want to be able to--marry!" "to--_marry_?" she whispered. he leaned forward and laid his hands upon her wrists--importunate hands that sent the blood swirling through her veins. "oh, sheila--don't you understand? _i_ need _you_!" for a moment the world swayed around her. her heart was beating, not in her bosom, but in her throat--up, up to her dry and quivering lips. to back up a man in his undertakings--because she loved him!--that was what ted was asking her to do for him--to do for him always. yes--and that was life! then, slowly, the world grew still once more; the night wind blew down the fragrance of climbing roses; again she heard the familiar refrain--"weep no mo', my lady! oh, weep no mo' to-day!"--and now it seemed tender with the tenderness of insistent and protective love. and all the while ted's hands were on her wrists, silently imploring. this was life! oh, she would never weep again--never again in her joy! "sheila?" she bent toward him--as irresistibly as the rose above her head was drawn to the wind--and smiled. "oh, sheila!--_when you look at me like that_!" and then ted's face was against her breast, his arms around her. she would never weep again--for _this_ was _life_! chapter vii sheila had been married several months before she ceased to expect a miracle. she had believed that moment of high rapture when, with ted's face hidden against her breast, she had seemed to grasp life itself in her ardent young hands, to be but the forerunner of greater moments--of raptures and fulfillments compared to which the first awakening would appear no more than a pale shadow of joy. marriage, in some way mysterious and beautiful, would surely alter the world for her; nay, more, would transmute her own nature into something stronger, richer, happier, a wedded nature, wedded in its lightest moods, its deepest fastnesses. she would wear ted's ring upon her very soul, and her soul would thereby be changed and glorified. other wives--all wives, indeed, who marry at the dictates of their hearts--expect as much. it is the way of women to dream and hope above the earth's level, and now and then, in a rarely perfect mating or in motherhood, their dreams come true. but oftenest they wait as sheila waited--unrewarded. and after awhile they return contentedly to the lowland of everyday reality--where many paths are pleasant and their fellow travelers, though not knights errant, are usually faithful and kind. this, after a few months, sheila did, too. by that time she had begun to regard the first moment of acknowledged love as unique, one from which she had no right to ask more than itself. it was enough to have had it. it _had_ been life--of that she was still convinced--but life at its high tide. and the very existence of every day--of tranquil affection and homely duty--was none the less life, too, and good after its own fashion. so, missing the miracle, she set to work to discover a miracle in what she had; to find exquisite meanings in the fire upon her wedded hearth while her wedded soul remained cold and virginal. and she had the better chance to warm herself beside that fire because it never occurred to her that ted might be in the least responsible for its limitations. about her choice of a husband--or rather, her acceptance of the husband whom fate had chosen for her--she had no misgivings. "oh, sheila, are you sure?" mrs. caldwell had inquired again and again in that heart-searching hour which had preceded her sanction of the engagement. "are you _sure_?" and sheila had been sure, triumphantly sure. even then, with the girl's rhapsodies ringing in her ears, mrs. caldwell had insisted upon an engagement of six months--"to give the child an opportunity to break it," she had confided to peter. but the delay had proved unnecessary. at the end of the period imposed sheila had been as sure as ever, and she was sure still. ted loved her. ted needed her. of course he was the right man for her! if she had thought to receive more than marriage had given her, the fault was hers, she loyally decided. she had always anticipated miracles. she had always seen life as an enchanting fairy tale, with a marvellous climax hidden somewhere in the chapters yet unread. but life wasn't a fairy tale; it was merely a bit of cheerful realism, with a happy, commonplace climax in accord with realistic standards. it hadn't been fair to demand princes and palaces and winged delights of a bit of realism! she knew now that her expectations had been childish and absurd; that she had asked for more than life had to give; that the joys of this world were simple, home-abiding things, without the wings for heavenly flights. not even love itself was winged, and it was better so--for thus she need not fear lest it fly away as winged things are wont to do. she had prayed for ecstasy--which, at best, is fleeting. instead she had been granted a safe and quiet happiness. was not destiny wiser than she? but though she reconciled herself to the realities of life and of marriage, she could not reconcile herself to her own unchanged spirit. she had looked to find sheila kent a new being, serene, complete--and sheila kent was neither. "i'm just myself!" she admitted at last, when neither faith nor desire had availed to transform the fiber of her soul. "i'm just myself still. ted used to think me a queer little girl--and i'm the same queer self now. other married girls are satisfied with their husbands and their houses and--their babies--and i believed i would be, too. but i'm not. marriage hasn't made me over--and it isn't enough for me. i want something wonderful--i want to _do_ something wonderful. i want--why, i want to _write_!" it seemed a solution of her perplexity--the conclusion that she still wanted to write--and she seized upon it with reviving fervor. her gift, singling her out from other girls, was the explanation of those unconquered spaces in her soul, spaces never destined for the foot of any man, however dear. genius, she had heard, was always celibate, and her genius, or talent, lived on in her inviolate, a thing yet to be reckoned with, yet to be appeased. she had not written during her engagement, nor since her marriage. not that she had deliberately renounced her ambitions, but that her days had been crowded with other things, with things that, for the time, she thought more vital. peter had remonstrated with her once or twice, but to no avail, and when she went from the flurry of trousseau and wedding to the more serious business of keeping house in the traditional vine-clad cottage--mrs. caldwell having persisted in the wisdom of separate establishments--he no longer protested at all. an industrious young housekeeper and a blooming wife was obviously not to be condoled with over thwarted aspirations. so certain unfinished manuscripts lay forgotten in the bottom of sheila's bridal trunk--forgotten, or at least ignored--until the day when she fixed on them as the reason of her vague discontent. then she brought them forth with an eagerness that was, perhaps, the best answer to her self-analysis. of course she had wanted to write; without knowing it, she must have wanted, for months, to write! oh, life _wasn't_ a bit of dull realism! it was a fairy tale after all--a fairy tale of poems and novels, of gracious publishers and an appreciative public! she had never talked to ted about her writing. somehow she had always been absorbed in his work, his ambitions. he had all the initiative and enterprise that shadyville, prior to his arrival, had lacked, and his labors and successes had consumed not only his own time and thoughts, but sheila's as well. she admired his energy; she was dazzled by the juggleries of his mediocre cleverness; she was proud to help him. like a strong, fresh wind he filled her world--and, incidentally, he was a wind that blew away all the delicate cobwebs, the gossamer filaments of her finer gift. but now, for the first time since ted's return to shadyville, sheila's individuality rose up within her and claimed something for itself. she had wanted to write--and she _would_ write. there was no reason why she should not. women, nowadays, were wives and artists also. married women had "careers" as often as the unmarried. in short, fame was still hers to conquer! she set about conquering it at once--that was sheila's way--and when, in the middle of a busy morning, some one tapped imperiously on her closed door, she went to answer the summons with an inky finger and dream-laden eyes. but she opened the door to a vision that dispelled dreams by its more charming substance--a young woman whose smart, slender figure was clothed in a mode that had not yet reached shadyville, and whose alert and smiling face seemed as unrelated as her garments to the sleepy little provincial town. "charlotte!" "yes," said the vision gaily, "yes--_mrs. theodore kent_!" and then the two girls were in each other's arms, laughing and chattering, and weeping a little, too, after the manner of girls--especially when there has been marriage and giving in marriage since their last meeting. they had not seen each other for more than three years, for although charlotte had been in america several times during that period, she had merely joined her family in new york for brief reunions, and had then hastened back to paris where she was studying singing. they looked at each other curiously after that first embrace, and, when they were seated in sheila's sunny sitting-room, they fell at once into confidences covering those three separated years. it was charlotte, of course, who had food for conversation, but sheila, as the bride, was the heroine of the occasion, even to charlotte's broader mind. marriage may not fulfill the ideals of high romance, but it can always cast a halo. "well," said charlotte at last, when she had heard the tale of ted's perfections and achievements, "well, i'll wait and see what you two make of it before i give up my liberty." "you wouldn't be giving up your liberty if you married the man you loved," protested sheila staunchly. "oh, i don't know about that! suppose i married a man who resented my music?" "but he wouldn't--if he loved you!" "oh! then ted doesn't mind your writing?" "of course not!" sheila assured her. "why, i was writing when you came!" and she held up the inky finger. charlotte surveyed the finger with evident respect: "that's right! i'm glad you aren't going to be submerged by marriage. i was afraid you might be. and really, sheila, you have talent. the 'f---- monthly' would never have taken that story of yours if it hadn't been exceptionally good. i know mr. bennett, the associate editor, and his standards----" "you _know_ mr. bennett?" interrupted sheila. and her tone was reverent. "yes," said charlotte carelessly. "i know a lot of writing folks in new york. in fact i've brought one of them home with me--alice north, the novelist. maybe you've read something of hers?" "_something_? why, i've read everything of hers i could lay my hands on! oh, charlotte, i _adore_ her!" "so do i," laughed charlotte, "not her books, but her. she writes very well, but she's more interesting than her stories. now, sheila, i'll tell you what you must do--you must let me have some of your things to show her! she could be such a help to you if she found you worth the trouble. let me have a story or two now, and come up to-morrow afternoon to tea--and to hear what she thinks of them." sheila caught her breath. "oh, it's too presumptuous," she demurred, shyly. "for _me_ to bother _alice north_!" her eyes were shining, nevertheless, as if at sight of a long-promised land, and charlotte presently departed with a couple of manuscripts for the touchstone of mrs. north's criticism. when ted came home that evening, he found a sheila tremulous with excitement, her eyes shining still, her cheeks, which were usually pale, flushed to a vivid rose. "oh, ted," she exclaimed at once, "charlotte is back!" "yes," he assented good-naturedly, "i heard about it this morning and gave her a write-up with a picture." for ted invariably looked upon events in the terms of their newspaper value. "did you know that she brought alice north home with her?" "alice north?" apparently he had not the slightest idea who alice north might be. "yes--alice north--the novelist, ted!" "is she anybody special--anything of a celebrity?" "is she? oh, ted, you must read something besides newspapers! mrs. north hasn't been made a celebrity by the papers--somehow she's managed to keep clear of cheap notoriety--but there's scarcely a woman writing to-day whose work is better than hers. she is really--_really_--distinguished!" instantly he was "on the job," as he would have expressed it, at that revelation: "well, she won't keep out of the 'star'! i'll have a story about her to-morrow. confound it! i wish i'd known to-day! but the davises never let me know anything. i found out by accident that charlotte was home. and such a time as i had getting her photograph. i don't believe that family care about their own town's paper!" sheila smiled. she had a pretty accurate conception of the place that shadyville must occupy on charlotte's horizon--and on alice north's. but she only remarked soothingly, "i can tell you all about alice north. i've read nearly everything she's written, and a number of magazine articles about her, too. i'll get you up a good story about her--the sort of story she won't object to either." then her enthusiasm swept her from the subject of newspaper values to the true value of mrs. north: "oh, ted, isn't it splendid for a woman to have a talent like that--a talent that's made her famous at thirty!" but there was no responsive enthusiasm in ted's face, no leap of light in the eyes that met the fire of hers. "i suppose so," he conceded grudgingly, "yes, i suppose it is. but i don't care for that sort of woman myself--at least for that sort of married woman." "but why, ted? why? her work doesn't interfere with her loving her husband!" "it interferes with her making a home for him. and _that's_ a woman's work--making a home." "but, ted, maybe he doesn't want a home--or maybe they have a housekeeper." ted shrugged: "oh, if it suits him to live in a hotel, or at the mercy of a hired housekeeper, it's all right. but in that case, he's missing the best thing a man ever gets--i mean the kind of home a woman's _love_ makes!" at those words sheila would have surrendered the argument--so easily was she swayed by a touch upon her heart. but ted was not through with the subject. his masculine self-respect was aroused against this woman who was succeeding outside the sphere of strictly feminine occupation, and he was determined to show her, in her worst light, to sheila. "has she any children?" he demanded belligerently. "no--at least, i think not." "now you see that i'm right!" he exulted. but the moment for yielding had passed with sheila. "i see nothing of the sort," she replied with a flare of temper. "her having children--or not having them--has no bearing whatever on the matter." "oh, yes, it has! you mark my words--she hasn't had any children because she's wanted to spend all her time advancing herself--building up a tawdry little fame for herself! i tell you, sheila, talent's a bad thing for a woman--a bad thing!" "but, ted--_i_ write." he stared at her in naïve surprise. then his face softened into indulgent laughter. "why, kitty, so you do! i'd forgotten that you scribble. but you don't take it seriously. i don't mind your playing at it, so long as you don't get the notion that it's the biggest thing in life." and he laughed again and pinched her cheek--reassuringly. she didn't laugh in answer, however. she only gazed at him with an odd intentness, as if she were seeing him for the first time. then, gravely, she inquired: "what would you think the biggest thing in life, ted--if you were a woman--a woman like alice north?" he drew her down to his knee and whispered into her ear. she was very still for an instant, her whole body subdued, spellbound, by that whispered word. then, with a movement singularly untender, she withdrew from his arms and stood erect--free--before him. the rich scarlet still flooded her cheek--now like a flag of reluctant womanhood--but he searched her eyes in vain for the glow that should have matched it. "well--you'll think so some day!" he insisted gently. chapter viii sheila was not naturally secretive, and it was a measure of the antagonism which ted had aroused in her that she said nothing to him of her projected visit to alice north. she had intended to tell him at once of charlotte's kindly plan to interest mrs. north in her work; she had been impatient to tell him, and her announcement of charlotte's return, and mrs. north's arrival with her, had been meant only as the preface to the confidence. she had been so sure of his sympathy, of his ambition for her and his pleasure in this opportunity to test her power. his real attitude toward the achievements of women she had never suspected. he had so gladly and gratefully accepted her help in his own work, he had so generously acknowledged her ability, that she had never conceived of any sex distinction in his views. she had been his comrade--now he would be hers. and oh, she would make him proud of her! she would see his eyes light for her as, sometimes, she had seen them light over the story of men's successes. for ted loved success. if she looked forward to triumphs, he was always at the heart of them. whatever she could do would be done more for his honor than for her own. whatever was rare and fine in her she had come to value first because she was his wife--and afterward for her own profit. she imagined herself, crowned by mrs. north's praise, returning to ted to cry: "it is the real, the true thing--my gift! i will do beautiful work. oh, dearest, i have more to bring you than i dared to believe!" so her impetuous mind had run onward to meet happy possibilities when ted arrested it with the comment, "i don't care for that sort of woman myself--at least for that sort of married woman!" and at the words, sheila's dreams had fallen, like broken-winged birds, to the ground. for a moment--nay, through all the conversation that followed, a conversation that revealed to her with cruel clarity a phase of her husband's mind that she had not hitherto encountered--she was wondering if those dreams would ever rise again. rude and stupid blows from the hand she loved best had struck them down. how could they recover themselves? how could they sing and soar--those fragile, shattered things? but even as she glimpsed them thus, broken, defeated, there surged up within her the strength of resistance. sweetly compliant in all the common affairs of her and ted's joint life, she had, for this issue so vital to her, an amazing obstinacy. defeated? she and her dreams? _no_! her dreams were her own, born of her as surely as the children of her body would be. they were hers to save--hers to realize. and she was strong enough to do it! that had been her thought when she withdrew herself from ted's knee. his whisper--"the greatest thing that can happen to a woman is motherhood!"--had inspired no tenderness in her. for at that moment there was astir within her, violent and dominant, the impulse that is mightier than motherhood itself--the impulse of _creation_. and it was none the less imperative because it demanded to mould with written words rather than living flesh. ted's last gentle speech, his hurt expression when she turned coldly from him, moved her not at all. for the time, he was not ted, her beloved, but man, her enemy. true, she had not regarded man as an enemy before. peter, for instance, had been an ally without whom she could not even have fared thus far. but peter was not a husband; his masculinity had not been appealed to--nor threatened. she saw now that men would always fight for the mastery of their own women, would always seek to impose sex upon them as a yoke. ah, that black, bitter gulf of sex! sheila, looking into it for the first time, shuddered with revolt and rage. so _this_ was life; this the end of such moments as her exquisite awakening to love. to _this_ the high and heavenly raptures lured one at last! a bird in the wrong cage, impotently beating its breast against the bars--sheila was like enough to such an one in that furious, unconsciously helpless hour. by the next day, however, the fierce whirlwind of her astounded resentment had passed. she began to see that ted might be the victim of his sex as she was the victim of hers; that the real tyranny was not that of ted over her, but of nature over them both; of nature who would use them each with equal ruthlessness for her own purposes. but this perception did not daunt her. unhesitatingly, she arrayed herself against nature now; she would save her dreams even from that! and as ted was a part of nature's plan, she said nothing to him of her determination to fulfill herself in spite of it. in the afternoon she set out resolutely for charlotte's. it was summer, and shadyville was at its fairest. as sheila trod the wide, tree-canopied streets, with their old-fashioned houses in fragrant garden closes on either side, a hundred tiny voices whispered to her messages of peace; of life that goes on from summer to summer; of growth, in the dark and choking earth, that springs at last upward to the sun. but she did not hear. for her there was neither comfort nor peace nor any joy in the processes and victories of mere life. when she reached the davis house, charlotte and mrs. north were on the veranda, clad brightly in a summer frivolity, and their air of leisure and gayety was oddly unlike the tense and passionate mood of sheila herself. in fact the whole scene--the porch with its fluttering awnings and festive flowers, the dainty tea-table that already awaited the guest, the two charming women presiding there--seemed far removed from the grave resolve and stormy emotions that sheila had brought thither. for an instant, as she paused at the gate, she felt herself absurd. she had come to have afternoon tea with two women who were obviously of the big, conventional world--and she had brought her naked soul to them! acutely self-conscious, painfully humiliated, she would have retreated if she could, but charlotte was already hailing her. and then--her hand was clasped in alice north's, her eyes were meeting eyes at once so probing and so luminous that they opened every door of her nature and flooded it with light. sheila had never had a case of hero-worship, but as she put her hand in mrs. north's, she fell, figuratively, upon her knees. the very buoyancy and assurance of the latter's manner, which had, for an instant, chilled and rebuffed her, now appeared to her the outward manifestation of a brilliant and conquering spirit. like a devotee, she watched mrs. north's quick, graceful movements, her vivid, changeful face; like a devotee she listened to her sparkling, inconsequent chatter. this woman, handicapped by her womanhood, had done big things. any word from her lips, any gesture of her hand was something to admire and remember. it never even entered sheila's head that, although she had done great things, alice north might not be a great woman. it never occurred to her to ask _how_ she had triumphed--at whose or at what cost. she never even dreamed that one's life--just a noble submission to nature, a willing and patient compliance with laws and purposes above one's own--might be the final and fullest expression of genius. alice north had written books--and sheila was at her feet. after awhile charlotte tactfully left her alone with her idol--in whose footsteps she meant to walk henceforth--to _climb_! "i've read your stories," said mrs. north softly then. it was the first mention of sheila's work, and the girl quivered from head to foot. she gazed mutely at the oracle--waiting for life, for death. suddenly mrs. north leaned forward and caught sheila's hands in hers. alice north had never failed to be sensitive to drama; to play her part in it with sympathy and effect. "my dear," she exclaimed, and her voice was clear and thrilling, "my dear, you have it--the divine gift!" and as they looked at each other, the eyes of each filled with tears. alice north was indeed sensitive to drama--so sensitive that her counterfeit emotions sometimes deceived even her--and sheila was shaken to the heart, to the soul. "you mean--you mean--that i--" began the girl brokenly. "i mean," answered mrs. north, "that you are already doing remarkable work--that you will go far--unless----" "unless what?" breathed sheila. "will you let me advise you?" "oh, if you only will! what shall i do?" and sheila bent trusting, obedient eyes upon her. "do? dear child, i can tell you in a word. you must renounce!" "renounce?" repeated sheila vaguely. "yes, renounce!" and alice north turned a face of pale sacrifice upon her--with that inevitable instinct for the dramatic. few women had renounced less than she--less, at least, of what pleased them--but at that moment, in the intensity of her artistic fervor, she believed herself an ascetic for her work's sake. "the common lot of womanhood is not for you," she declared. "you must live for your art!" and her voice trembled with the touching earnestness that she had so easily assumed--and would as easily cast off. to sheila, however, there never came a doubt of mrs. north's deep sincerity. she had listened, as if to a priestess, while the novelist proclaimed her sublime creed of renunciation, and she now offered the obstacle to it in her own situation with a sense of having fallen from grace in being thus human: "but i'm married, you know." "and so am i. but i am consecrated, nevertheless, to my art. and so, my dear, must you be. you must give yourself utterly,--_utterly_--to your art! art won't take less. _your_ husband must live for _you_--instead of your living for him after the fashion of most wives. and you'll be worth his living for--i'm sure of that." "i--i don't understand," faltered sheila. "i don't understand what it is i mustn't do for ted." alice north held her hands more closely and fixed her luminous eyes upon her--eyes which, to many before sheila, had seemed to shine with the light of a beautiful soul: "you mustn't do for him the one thing that you and he will want most--you mustn't have children for him! my dear, _you_ must be a mother with your _brain_--not with your body. you can't do both--at least, worthily--and you must give yourself to creation with your mind. there are women enough already to become mothers of the other sort!" sheila did not reply. slowly the glow faded from her face, from her eyes. slowly and listlessly she withdrew her hands from mrs. north's fervid clasp and leaned back in her chair. clearly the supreme moment had passed; the flame of her ardor had flickered out. mrs. north glanced curiously at her. an instant before, the girl had been radiant, tremulous with aspiration and with hope. now she was apathetic and cold, her spirit no more than a handful of ashes. the silence lengthened--grew heavy with meaning. alice north put out her hand again: "i trust i haven't intruded--offended?" "oh, no," said sheila stiffly, "you have been very kind, and--i am sure--very wise." but her frank gaze had grown guarded; her whole manner had become that of defensive reserve. yes, clearly, the great moment was over; the drama was ended. "what a queer girl," remarked mrs. north! to charlotte, when sheila had gone. "i predicted a phenomenal future for her--i had her tingling to her finger tips. then--quite suddenly--the light, the fire was quenched. and do what i would, i couldn't kindle it again. it was very strange--unless----" "unless----?" "unless she's going to have a child. i told her that she mustn't have children." "you mean," cried charlotte incredulously, "that you advised her to shirk the greatest experience possible to a woman? you advised her to forego _that_?" but alice north lifted her pretty brows and shrugged her histrionic shoulders with an air of fine distaste. "really, charlotte," she drawled, "i hadn't suspected you of being so primitive." walking homeward through the sweet summer dusk, sheila was far from the listless, extinguished creature whom alice north had described, however. never in her life had such a tempest of emotion swept through her being. for she was face to face, at last, with life. the first night of ted's courtship returned to her now; she smelt the fragrance of climbing roses; she felt his head again upon her breast--the indescribable first touch of love that is unlike all others!--she heard a voice deep within her exulting: "_this_ is _life_!" ah, how ignorant she had been--how pitifully innocent! to have thought _that_ life! for life was a thing that laid brutal, compelling hands upon you; that destroyed you and created you again; that rent you with unspeakable pangs, with unimaginable terrors, with frantic and powerless rebellions. it was not joy; it was not peace; it was not fulfillment. it was a _force_. merciless, implacable, irresistible, it seized upon you and _used_ you. for that you were put into the world; for that you dreamed and hoped and struggled--for that moment out of an eternity, that moment of _use_! as she hurried onward, stumbling now and then with a clumsiness alien to her, the sense of lying helpless in the grasp of this force almost drove her to cry out. more than once she lifted her hands to her mouth, and even then little shuddering murmurs broke from her. helpless? oh, yes! yes! for that had come to her from which there was no escape. she was trapped. she, too, was to be put to use. her own work must make way for nature's. she saw that now. her own work must make way. for alice north herself had said that one could not serve art and nature, too--and nature had exacted service of her. she had been strong enough to defy ted's tyranny; but, after all, she could not defeat nature's. her work must make way. she let herself noiselessly into the house. from the kitchen floated the sounds of the cook's evening activities, but otherwise the place was silent, and ted's hat was not on its accustomed hook in the little hall. she could be alone a while. she stole up the stairs to her bedroom, meaning to lie down in the quiet darkness, but once there, a panic assailed her, a senseless fear of the dim corners, the distorted shadows. besides, she wanted to see herself; she wanted to see if ted, promising her beautiful things from motherhood the night before, if mrs. north, warning her against it to-day, had known that she--that she was going to have a child. she turned on the lights and stood in their full glare before her mirror. searchingly she inspected herself--the slender figure that was as yet only delicately rounded, the cheek that showed just a softer curve and bloom, the eyes---- and then she caught her breath in a sharp sob and leaned nearer to her reflection. what was it--who was it--that she saw in her eyes? for something--some one--looked back at her that had not looked back at her before; something--some one--ineffably yearning, poignantly tender--looked back at her with the gaze of a mystery--of a miracle. it was as if, within herself, she beheld another self; and this other self was reconciled to life, was in harmony with its divine purpose. strangely enough, at that moment, her childhood's fancy of another self recurred to her. "other-sheila," she whispered, "other-sheila, is it _you_?" while she leaned thus, waiting, perhaps, for the answer of that reflected self, she saw that ted had opened the door behind her. for an instant their eyes met in the mirror, and with that gaze sheila's heart suddenly fled home to him. he was the father of her child! "oh," she cried, turning to him with outstretched, shaking hands and quivering face, "oh, tell it to me again! i _want_ to believe it! _tell me again that motherhood is the greatest thing!_" chapter ix in that hour when sheila, flinging herself into his arms, cried out to ted, "tell me again that motherhood is the greatest thing. i want to believe it!" she struck a high note that, during the succeeding days and weeks and months, she could not always sustain. and yet, from the moment when she attempted to reconcile her will to nature's, she did begin to perceive that her sacrifice would have its recompense. perhaps she perceived it the more clearly because it was given to her to see what motherhood meant to other women. for she was enough like the rest of humanity to value what others held precious. on the day after her interview with mrs. north, sheila went to confide her expectation of maternity to her grandmother. she found mrs. caldwell in her sitting-room, a peaceful, lonely figure, lifted, at last, above the stress and surge of life--and above all its sweet hazards, its young delight. she turned a pleased face to sheila: "dear! ah, what would i do without my child?" at the words, sheila's news rushed to her lips: "grandmother--grandmother--_i_ am going to have a child!" and then she was on her knees, and her face was hidden against mrs. caldwell's breast. there was an instant of silence. then: "how happy you and ted must be!" murmured mrs. caldwell, "how happy!" and something in her tone touched sheila more nearly than even her close-clinging arms, something that was at once joy for sheila's joy and a measureless regret for herself. suddenly the girl, trembling in the fold of those gentle old arms, realized how far behind her grandmother lay all youth's dear hopes and adventures. and she realized, too, that she herself held treasures in her hands--the treasures of youth and youth's warm love. after all, even if she must lay her work aside, she was happy. youth and love were hers--youth and love! nor was it only from her grandmother that she received confirmation of her fortunate estate. a few days later came charlotte, to congratulate her upon mrs. north's belief in her gift. "alice north says that you have a wonderful future before you," she told sheila glowingly. "i'm so glad for you!--so proud of you!" "mrs. north said i had a future before me _if i did not have children_," corrected sheila. "she thinks i can't be a writer and a mother, too." "ah," remarked charlotte reflectively, "then that _was_ why--" she paused a moment, leaving the significant sentence unfinished, and then went on more earnestly, "sheila, she was wrong! don't be persuaded to her views. she judged you by herself. probably she couldn't be both writer and mother--she isn't really strong, you know. but that is not true for all women. why, there have always been women who have done great things intellectually and had children, too! don't be discouraged; don't let yourself believe that you need lose your art if you should have a child. you'd be all the finer artist for it. and--you are going to have a child, aren't you, sheila?" sheila had been passionately shy about her expectancy of motherhood, but the grave directness of charlotte's inquiry disarmed her, and she answered as frankly and simply: "yes, i am going to have a child." charlotte looked at her with an expression new to the shrewd blue eyes that were habitually so cool and smiling. then, with an impetuous and lovely gesture, she drew sheila to her: "i'm so glad for you, dear!--so glad!" a little while before she had been glad for the promise in sheila's work. now she used the same word, but how differently! for her mind had spoken before, and now speech leaped from her very heart. "i have never loved a man," she said presently, in her outspoken way, "i have never loved a man, but i hope that i may some day--and that i may have a little child for him." so mrs. caldwell was not alone in her attitude toward love's consummation! the desire for motherhood possessed not only the women of yesterday, of old-fashioned standards and ideals, but charlotte, too; charlotte, the "modern" woman incarnate, who had always appeared so self-sufficient, so bright and serene and cold, even so hard. it seemed incredible that she should have confessed to the dreams of softer women, of women less mentally preoccupied and competent. sheila stared at her: "_you_ feel that way? you--with your music, your chances to study, to make a career for yourself?" "of course i feel that way! every real woman does. i want my music and motherhood, too, but--if i ever have to choose between them--do you doubt that i'll take motherhood?" there was indignation in her tone; evidently she was wounded that sheila had misjudged her--so strong was the mother-instinct, the sense of maternity's supreme worth, within her. realizing this, it appeared to sheila that no one but herself--no woman in all the world--was reluctant for maternity. after all, ted had only asked of her that she should share the universal hope and joy of wifehood. it was she who had demanded the exceptional lot; not he who had imposed a unique obligation upon her. with this conviction, the last flicker of her resentment toward him was extinguished, leaving her gratefully at peace with him, not only in the high moments, but even in those occasionally recurrent ones of rebellion and fear. in the latter, indeed, she turned to ted now for courage and strength, and in the fullness and tenderness of his response she felt herself more his than she had ever been. but her resolve not to tell him about her talk with alice north persisted. it had been, at first, the resolution of a determined opposition to his views, but it endured through motives more generous. ted should have his happiness in approaching parenthood unspoiled. he should not be hurt by knowing that she had ever looked forward to it with a divided heart. she could at least conceal that she was unlike other women, and perhaps, in time, a miracle might be wrought upon her and she be made wholly like her sisters. perhaps, too, in the fullness of time, her work and her motherhood might be adjusted to each other in her life. as charlotte had said, there were women--many of them--who were both artists and mothers. she herself might be such a woman--some day. she might convert ted to this, and go forward to a destiny of complete fulfillment. but just now, with a sudden and intense accession of conscience, she yielded herself entirely to the new life that had sprung up within her. the sum of her strength belonged to it, she told herself, and she could give herself as completely as other women, whatever the difference between her mental attitude and theirs. all the while, too, she prayed for her miracle; prayed that she might become altogether like other women, altogether like those glad mothers of the race. she did not pray in vain. there came a day when, with her little son upon her arms, she whispered, "oh, i _am_ glad! i am _glad_--glad!" glad? ah, that was a poor, colorless word for the rapture that descended upon her. never was the ecstasy of motherhood granted a woman more utterly. it was like an angel's finger on her lips, answering her questionings, satisfying her longings, silencing her discontents. _this_ was life, and it was not cruel and tyrannous, as she had thought, but infinitely gracious and benevolent. it had used her, but it had used her for her own happiness. for upon her arm lay her son! that she ever could have wanted to escape motherhood, that she ever could have resented it, now seemed to her unbelievable. she admitted it to be worth any renunciation, and she gave not one regret to the renunciation that she had made for it--the temporary renunciation of her work. it absorbed her fully and gloriously; it flowed through her with her blood; it was a part of her body and the very fiber of her soul. and it shone through her like a light: it was in the softer touch of her hand, the deeper note of her voice, the more brooding sweetness of her eyes. she _was_ motherhood, indeed; a young madonna whose halo was visible even to unimaginative ted. had the question occurred to him then, ted would have said that no artist could surrender herself thus to maternity. peter burnett, reverently watching, did say, "no one but a poet could be a mother like that!" sheila had been very ill at the time of the child's birth, and a year passed before she regained her natural vigor. it was, perhaps, the happiest year of her life. every now and then in the course of a lifetime, there come seasons of pure, untroubled joy, when all the practical concerns of ordinary existence pause for a little while, and the petty cares and worries make way, and even the commonplace pleasures stand aside, abashed. such a season of joy was sheila's then. she could never recollect it afterward without a quickening and lifting of her heart, and she knew at the time--oh, very surely--that she had drawn down heaven to herself. of course it did not last. as her strength increased and the every day business of living became more and more her affair, she dropped to the level of a normal contentment, and thus to the interests that had occupied her before the miracle was accomplished. eric, her little son, was well into his second year, however, before she felt the urging restlessness of her gift, and even then she denied the creative impulses stirring within her; she put them from her--while she longed to yield herself to them instead. "go away!" she said to them fiercely. "oh, go away before you spoil my beautiful peace!" but for every time that she drove them forth, they returned the stronger, as if they would proclaim: "you can't be rid of us! you may narcotize us with the sedative of your content. you may banish us altogether. but we'll always waken! we'll always come back! for we're a part of _you_--just as much a part of you as your son is!" it was true. they were, indeed, a part of her. she would always be different from other women after all--because of them. she would always have to reckon with them; to appease them, or to deny them at her own bitter cost. and now there came the question: "why deny them any longer?" eric had been a very healthy baby from the first; he had, also, an excellent nurse, a young mulatto girl who shared her race's enthusiasm for children. in the kitchen ruled an old cook who brooked no interference from "li'l miss." obviously, neither her child nor her house demanded all of sheila's time. so in the quiet afternoons, when eric had been taken outdoors, she began to write for an hour or two. surely, she argued, she now had a right to those two hours out of each twenty-four, especially since she did not take them from her husband, her son, or her home. it was her own leisure, her own opportunity for rest, that she sacrificed, if sacrifice there was. but though she justified herself, she somehow said nothing about the matter to ted. she agreed with him now--oh, warmly enough!--that motherhood was the greatest thing in life for a woman; but she did not, she never would, believe with him that it must be the only thing. nor should he believe it always, she told herself. she would prove to him that a woman could be both mother and artist. she would prove it to him, as she had dreamed of doing--but not just yet. they loved each other so dearly, they were so happy together, that she shrank from disturbing their harmony by any discussion or dissension. and discussion and dissension there would be before ted could be converted. amiable as he was in his healthy, hearty fashion, he would be intolerant and irritable about this. so she worked on in secret; and for a couple of months nothing and no one was the worse for it. then, when eric was two years old, he was taken ill; suddenly, swiftly, terribly, as a little child can be smitten from rosy vigor to death's very brink. the disease was scarlet fever. "how can he have gotten it?" sheila and ted asked each other, bewildered and agonized. but soon--only too soon--they knew. lila, the nurse, disappeared directly after the verdict was pronounced. "afraid!" cried sheila scornfully, "afraid--though she said she loved him!" "yes'm," agreed old lucindy, who had come from her kitchen to help nurse the boy with a loyalty that was in itself a scathing comment on lila's defection, "yes'm, she's feared all right--but not ob gittin' fever." there was something savage in her tone at sound of which sheila and ted straightened from their little son's crib and looked to her for explanation. "she's feared," continued lucindy, "'cause she knows _she_ done gib dat chile fever takin' him to dem low-down nigger shanties she's allus visitin' at. dat's what lila's feared ob." "she took the _baby_ to--?" it was ted who tried to question lucindy. sheila could not, though she had opened her dry lips for indignant speech. "yassah, she sho did--jes befo' he was took sick. she taken him to 'er no 'count yaller sister's--an' 'er sister's chillun's got scarlet fever. i heared it dis mornin'." "are you sure, lucindy? are you _sure_?" it was still ted who pursued the inquiry. "deed i'se sho, marse ted. she tole me herse'f whar she'd been when she come back wid de baby, an' 'bout how cute an' sweet dey all say he is. course she didn't know 'bout de fever--it hadn' showed up on dem chillun yit--but she knowed mighty well miss sheila wouldn' want our baby in nigger houses _no-how_. she knowed she was doin' wrong takin' him. i sho did go fo' dat yaller gal, too! she wouldn' never do it no mo'--not while lucindy's a-livin'!" ted turned to sheila, and the expression of her white face startled him. much as he loved her, his heart hardened to her as he looked--hardened with a sudden, instinctive suspicion--and when he spoke, his voice was stern: "did you know where lila was taking the baby when she had him out?" he asked. "sheila, did you know?" chapter x "sheila, did you know?" repeated ted. sheila shook her head. lila had had orders never to take eric out of the yard without permission. she had risked the disobedience, only too sure of her mistress's absorption. for lila knew the secret of those afternoons; she had not been a confidante, but she had been a witness. sheila realized all this now, as she faced ted across the crib of their little stricken son. she realized that she had not known where eric was because she had been engrossed in her work--and that not to have known, as things had come to pass, was criminal. "oh, how could it have happened?" cried ted. and looking into sheila's tortured face, sternness vanished from his eyes for an instant, and love and grief yearned toward her from them instead. in that instant speech came to sheila and the truth rushed out of her. "it happened because--because i was up in my room and didn't overlook lila. it happened because i was up in my room, _writing a story_!" it was as if she had bared her breast to a sword--and he could not plunge it in. in his turn he was silent; but his silence was scarcely easier to bear than the harshest upbraiding. he stood there, gazing at her, and she knew all that was in his mind, in his heart. and then, after a moment, he went out of the room, still without a word. when he came back, several hours later, he was very gentle to her, but sheila knew, nevertheless, that his father's heart condemned her, condemned her as she condemned herself. together they nursed their son, with mrs. caldwell and old lucindy to help them. and as sheila watched her baby fight for the tiny flame of his life, her own heart, so much more burdened than ted's, broke not once, but a thousand times! he was so small, so weak, so helpless, that little son of hers, and he suffered. that was what she felt she could not bear--that he should suffer. even his death she could endure if she must, she who deserved to lose him. but his _pain_----! as she went back and forth upon the ceaseless tasks of nursing, apparently so concentrated upon them, she was in reality living over days long past, the days before eric's birth. clear and practical as was her grasp of the present and all its necessities, she was yet obsessed by her memories of that time before her child's coming; by her memories of it and her penitence for it. in the beginning, she had not been glad. it was upon that, quite as much as upon her later carelessness in trusting lila, that her agonized conscience fixed. how could she ever have hoped to keep her child--she who had not been glad of his coming? it all sprang from that. for if she had been glad enough in the beginning, the idea of writing would not have persisted with her; would not finally have led her to that negligence for which eric might pay with his life. she had not been glad in the beginning! over and over that sentence shrieked through her brain: she had not been glad in the beginning! she had not been glad! she never spared herself by reflecting that she had not been reluctant for motherhood until ted had shown his antagonism to the work that was already the child of her brain, and mrs. north had, from her different viewpoint, justified his attitude. she never conceded in her behalf that it had not even occurred to her, until then, to regard motherhood and art as conflicting elements, and that it was the shock of seeing them thus in her own life that had made her temporarily resentful of maternity. she never excused or exonerated herself by that ultimate joy of motherhood which had possessed her so utterly. she had not been glad in the beginning; later, she had not been glad enough to give him--her little, helpless son--all her life. how, indeed, could she hope to keep him now? over and over this she went; and all the while she kept on about her tasks, deft, skillful, terribly calm. mrs. caldwell observed her with an alarm hardly less than she felt for the child. "it will kill sheila if eric dies," she said to ted. "yes," he groaned, "i think it will." "what is it, ted?--the thing that's eating into her heart? there's more here than even a mother's grief." "she was writing a story when--when lila exposed the boy to the fever. of course, if she hadn't been--! oh, poor sheila!--poor sheila!" he ended brokenly. for all blame had gone out of ted; his gentleness to sheila was no longer that of forbearance, but of an immense and inarticulate pity. it racked him that he could not stand between her and her contrition, her pitiful sorrow; it hurt him intolerably that he could not hold them from her with his very hands. almost he lost the sense of his own sick pain in watching hers. once he tried to take her in his arms and comfort her. "don't suffer so!" he pleaded. "don't suffer so!" but she pulled away from him, denying herself the solace of his sympathy. "i can't suffer _enough_!" she cried. "i can _never_ suffer enough to atone for what i've done!" there came a night when they put sheila out of the room--mrs. caldwell and ted; literally put her out, with hands so tender and so firm. "i have a right to be with him when he dies!" she cried. "sheila--he will need you to-morrow. you _must_ rest--for his sake." so they sought to deceive and compel her. "no," she insisted, "he will not need me to-morrow. but he needs me now--to die with." "he may not die." "he 'may' not die. you don't say he _will_ not die! oh, he will die!--and he's too little to die without his mother!" and then they put her out. ted led her away to the room where she was to "rest" and shut her within it, and she lay down on the couch as he had bidden her to do. it was easy enough to be obedient in this, since she was barred out from the one place where she yearned to be. since she could not be there, it did not matter where she was or what she did. it was easiest just to do what she was told. she knew only too well that she had spoken truly when she had said that her little son might die that night. she knew only too surely why she had been shut out. and almost she submitted--the blow seemed so certain, so close. the despair that resembles resignation in its apathy almost conquered her, as she waited for the hand of death to strike. but while she waited, lying in the quiet darkness, there suddenly came to her the idea that she might still save eric. morbid from grief and fatigue, she had not a doubt that his death was a "judgment" on herself; a punishment. because she had neglected him for her own selfish ends; nay, more, because she had not been glad of his coming in the beginning, god was about to take him from her. she was mercilessly sure of this--sure with the awakened blood, the inherited traditions of many calvinistic ancestors, the stern forefathers of her father. her own more liberal faith, her personal conception of a god benignant and very tender, went down before that grim heritage of more rigorous consciences. but with the self-conviction springing from that heritage, there came, too, the suggestion that she might make her peace with god; that with sufficient proof of her penitence, she might prevail upon him to spare eric. again and again the suggestion reached her, in the "still, small voice" which may have been the voice of her own inner self, or of the surviving, guiding souls of her ancestors, or of god himself. again and again it spoke to her--whatever it was, from whatever source it rose; again and again, until it was still and small no longer, but strong and purposeful, and its message unmistakable. she could but heed it--thankfully. and so she began to cast about in her mind for the proof of her contrition. it could be no light thing, no trivial surrender of self. it must be a sacrifice--a sacrifice such as the ancient tribes of israel would have offered an incensed god. it must be--she saw it in a flash!--it must be her work. "if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell. "and if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell." this, then, must she do. she must pluck out that thing which had offended her, which had betrayed her into a sin against her own motherhood, and cast it from her. she must pluck out her gift and offer it up in expiation. and so she knelt there in the darkness and tendered her sacrifice; so she thrust from her the thing which had been so dear to her; so she entered into her compact with god. "oh, god, grant me my child's life, and i will never write again. i have sinned in selfishness and vanity, but i am repentant and will sin no more. i have plucked out my right eye. i have cut off my right hand. i have cast my gifts from me forever. grant me my son's life, and i will never write again!" hour after hour she entreated god to make terms with her. the night crept by, slow-footed and silent, but she was not aware of the passing of time, or of the deepening of the stillness within the house, or of the quivering of the sword above her head. she no longer listened for sounds from that distant room. she no longer strove to pierce the intervening walls with her mother's sixth sense. she heard nothing but the voice which had counselled her; she strove for nothing but to obey that voice. her whole being concentrated itself into a prayer. she was conscious only of herself and god, and of her passionate effort to reach him. "oh, god, _hear_ me! i have sinned, but i will sin no more. my heart is broken with remorse. i will never write again!" so she pleaded with god throughout the long night. and pitiful and insolent as was her bargaining, god must have found in it something to weigh. for with the first light of the morning, ted opened the door--and there was light in his worn face, too. "sheila--_sheila_!----" and then they fell into each other's arms, sobbing--sobbing as they could not have done if their little son had died. chapter xi with tragic sincerity sheila had entered into the compact for her son's life, and she kept it to the letter. she saw no reason why she should have a poorer sense of honor toward god than she had toward men and women; her child had been spared to her, and henceforth it was for her to fulfill her part, to keep her given word. she had never understood, indeed, why people made--and broke--promises to god so lightly. she had found them ready enough to complain if they considered god unjust to them, but they never seemed to think that it mattered whether they were "square" with god or not. to them he was a sort of divine creditor who need not be paid. they even made it a proof of reverence--a comfortable proof!--to place him far above the consideration they had to show their fellow men. this viewpoint was impossible to sheila. morbid, hysterical, as her offered price for eric's life had been, she felt herself bound, and she paid punctiliously. it was easy enough thus to pay as she watched her child growing strong and rosy again. his little life--ah, what was it not worth? a dozen times a day the memory of that night when she had believed that he would die sent her shuddering to her knees with fresh prayers and promises. and always the recollection of that loss escaped roused in her a very passion of thanksgiving. she had her son!--that was her answer to all the dreams which, unrealized, sometimes stole back to tempt her with their wistful faces. when eric was well enough for her now and then to leave him--at first she could not leave him lest, with her sheltering hands removed, his life should flicker out--she gave burial to the little brain children that, for the child of her body, she had sacrificed. every bit of verse, every little sketch, and the unfinished story which was, in her sight, most guilty, and most dear of all, she laid away; not with ribbon and lavender and rites of sentiment and tears, but sternly, barely, ruthlessly, as one puts away things discarded by the heart itself. she might have burned them less harshly, and that she did not was only because she conceived it a finer deed to keep them and resist them. so she put her honor to the uttermost test. it was thus, and with her own hands, she poured her life into the mould ted had desired for it; it was thus she thrust from her all that did not pertain to her husband and her child and her home. yet between ted and herself not a word about it passed. he never reproached her for what her writing had so nearly cost them; he never asked her to give it up; he never even inquired as to whether she were still pursuing it. he simply stood aloof from that element in her, with what queer mixture of disapproval and pride and magnanimity she could but guess. they continued to be happy together, the happier as the months passed and ted saw her more and more his and eric's. in the beginning he had probably thought that, after the shock of eric's peril receded, sheila would try to write again; that fear must have lurked behind his non-committal silence; but time gave him his security about it. sheila never told him of the compact of that anguished night, but gradually he became as sure that she had given up her talent forever as if he had heard her pledge. "little wife!" he often called her, "little mother!" and always it was as if he said to her, "what other name could be half so sweet?" and she told herself that he was right. never had there been a better husband. and to be loved by a man like that, a man clean and fine and kind; to be the mother of such a man's child, she was very certain was worth more to a woman than any other honors or fulfillments which life could bring her. she had known that always, even when she first discovered--so bitterly!--that ted was not in sympathy with her gift and her ambitions; and she knew it more surely as time went on. there were moments when she wished ardently that the sympathy between them had been more absolute; when she thought that, happy as she was, she would have been happier if their tastes had gone hand-in-hand like their hearts. but there was never a time when she would have exchanged ted for any other man, or when she felt it possible to have done without him. there are women who, married, feed their discontents with visions of what life could have been in freedom or with some other man than they have chosen. sheila was not of this sort. having crossed the threshold of marriage, she did not look behind her at the alluring--and elusive--road of might-have-been. she hoped, now, for other children. with this utter surrender of herself to the woman's life, there came to her the longing for many children, for all her arms could hold. the sum of that creative force which, under different circumstances, would have flowed into her work, all its denied passion and vitality, was transmuted into the instinct of motherhood. because of her creative gift, there was literally more life within her, more life to bestow, and so, the channel of artistic expression being closed to her, she yearned to spend it all upon maternity; to have, indeed, as many children as her arms could hold. had these desired children come to her, peace might have been hers finally and entirely. but the desire was not granted. eric grew out of his babyhood to a fine, sturdy boyhood, and was still the only child. and now sheila, a woman of thirty and ten years married, began to feel again, and more strongly than ever in her life, the urge of her gift, the unrest of dreams stifled, thwarted, but never destroyed. she had made a compact with god, and she continued to keep it; but more and more hunger stared out of her eyes and a nervous restlessness betrayed itself in her manner. she was happy, but she was not satisfied. something clamored in her unappeased. if she had lived in a large city, there would at least have been food, if not activity, for that clamoring, aching thing within her. there would have been pictures and music and plays to lift her, at times, into the world of poetic beauty for which she longed. but shadyville could offer nothing to one of her mental quality; as a girl she had found diversion in its social gaiety, but as a matron, the mother of a nine-year-old son, even the social life of the town was restricted for her to card-parties and the doubtful amusement of chaperonage. for in shadyville, the young married people early abdicated in favor of those still younger, those still seeking mates. society was, in fact, merely a means of finding one's mate, so primitive had the little town remained; companionship between men and women, save as an opportunity for the eternal quest, was unknown. wives and mothers sat placidly, or wearily, against the walls at dances, watching the game of man and maid, and slaked their thirst for entertainment, for stimulating comradeship, at the afternoon teas and bridge parties of their own sex. now and then a reading club or a study class was organized, a naïve effort toward an understanding of things which shadyville vaguely perceived to be of importance beyond its boundaries; and always the class or club died of insufficient nourishment. within thirty miles of a large town, the life of shadyville remained uncorrupted--and unimproved; a healthy, simple, joyous affair of the love-quest in youth; a healthy, simple, and usually contented, matter of home-making and child-rearing later. sheila, having stepped over into the second stage with her marriage, was not supposed to feel any longings which her domestic existence could not satisfy; and feeling them, in defiance of shadyville's standards and traditions, she could but suppress and starve them. "let me go down to the office every day and help you," she suggested to ted finally, "i used to help you--before we were married." but ted, whose limited ambitions had realized themselves and whose work had now settled into a comfortable routine for which he was more than capable, evinced no enthusiasm for the project. she had helped him; he had never forgotten nor disparaged that. but he did not need or want her at the star office now, and he did need and want her in his home. "you have enough to do as it is--with eric and the house," he said. "but, ted, i _haven't_ enough to do," she insisted. "there's nothing for me really to do in the house. i overlook everything, but that doesn't occupy all my time. and with eric at school--don't you see, my dear, that it's something to do i need? don't you see how--how restless i am?" "we ought to have more children!" he exclaimed wistfully. "yes," she agreed, "yes, we ought to have more children. but if they do not come--?" and she stared before her, her hands lying empty and listless in her lap. "if they do not come--?" she repeated presently. and now she turned her brooding eyes to his face and a purpose gathered and concentrated in them. "i wonder if you could understand--" she began. but he cut into the sentence: "i must hurry back to the office. i take too much time for lunch. don't get discontented, little girl. i'll take you down to louisville for the horse show next week. we'll have a bully spree. that's what you need." and he went off whistling blithely, sure that he had solved the problem of sheila's "moods"--as he always called any symptom of depression in her. sheila watched him go, smiling. "of course he wouldn't have understood," she said to herself. "and how i would have bothered him if i'd tried to analyze myself for him--poor dear!" but the reflection, amused, yet wholly tender, did not end her unrest, her perplexity. after a futile attempt to interest herself in duties about the house, she set out for a walk, hoping to capture something of the outdoor peace. it was october, always an exhilarating month in kentucky, with its crisp air and its flaming banners of red and gold, and soon her blood was stirred and her heart lightened, and she was swinging along at a brisk pace. she had started in the direction of her grandmother's house, but suddenly she wheeled about and took to another street. never since eric's illness had her grandmother spoken to her of her writing, and she had been glad of the silence. it seemed to her that if they talked at all, they who had been so close, so much would have to be said; she could not conceive of a reserve in anything which she undertook to discuss with mrs. caldwell at all. ted's views on the duty of a wife and mother would therefore have to be told with the rest, and she did not want to tell them. her grandmother would have little patience with them, she was sure. as a devoted husband, most of all as the father of sheila's child, ted seemed to have won a secure place in mrs. caldwell's affection at last, and sheila, who had clearly seen mrs. caldwell's original reluctance to the marriage, had no intention of jeopardizing that place now. understanding, sympathy, advice would have meant much to her, but she could not take them at ted's expense. so she walked on, away from her grandmother's house; onward until she left the town behind her and found herself upon the road leading to louisville. just ahead of her, she saw, then, a familiar figure trudging along in leisurely fashion, the figure of peter burnett. "peter!" she hailed joyously. and as he hastened back to her, her heart lifted buoyantly; her somber mood departed. she did not say to herself, "_here_ is understanding," but she felt it. a sudden warmth possessed her, and that other self of hers, so long banished--the other-sheila of dreams and visions--suddenly looked out of her eyes. "a constitutional?" inquired peter. and then, to her nod, "may i go with you?" "oh, yes, peter, do! let's have a good old-time talk! let's play i'm young again!" peter grimaced: "you? you're still a child! but _i_--! it's a sensitive subject with me nowadays--that of youth." "it needn't be," laughed sheila. "you've discovered the fountain of eternal youth." and indeed, peter at forty-six had changed curiously little from the peter of twenty-eight. still slender and of an indolent grace, his aspect of youth had wonderfully persisted. and having passed his life far more in contemplation than in struggle, his face matched his figure with a freshness rare to middle years. he was, it must be admitted, a convincing argument in favor of laziness--except for the expression of his eyes; they had something of the look of sheila's; their gaze seemed turned inward upon a tragedy of unfulfillment. and unfulfilled, in very truth, was all the promise of peter's attainments; of his exceptional parts. he was still teaching rhetoric to little girls at the shadyville seminary, and, because he had not married, he was still leading cotillions. he read his theocritus as of old; he called often upon mrs. caldwell; sometimes he had an accidental meeting with sheila, such as this. so his years had passed; too smoothly to age him; too barrenly to content or enrich him in any sense. no one appeared to see his pathos, but pathos was there. he fell into step with sheila and they tramped onward together in the cool, bright air, talking with the happy fluency which they always had for each other. and though sheila said nothing of her problem, her restlessness, she felt all the while the comfort of her companion's understanding sympathy--for anything that she might choose to tell him. the road rose before them, a gradual, steady ascent; they reached its crest just as the sun grew low and vivid. a glow was upon the autumn fields on either hand; tranquility and silence seemed to be everywhere; tranquility and silence except for a weird crooning that now floated to them, a crooning indescribably mournful. and then they espied, crouching down at the roadside and almost at their elbows, a creature as weird and mournful as the sound. "crazy lisbeth," whispered sheila. lisbeth it was, lisbeth grown old and more pitiful than ever; a ragged, unkempt being--yet strangely lifted above the sordidness of her rags and her beggar's life by her insanity. long ago she had ceased to work at all, her poor brain having become incapable of any continuous effort, however simple. but she had resisted the obvious havens of asylum and almshouse, and contrived to live on in liberty by aid of the precarious charity of those who had once employed her. she made her home in any deserted hovel that she could seize upon, going from one to another in a sad progress of destitution. and whenever the days were fine, she still roamed the countryside, a desire upon her that would not let her rest, though her memory of her dead husband and child was now so vague and blurred that she no longer consciously sought them. to-day the desire that so tormented her was allayed. for she held something in her arms, something that she rocked gently as she crooned. sheila went a step nearer, but lisbeth did not look up or appear aware of her presence. she was not aware of anything in the world but the treasure within her arms. watching, sheila's eyes filled with quick tears and her throat ached with a pity almost unbearable. for the thing in lisbeth's arms was a battered doll, and the crooning was a lullaby. very softly sheila turned to peter. "let us go back," she said. "she hasn't seen us--she mustn't see us. we must not wake her from her dream. it's a doll she's rocking, and she's dreaming--she's dreaming it's a child." they started back without speaking, hushed and saddened by what they had seen of another's tragedy; and as they went, sheila was thinking of the occasion in her childhood when she had pretended to be lisbeth's little daughter. it had happened so long ago, but in all the years since then lisbeth had been intent on the one dream, the one hope--that of motherhood. all definite remembrance of the child she had borne and lost was gone from her clouded brain, but the instinct and desire of motherhood had remained; it had been life to her. her mind, flickering like a will-o'-the-wisp from one uncompleted thought to another, had been steadfast enough in that; her heart, detached from every human tie, had never faltered in its impulse of maternity. the tears filled sheila's eyes again, filled and overflowed so that peter gave an exclamation of concern and dismay. "poor lisbeth!" she murmured. "poor thing! and i who have my child am discontented. what is the matter with me?" it was the question she had put to ted long ago--after that other episode of lisbeth--and he had been as bewildered as she. but there was no bewilderment in the glance that met hers now. nevertheless, peter did not answer her directly. but after awhile he said musingly: "a bird's wings may be clipped, but its heart can't be changed. always--always--it is mad to fly!" chapter xii mrs. caldwell had grown very fragile that autumn; not as if she were ill, but rather as if she were gradually and gently relaxing her hold on life. as yet no one but peter had realized the change in her, but to him it was sadly evident, and he visited her oftener than ever, taking all he could of a friendship that would soon be his no longer. he had stopped to see her on his way home from the seminary, the day after his walk with sheila, and it was upon sheila that their talk finally turned. "i had a stroll with her yesterday afternoon," peter remarked. "it's rare luck for me to get any of her time nowadays. marriage swallows women terribly, doesn't it?" "sheila's marriage has certainly swallowed her," admitted mrs. caldwell. "i'm fond of ted--really very fond of him, in fact--but i've always expected marriage to swallow his wife. he's that sort of man." "you think he demands so much of her then? i'd felt that it was the boy who stood between sheila and all her old life--her old self." "ah, but isn't that just the way ted has her so utterly--through the boy?" peter shook his head: "there's something i don't understand. i understand _her_--to the soul! but there's something in her life i don't understand. i'm sure ted's good to her. i'm sure they love each other. but she's not satisfied, mrs. caldwell. the trouble is that she wants to write--and she doesn't. i can't understand why she doesn't. when eric was a baby, it was natural enough that she should give up everything for him; but now it's unreasonable, it's absurd, that she doesn't take up her work again. and i can't tell her so--well as i know the value of the gift she's wasting. she isn't frank with me. i can only talk to her about the matter in metaphors." "she isn't frank with me either, peter. but i'm a little more informed about the situation than you are. sheila was writing a story when eric's nurse, taking advantage of not being overlooked, exposed him to scarlet fever. that, i'm confident, is somehow responsible for sheila's giving up her work." peter's face flushed darkly: "do you think ted reproached her for that? do you think he blamed her?" "no--i'm sure he didn't. he was terribly, terribly sorry for her. ted is capable of generosity at times, peter--i'm not fond of him for nothing!--and he was generous then. but of course sheila reproached herself. i can imagine what she suffered, and how bitterly she censured herself. i can imagine, too, that she's been atoning ever since. it would be so like her to atone with her whole life for a mistake, an accident. if she had married another man--it wouldn't have happened." "the mistake, the accident, wouldn't have happened?" "ah, that might have happened in any case. i meant the atonement." "but," objected peter, "you said ted did not blame her. how, then, could he be responsible?" "he could let the atonement go on! he isn't a subtle person, but i believe he's divined that, and let it continue. i knew, before sheila married him, that he would not care for her art. i knew that he would resent any vital interest she might have outside of her marriage. and knowing this, i've concluded that when her conscience worked along the line of his own wishes, it was too much for him; he simply couldn't help taking the advantage circumstances had offered him." "yet you say he is capable of generosity!" "capable of generosity _at times_, peter. and so he is. most of us have our generosities and our meannesses. ted's like the rest of us in both respects. the real trouble is that he's the wrong man for sheila. if she had married you, the same accident might have happened, but the atonement wouldn't. for _you_ would have _wanted_ her to write; you would have made her feel it wrong _not_ to write. it's not that you're a better man than ted, either; it's that you're a better man for sheila. you ought to have married her, my dear. i meant you to marry her!" peter rose hastily from his chair and walked to the window, standing there with his back to mrs. caldwell. very rigidly he stood, his hands at his side, tightly closed. when he finally turned again into the room, his face was white. "why do you tell me that now--now that it's too late?" he asked. and his voice shook with the question. at something in that white face of his, at something in his unsteady voice, mrs. caldwell grew very gentle: "because i'm a blundering old woman, peter dear. but, since i have blundered, let us talk frankly. i did intend you to marry sheila. i plotted and planned for it from the time she was a little girl in your rhetoric class. i believed that in a marriage with you lay her chance to be both a happy and a wonderful woman. and then--ted married her instead! but there's still something you can do for her. you can watch over her when i'm gone, peter. you can put out a saving hand now and then, if you see she needs it. when i'm dead--and that will be soon, my dear--you'll be the only person in the world who understands her. if i can feel that you'll always be there ready to help her, i can die in peace. bottled up genius is a dangerous thing. sometimes i am afraid for sheila! but if you'll promise to watch over her for me, i can die with my heart at rest." "there is nothing i would not do for you or for her!" he said. "i know that, peter. what wonder that i had my dreams about you?" "they were dreams, just dreams," he responded, and now he was speaking more easily. "i wasn't the right man for sheila after all. if i had been, she would have realized it; she wouldn't have married some one else." "how could she realize it--at twenty? and she was barely twenty when she married. peter, there's a moment in a girl's life when, consciously or not, her whole being, soul and body, cries out for love. and if a man is at hand then--any presentable man--to answer, '_i_ am love,' she believes him. that moment came to sheila--and ted was there!" "oh," cried peter, "oh, surely there was more to it than that! surely there was real love!" and when she did not answer, he repeated earnestly, "surely there was real love!" "you plead for ted?" asked mrs. caldwell with a touch of irony. "i plead for her. ted doesn't matter, and i don't matter. but _sheila_--oh, i can't bear that she should have only a second-rate thing, an imitation. i can't bear that." "she thinks it's real love she feels for ted. and as long as she thinks so, peter, she'll be happy. what we have to do for her--what you have to do for her when i'm gone--is to keep her thinking that. it isn't her baffled gift i worry about; it's the discontent her gift may rouse in her; the awful _vision_ it may bring her. i see so clearly how she was married--and she must _never_ see! if ever you find her beginning to see, you must blindfold her somehow. i've often thought that women should be born blind--or that their eyes should be bandaged at birth." "horrible!" exclaimed peter. "no--_kind_! all the creatures of our love would be beautiful then; all the circumstances of our little destinies noble and splendid. we'd create them so in our own minds, and disillusionment could never touch us." "it's the truth we need, men and women," insisted peter. "there's nothing so tragic as the truth--when it comes too late," said mrs. caldwell sadly. "your grandfather and i found out that. he was already married, and i was on the eve of my wedding when--it happened. we might have run away together; ours was a real passion, peter. but people didn't do that sort of thing so readily in our young days. they thought less of their individual rights then, and more of honor. it seemed to us that it was sin enough ever to have realized what we felt; ever to have acknowledged it. so we went on with our obligations, your grandfather and i. he was a good husband, and i was a good wife. our lives were cast in pleasant lines, with dear, kindly companions, and we would have been happy if--if i hadn't, in a fatal hour, seen his heart and reflected it for him in my own eyes. we would have been happy if i had been blindfolded! as it was, we'd seen the truth, and to accept less was tragedy for us." "you were both free at last," said peter. "why didn't you--oh, why _didn't_ you--take what was left to you?" "my dear, we were already old. romance was still in our hearts, but we hadn't the courage to take it, publicly, into our lives. we had felt a great love, and been brave enough to deny it. but when we could have satisfied it honorably--we were afraid of the change in our lives; we were afraid of our children, of your father and sheila's; we were even afraid of what the town would say! in the beginning we had striven not to dare. in the end we could not dare. it is sad that we should be like that, isn't it, peter? it's sad that as the strength of our youth goes from us, the valor of our love should go too. but it is so, it is so for all of us, my dear. the day before your grandfather died, something flamed up in us again. the courage of new life came to him, and he made me promise to marry him the next day. but the next day he was--dead!" she fell silent, her eyes fixed broodingly upon the fire, eyes that looked strangely young. peter, silent too, was remembering that day before his grandfather's death; remembering mrs. caldwell's presence in the house, and the indescribable sense of some other presence also. he had felt it so strongly, that other presence, that the whole house had seemed to him to be pervaded and thrilled by it. his father was living then, and they two had spent the afternoon in the library, while mrs. caldwell had sat with his grandfather in the room above. he had said to his father--he recalled it quite clearly--"i feel something--_something_--in the very air." and his father had appeared startled and had replied, "perhaps death is in the air." but peter knew now that it had not been death he had felt; that it had not been death that had filled the air as if with rushing wings and shooting stars and invisible, ineffable glories. it had not been death; it had been love. and glancing at mrs. caldwell's musing eyes, something like envy came into his own. he went to her, knelt, and kissed her thin old hand. "after all, you _had_ love," he murmured. and then, "i wish you had been my grandmother. i _wish_ you had." "oh, peter!" she cried. "oh, peter! peter!" and suddenly her arms were around his neck. as she clung to him, her tears on his face and her heart's secret in his hands, he almost told her; he almost said what he had resolved never to say. and yet he did not. "he's never loved her," concluded mrs. caldwell when he had gone. "there was a moment when he looked as if--but he's never loved sheila. if he'd loved her--ever--he would have told me." chapter xiii had mrs. caldwell seen peter pacing the floor of his little hotel room that night, she would have been less certain that he did not love sheila. she had said to him, "there's nothing so tragic as the truth--when it comes too late!" and it was this tragedy with which peter grappled now. he had not known that he loved sheila until mrs. caldwell told him that he should have married her; but those words had been for him a revelation; an illumination of the last ten years and more. suddenly he saw, as if a searchlight had been flung upon them, the innermost, secret depths of his own heart--saw them filled with the image of another man's wife. so swiftly, so entirely without warning had self-knowledge dawned upon him that the cry had been wrung from him, "why do you tell me this now--when it is too late?" but after the one betraying exclamation, he had put all his strength into the attempt to conceal his discovery. mrs. caldwell had spoken of the honor of her generation as of a thing that had not survived, in its purity, to a later one. yet peter's sense of honor was too scrupulous to permit him the confession to anyone that he loved another's wife. to the single end of concealment he had set himself through the rest of that interview. he had gone through it as through some nerve-racking nightmare, struggling for self-control as one struggles for safety in dreams of horrid peril. he must not admit that he loved sheila! he must not admit that he loved her! that was what he had told himself over and over, fighting all the while for the mastery of his face, his voice, lest they proclaim what his lips did not utter. yet in spite of the struggle, in spite of the sense of awful calamity, of absolute wreckage, that had descended upon him, he had been keenly, piteously conscious of every word that mrs. caldwell had said; and he had realized fully the impossibility and the irony of the task she had imposed upon him. having failed to marry sheila himself, he must now undertake to keep her in love with the man who had married her! this was all which was required of him; this was _all_! his devotion to mrs. caldwell had not faltered; but now, facing his tragedy alone and in the freedom to suffer, he felt a great bitterness toward his old friend for her request. it seemed to him incredibly stupid that she should think for an instant that he, an unmarried man, could assume the post of guardian over a wife's love for her husband. it implied, in the first place, an intimacy which sheila was far too fine-grained to permit; for however confidential she might become on the subject of her work, she would never be confidential with him in regard to ted. whatever he might perceive, she would never give him the opportunity to say to her, "i think that your affection for your husband is waning. let us put fresh fuel on the fire." it implied, too, that request of mrs. caldwell's, a sharing of sheila's life which shadyville would never tolerate; which his own awakened heart could not tolerate. he could not be much with sheila henceforth. for once, shadyville's narrow restrictions would be right. so, he told himself, mrs. caldwell had been stupid. and--unconsciously, of course--she had been cruel. and yet--she was leaving sheila, leaving her to an essentially alien companion. what wonder that, in her passionate solicitude, she had reached out to the one person whose understanding sympathy she could count upon? what wonder that, however unpractically, she had made an appeal to one whose heart she had divined better than she knew? what wonder, even, that he had made her a sort of promise? "there is nothing i would not do for you or sheila!" he had said to her; and that was true. there was nothing he would not do for them--if he could. only--ted himself must keep what was his own! he had been man enough to win sheila; now he must keep her! ted had been man enough to win her; and he, peter, had not been! that was what he realized now--with measureless self-scorn. _he_ had not even been man enough to know that he loved her; much less man enough to make her his. and now, because he could not make her his, his life was charred to ashes--but his soul was an anguished, unquenchable flame. he had long thought that he knew the worst of himself; his discreditable indolence; his reluctance for effort and conquest; his insufficient courage to follow his emotions into poverty; and that negligible fineness of his which had held him back from advantages that he could not repay with genuine emotion. he had known all that of himself, calling it his worst, and feeling a certain pride in it, too, as in a failure that was of more delicate fiber than the successes of others. but he had never really known the worst of himself until now. for the worst of him was that he had not recognized the true love of his life when it came to him. those early fancies of his for girls whom he deemed too poor to marry--what had they been but fancies indeed? he had despised himself once or twice for not committing himself, but what was the offense of failing a mere fancy compared to the offense of not recognizing the one true love when it was in his life? he would have had courage enough to follow it to the world's end, in sharpest poverty and hardship, but he had so sheltered himself from any mischance in love that he had not known love when it came. blind fool that he was, he had not known it when it came! even now he could not tell just when it had come. looking back along the years, it seemed to him to have been there always, for every memory of sheila, since her little girlhood, took him by the throat. he saw her as he--and ted!--had seen her one april day when she was but twelve years old; a slender, black-haired, dreaming-eyed child, lying upon the pale, spring grass and looking up into the flowering cherry-tree branches above her head; a child who was herself an embodied poem, so akin she was to all of april's magic, to the spring's lovely miracles. he saw her, too, in his class-room, eager, earnest, exquisitely responsive to every perception, every thought of his own; a little girl while he was already a man, and yet his comrade, his comrade in every phase of life had he but discerned and willed it! he saw her as a young girl, with her pure eyes and her generous mouth and her sweet, slender throat; a being still untouched by life, but beautifully ready, touchingly desirous for life's shaping hands. and he saw her as she had been yesterday, walking by his side, the woman at last--yet strangely immature, incomplete. he had thought her immature and incomplete because she had not developed her gift. now there came to him another thought--bred of all those flashing pictures of her in which she seemed so much his own--the thought that she was incomplete because she had not really loved. it was impossible that she should really love ted; ted who could give neither comprehension nor response to the greater part of her nature. it was impossible! he had felt that at the time of her marriage; he remembered now how resentfully! he had felt it when mrs. caldwell had shown him--only too convincingly--how that marriage had occurred. he had cried out to mrs. caldwell that sheila must have loved ted, but he had realized, then, that she had not. and he realized it now. it had been love's hour with her, but it had not been love. it had not been love because he himself, who could have given her such a love as she needed, who could have compelled such a love from her, had failed her. back and forth he paced in his little room; a creature caged, not by mere walls, but by an irreparable mistake; a creature agonized and helpless. for it was too late for this vision of utter truth now. his life was spoiled--and hers! yes, he had spoiled her life! for a little while, he forgot his own disaster in contemplating hers. he had said that he was not the right man for her; but with all his soul and all his brain and all his blood, he knew that he was the right man for her. throughout her whole life she had turned to him with that simple trust which is bred of love, or at least of potential love, alone. she had said to him once--long ago--with an innocent and tender wonder, "there is nothing i cannot tell you, peter--nothing!" and that had been true--until ted had lured her into bondage. while she had been free, there had not been a door in her heart or her spirit that would not have opened at his touch. she had been his--his for the taking! and he had not taken her. he had left her to ted; to ted for whom so many doors of her nature must be closed forever. he had left her to that most terrible loneliness of all--loneliness in a shared life. the thoughts that she could not speak to ted--how they must beat about in the prison of her mind; how they must cry for release, for answer! he seemed to feel them against his own temples, those unuttered thoughts that were sheila's very self; he seemed to feel their ache, their hunger. nothing would be born of those thoughts now; that gift of expression which had been a part of sheila's soul would go barren to the grave. this was one of the wrongs he had done her--but it was not the worst. for the worst that had befallen her through him, he told himself, was not that her gift had missed expression, but that she herself had missed the blinding glory of true love. she was immature, she was undeveloped, because he had not made her his. and he wanted to make her his. oh, my god, he wanted to make her his! his life was charred to ashes, but his soul was the quivering, torturing flame of his passion. it would not be quenched; it would not, in the least, be stilled; it drove him about the shabby little room as if it were literally a flame from which he must try to escape--though he knew he could not. he had broken his heart over the disaster to sheila's life, but as the night advanced and his passion flared the fiercer in hours securely dark and secret, self rose up within him and shrieked and cursed over his own disaster. he wanted her! he was forty-six years old; not too old to love, but far, far too old to love calmly. the desires of half a lifetime were in him, desires that had lain low and fed upon his years until, in their accumulated strength, they were terrible--wild beasts that tore him, fires that burned him to the bone. and they were strangely compounded of instincts evil and lawless--when felt for another man's wife--and longings wholly innocent and sweet. for the first time he longed for a home. he looked about his tiny, dingy room with a feeling of desolation, seeing in his mind so different a place--a home with her. he longed for simple, innocent things--her face across the table from him at his meals; her little possessions scattered about with his; the sound of her step in the rooms around him. and he longed to reach out in the night and touch her; he longed to reach out in the night and take her into his arms. he wanted--and now soul and flesh merged in one flame--he wanted her to bear him a child. back and forth he paced, his nails digging into his palms, his teeth cutting his lips, driven by the flame that could never be extinguished, never be satisfied. and all the while, he pictured her in his arms; he pictured her with his child at her breast. then, suddenly--and quite as plainly as if he were in the room--he saw _ted's_ child, and he staggered toward a chair and fell, sobbing, into it. how long those horrible sobs shook him he did not know. he felt himself baffled, beaten, inconceivably tortured. he watched the gray morning steal into the room as one who has kept a death vigil beside his best-loved watches it. a new day had come, but there was no hope in it for him. there was no hope for him--though his days should be ever so many. he fell asleep at last, sitting there in his uncomfortable chair, with the cold light of the dawn creeping over his haggard face, and he dreamed that ted came into the room and said, "sheila needs you. she needs you to keep alive her love for me." and in the dream, he answered, as he had really answered mrs. caldwell the day before, "there is nothing i would not do for her." so vivid was all this that when he opened his eyes and found ted actually in the room, he was not in the least surprised. "you left your door unlocked," ted explained apologetically, "and i came on in. mrs. caldwell died in the night--and sheila's gone to pieces. she's been asking for you. would you mind going to her for a bit?" "there's nothing i would not do for her!" replied peter, in the words of his dream. and for an instant he thought he still dreamed. "that's awfully good of you. you look done up, burnett. but if you're equal to it, i'll be grateful to you." as he gazed at peter, whose face was gray still, though the morning light was now golden, ted added to himself, "poor chap! he's growing old." to him it would have been incredible that peter's scars had been won in youth's own great battle--the battle with love. a certain complacency stole warmly through him then, ruddy and robust as he knew himself to be, a complacency that led him to lay a kindly, solicitous hand on the older man's shoulder; and so intent he was upon his self-satisfied kindliness that he did not see peter wince at the touch. "you do look done up, burnett. maybe i ought not to ask you----" but peter cut him short. "i'd do anything for sheila," he repeated. after all, this was left to him, peter reflected; it was left to him to do things for sheila. and perhaps he would find nothing she needed of him impossible. the love that had been so dark with the dark and secret hours could have its white vision, too. chapter xiv peter had felt that he could not be much with sheila henceforth; that neither his own heart nor conventional shadyville's standards would permit it. but sheila herself ordained otherwise, and under the circumstances of her bereavement, peter could but obey her. never had sheila been so lonely as in the weeks immediately following mrs. caldwell's death. whatever reserves of speech had existed between the two in these latter years, there had been no reserve of feeling, of comprehension. close friends they had always been; and if sheila was alone in a shared life, so far as her marriage was concerned, she had had a satisfying refuge in her grandmother's sympathetic companionship. now, with that companionship lost to her, she began to feel, as she had never done before, the limitations of her marriage. her nervous restlessness increased and sharpened to a positive hunger which ted's affection and compassion were powerless to alleviate. in her loss and sorrow he could do nothing for her, earnestly as he tried. it was as if he could not reach her, and she realized it with amazement. if he had not compelled from her the greatest passion of which she was capable, he had certainly won love of a kind from her, love warm and sincere, and their life together had bound her to him with such ties of loyalty and habit and common experience, with such dear memories of young tenderness and joy, that she had never doubted the completeness of their union. that he could not reach her now, that he could bring no peace to her in her trouble, seemed to her unexplainable--until she recalled the fact that he and mrs. caldwell, though fond of each other, had not been really near each other in spirit. theirs had been a pleasant, light affection, an amiable, surface relation, bred of the accident of their connection rather than of any genuine attraction between them. remembering this, sheila assured herself of its being the reason that ted could not comfort her for mrs. caldwell's death. there was so much in her grandmother that he had never seen, so much of which he could not speak at all. peter, on the other hand, had been almost as dear to her grandmother as she herself had been--almost as dear and quite as near. he had a thousand sweet and intimate memories of mrs. caldwell, and he suffered, in the loss of her, a grief akin to sheila's own. so to peter she turned. with the perfect unconsciousness of self that a child might have shown, she made her demands upon him, upon his pity, upon his time; and if he did not come often to see her, she sent for him. she was really strangely unworldly, and in this renewed comradeship with her old friend, she saw nothing for anyone to criticize. neither did she recognize in it any danger for peter or herself. peter had always been there in her life, an accepted and unexciting fact. she did not allow for change in him or herself in the ten years of her marriage, years during which they had met hut seldom and casually. she had simply resumed the way of her girlhood, her childhood, with him, never considering that it might now be surcharged with peril for them; never for an instant fearing that she might some day find herself unable to do without him. she needed him; he was at hand; and she demanded fulfillment of her need. he brought her the consolation that ted could not bring her; he gave her aching heart peace. repeatedly he displayed a disposition to efface himself, after the first days of her mourning were over, but she would not have it so. in her innocence she still insisted on his frequent presence, and was sometimes puzzled and hurt that he evinced so little gladness in being with her. that he had the look of one harassed almost beyond endurance, she did finally perceive, but she understood it not at all, and at last dismissed it from her mind as something outside her province. men had worries, worries about money and trivial things like that, she reflected. peter was probably bothered about something of the sort, something that did not greatly matter after all. a real trouble he would have brought to her; of that she was sure. so the winter passed in a close companionship between them, and it was to peter's honor that she knew neither her own heart nor his at the end of it. ted it was, and not peter, who made the situation impossible of continuance. ted it was who plucked from it, at least for sheila, its concealing innocence. he had been cordial to peter; at first he had even been grateful to him, seeing sheila comforted by him. but after a time he grew tired of peter's face at his dinner table two or three times a week; he wearied of finding peter in his little sitting-room whenever he came home particularly early; he sickened, with a sudden and profound distaste, of having peter drawn into all the intimate concerns and happenings of his own and sheila's life. not for a moment did he suspect sheila of any sentimental inclinations toward peter, for he fully appreciated and trusted her fidelity. but he thought her behavior foolish and imprudent, and in spite of his trust in her, he _was_ jealous of this friendship which so absorbed and satisfied her. why should she require a man's friendship at all? why should she require anyone but himself and eric? and having once questioned thus, his patience speedily gave way, and a climax ensued. "sheila," he said to her one day, a day when he had come home to discover peter reading maeterlinck to her, "sheila, why on earth do you have burnett here so much?" "because he's my friend--my dear old friend," answered sheila, her eyes clear with the surprise of a clean conscience. "wouldn't a woman friend do as well?" ted was trying to hold himself in check, but something in his words or his tone made sheila stare, and he repeated, with a touch of asperity, "wouldn't a woman friend do as well?" "the only woman friend i have whom i really care for is charlotte--and she won't be here until april." "then you'd better wait for her. you'd better wait for her--and see less of burnett." "what do you mean?" she asked. and now her puzzled eyes grew steel-cold with intuitive resentment. "i mean that you'll get yourself talked about if you go on as you're doing at present. a married woman can't be so much with a man not her husband _without_ being talked about." "that is absurd!" she retorted, and her voice was as cold as her eyes; it put miles between them. "peter has always been my friend. he's been like one of my family to me all my life. he's more than ever like a relative to me now that all my own people are dead. it's absurd to suggest that our friendship could be so misinterpreted. it's _low_ to think of such a thing!" "low or not, it's _wise_ to think of such things. you'll get yourself talked about if i let you. but i'm your natural protector, and i _won't_ let you. i forbid you to have burnett here as you've been doing. _i forbid you_!" "i am to tell him that?" she inquired scornfully. "you're to tell him nothing. he'll soon stop coming if he's not asked. the fact is, i don't believe he's wanted to come so often. you're the one to blame, sheila. you've invited him--you've sent for him when he hasn't come of his own accord." and then, as they faced each other in their unaccustomed hostility, ted added, with a final flare of wrath, "_you've run after him--that's what you've done_!" as if he had struck her, sheila's face went livid, then scarlet. she opened her lips to answer, but no sound came. so, for an instant, they looked at each other, silent, motionless, transfixed by this horror that had risen between them, this horror of anger--almost of hate. then ted took a step toward her; already he was contrite: "i didn't mean that. i lost my temper and went too far. forgive me, sheila!" but she did not say that she forgave him. she only said: "never speak to me of this again--never in all our lives!" and then she turned from him and walked out of the room, leaving him to feel himself far more at fault than he had ever believed her to be. but though her pride, her insulted innocence, had carried her unbroken through the interview, she was in reality cruelly humiliated. that final sentence of ted's anger--"you've run after him--that's what you've done!"--rang in her ears for days afterward, shaming her as only the very proud can be shamed. it was not true of her, she told herself; it was not true--but it was hideous that it could have been said of her nevertheless. that peter had never thought it of her, she was confident. it was impossible that peter should misunderstand her in anything. but she dreaded seeing him with the accusation in her mind. she could not meet him now without an acute and painful self-consciousness. her happy friendship with him was changed, was forever spoiled. at last she wrote to him, telling him not to come to see her for awhile--not to come until she should bid him. after she had sent the note, however, she suffered more than before, feeling that she had brought constraint between them, that she had suggested to peter, by her request that he stay away from her, the same unworthy thoughts about them that ted had flung at her. far, far worse than meeting him was the growing certainty that she had made him self-conscious about their friendship, too; that she had shown it to him as possible of degrading misconstruction. for he would read from her note, carefully though she had refrained from reasons or explanations, just what had happened. peter would never comfortably miss a thing like that; sensitive and subtle to a degree, he could never be spared by mere omissions, by lack of plain and definite statement. it was unbearable that such a situation should have come about. not for a moment did she forgive ted for creating it. but she lived on with him in cool outward harmony, realizing that in marriage one may have to endure hurt and disappointment, and being much too high-bred a woman to take her revenge in petty breaches of courtesy. that she was disappointed in ted, as well as hurt by him, she now admitted to herself for the first time. it is curious how some final and serious issue between two people living together will cast a light on all the past; will disclose anew, and more flagrantly, lapses and shortcomings and injuries that had once seemed trifles and been ignored or condoned or forgotten. thus sheila now looked backward along the years of her marriage and saw how ted had failed her in understanding, in generosity, in any selfless consideration and love. small instances of his selfishness recurred to her and promptly became as signposts directing her to greater ones. his care for his creature comfort, his innocent vanities, his rather smug pleasure in his success--things which she had smiled over with a tender lenience--served now to remind her that he had never taken any account of her preferences, of her independent possibilities, of her talent; that he had not, at any time, made the least effort to comprehend or share her interests. he had used her in his own work, and he had dismissed hers with a wave of his hand, as he might have pushed away a child's toy. whatever he had discerned of her mental quality and power, he had regarded only in its relation to himself; if she had been wonderful for him, she had been wonderful as his helpmate, not as the individual. he had wanted her to be wife and mother only, and he had accomplished that. with anything else in her nature, in her life, he had had neither tolerance nor patience nor sympathy. of course she went too far in her arraignment of him. she forgot, in her sudden bitterness, the warmth and kindness of his heart, the staunchness and integrity of his character, his desire and attempt to shield her from all things harsh and hard--even though he shielded her in his own particular way!--and the very real sincerity of his love for her. she forgot that, by his own standards, his own conception of a husband's duty, he had honestly and steadfastly done his best for her. she saw her whole life fed to his selfishness as to an insatiable monster; and most terrible of all, she knew that she saw too late. their marriage was made. as a husband ted was formed and could not be changed. if, in the beginning, she had had a clearer conception of his nature; if she had had a stronger sense of her own rights as an individual and the courage to assert those rights, everything would have been different. she would never have been subdued to mere wifehood and motherhood if that had been. she would never--she saw it now!--she would never have made that compact of renunciation with god! it was to the matter of that compact she came at last--inevitably. and she said to herself, over and over now, that she would never have made it if she had known herself and ted better in the beginning. she would never have made it because she would not have seen her work as a guilty thing. nor had her work been a guilty thing! no woman watched her child every moment; at least no woman did so who could have the relief of a nurse. she might as readily have been paying an afternoon call or playing bridge when eric was exposed to scarlet fever. it was just an accident that she had been writing then instead of doing any one of a dozen other things of which ted would have approved. yes, it was an accident that she had been writing then, she repeated to herself. but back of that accident had been her morbid conscience and ted's narrow-mindedness; and together they had translated it into a crime. thus she had been driven into the compact with god for eric's life--the compact that had ruined her own life. her morbid conscience and ted's selfish narrow-mindedness had wrought together for the frustration of her gift, of her happiness. and it was upon ted that she put far the greater share of the blame. oddly enough, though she saw her husband so plainly now; though she censured his faults so unsparingly and regretted so passionately her own mistakes with him--mistakes of weakness, of cowardly submission, she told herself--she did not, even now, take the final step of considering what might have been if she had not married him; of what might have been if she had married some one altogether more congenial and unselfish. it was charlotte who thought of that for her. chapter xv it was toward the end of april that charlotte arrived in shadyville. she had never lived in shadyville since her first flight from it to boarding-school. after school had come new york and paris, where she had studied singing; and for the last five years she had been on the concert stage, filling engagements all over the continent--much to the distress of her family who, though inordinately proud of her, could not understand why any woman with plenty of money at her disposal should work. charlotte had always decided things for herself, however, and once convinced that her happiness lay in the active pursuit of her art, no one could dissuade her from it. certainly no penniless woman could have worked harder or with more zest than she. musician to her finger-tips, and with a remarkably beautiful, silver-clear soprano voice, she had also the modern woman's desire to earn her living; to justify her existence by doing something well. an independent and a busy life was necessary to her, and it was impossible to see her without realizing that she had chosen wisely for herself. to shadyville she had always seemed a brilliant figure; now, as a successful professional singer, she was a dazzling one. even sheila was a little awed by her, although the two had kept up their childhood's friendship during all these years of separation and of such diverse interests. every now and then charlotte descended on shadyville for a brief visit to her parents, and then she invariably took up with sheila their dropped threads and wove a new flower into the pattern of their affection. on this occasion she came to sheila with more than her usual warmth, divining what a grief mrs. caldwell's death must have been to her, and she watched her friend, as the days passed, with an increasing solicitude. to all appearances everything was well with the kent household. sheila and ted seemed to be on the best of terms; eric had grown into a fine, healthy, handsome little lad, particularly fond of his proud mother; prosperity, as shadyville measured it, fairly shone from the charming and well-ordered little house. certainly all appeared to be well with sheila, yet charlotte was not satisfied about her. six months had passed since mrs. caldwell's death, and though charlotte allowed for the sincerity and depth of sheila's mourning, she rejected a sorrow already somewhat softened by time as sufficient cause for the change she found in sheila. there was something else, something of an altogether different nature, that was responsible for the hunger of sheila's eyes, the restlessness of her manner. charlotte remembered, with a rush of indignation, sheila's unfulfilled ambitions, her wasted gift. that was the trouble; of course that baffled gift of sheila's was the trouble. and something must be done about it. she was with sheila when she came to this conclusion, and immediately she acted on it, impulsive, decisive creature that she was. "what of your writing, sheila dear? i can't recall your speaking of it to me for a long, long while." "oh--_that's_ over!" replied sheila, with unhappy emphasis. "but why?" it was a warm may afternoon and they were sitting on sheila's veranda. out on the lawn eric and another boy of his own age frolicked about like a couple of animated puppies. sheila pointed to them: "you remember what mrs. north said--that a woman couldn't be both mother and artist?" "i told you that wasn't true!" "it has been true for me, charlotte." "it needn't be now. while eric was a baby, it may have been true for you, but there's no reason in the world why it should be now." "well, it _is_ true for me now--it will be true for me always. and yet----" and then, because disillusion and bitterness were strong upon sheila, charlotte got the whole story out of her, from the first revelation of ted's attitude toward a married woman's art to the final climax of eric's illness, her self-blame and her renunciation of her work. even while she told it, she knew that she would reproach herself afterward for disloyalty to ted, but the sheer relief of confiding it to a sympathetic listener was too much for her scruples. "i never heard of anything so outrageous in my life!" exclaimed charlotte, when the story was ended. "it's barbarous--_barbarous_!" not a word of her final clear vision of her husband, her belated disappointment in him, had sheila uttered. for that at least she had been too loyal. but already she repented having betrayed his views in regard to the married woman-artist. so well she knew what charlotte must think of them, indeed, that she now felt impelled to a defense: "of course it hasn't been ted's fault--you mustn't feel that he's to blame." "mustn't i?" asked charlotte drily. and then, "my dear girl, he _has_ been to blame--absolutely, unforgivably to blame. it makes me wild to think of his narrow-minded, pig-headed selfishness. and that you should have given in to it--! oh, sheila, sheila, where is your independence, your sense of your rights as an individual, a human being? are you a cave woman--that you should be just your husband's docile chattel?" and charlotte sprang from her chair and began to pace the veranda, urged by the fierce energy of her anger. "i said it had been ted's fault--this spoiling of your life," she went on presently, "but it's been your fault, too, sheila. it's been your fault for giving in to him." "but," pleaded sheila, "i didn't give in to _ted_. i gave in to circumstances. seeing that eric was ill--that he might die--because i'd neglected him in order to write was what conquered me. that was what drove me to the vow to renounce my work--if eric was spared." charlotte came and stood before her then: "sheila, you know as well as i do that you'd never have made that vow if the sense of ted's disapproval, his condemnation, hadn't been working on you. you know that it was merely an accident that you were writing when eric was exposed to scarlet fever. you know that if you _hadn't_ been writing, you would have been reading or sleeping or paying calls, and that if you'd been doing any of those things, you wouldn't have thought yourself guilty because you'd taken an hour off from the hardest job a woman has--the mother-job--even though eric did suffer by it. you know you'd have recognized that there are just so many cruel mischances in life, and that eric's illness was one of them. you know that it was _ted_, back of circumstances, that influenced you to make your vow of renunciation!" it was what sheila had so recently told herself, and she could not refute it now. looking into her downcast, acquiescent face, charlotte continued: "as for the vow--that's nonsense! it's mere morbid, hysterical nonsense. god never exacted it of you. he's never held you to it, you may be sure. if he's wanted anything of you, he's wanted you to use the talent he's given you. if you've been at all at fault, it's for wasting your talent. you _have_ wasted it--you've wasted it to please ted. you've wasted it because you've allowed yourself to be intimidated and bullied by ted. that's the whole trouble!" "oh, charlotte--," began sheila. "i've spoken the truth," insisted charlotte firmly. "you can't deny a word i've said." and then, flinging out her hands with a gesture of despair, "the worst of it is that it's too late to help matters now. you'll go on in the same way--letting ted bully you--to the end of your days. there's never been any chance for you with him. your chance was with peter burnett. it's peter you should have married!" "you must not say that," objected sheila quickly--and a little unsteadily. "you must not say that, charlotte. it's ridiculous. and it's dreadful, too. ted and i love each other--we _do_ love each other!" but charlotte was no longer inclined for argument. she answered sheila's protest with a smile--no more. suddenly she seemed to be through with the subject of sheila's life, and perching upon the railing of the veranda, she looked off into green distances with a gaze singularly vague and pensive for her. sheila watched her admiringly, noting her erect slenderness, her spirited, keenly intelligent face, the clear blue of her eyes, the warm gold of her hair in the sunshine. "it's you peter should marry," said sheila lightly, when the silence between them had lengthened uncomfortably. "you'd be just the wife for him, charlotte!" charlotte turned toward her, and there was no mistaking her earnestness and her sincerity. "i'd marry him to-morrow!" she cried. "oh, charlotte, i never _dreamed--my dear_!----" "don't be sorry for me," charlotte interrupted warningly. "don't be sorry for me. i may marry him yet!" and a moment later, she was swinging down the street, as serene and independent as if she had never known--much less, confessed--the pain of unrequited love. as sheila looked after her, she noticed again the gold of her hair, the beautiful, free carriage of her shoulders--and now she felt no pleasure in them. rather was she conscious of a sharp little pang of envy, and with it, sounded the echo of charlotte's last words--"i may marry him yet!" charlotte was a splendid, gallant creature; she _might_ marry peter. and then sheila, feeling that envious pang again and still more sharply, demanded of herself in swift terror: "am i jealous?--_am i jealous of charlotte because peter may come to love her_?" oh, it couldn't be that!--it couldn't! it was impossible that she should be jealous about any man but her husband. for she and ted loved each other--they _did_ love each other, whatever had been their mistakes with each other. she called eric to her, and he left his playmate on the lawn and came, smiling. she caught him to her, with a sort of frightened passion: "kiss mother, darling!" he looked back over his shoulder at the boy who was waiting for him. "with him there?" he inquired reluctantly, already shy of caresses before his own sex. but sheila, usually the most considerate and tactful of mothers, amazed him now by ignoring his hint. still with that terrified passion, she kissed him not once, but many times--her son and ted's! her son and ted's! then, leaving him standing there in his astonished embarrassment, she went into the house and up to her own room, there to sit and stare before her at things unseen, but all too visible to her. so ted had been right after all; right in objecting to her being so much with peter. it _had_ been unwise; moreover, it had been wrong, all that companionship of the past winter. for it had brought her to this; it had brought her so to depend upon peter that she could not be happy unless he was often with her; it had brought her so to care for him that she could not think of him in relation to another woman without jealousy. it had brought her to this--and she was a wife and mother! she had been ashamed when ted had told her that she would get herself talked about in connection with peter, and still more ashamed when he had accused her of "running after" peter. but that had been an endurable shame, for at the heart of it had been self-respect, the indestructible pride of perfect innocence. but the shame that surged over her now was the agonizing shame of guilt, the shame of utter self-scorn, self-loathing. she--a wife, a mother!--cared for a man not her husband; cared for him in a way that made it torment to her to think of his marrying another woman. hideous and unbelievable though it was, she cared for him so much. she had cared for him even while she was declaring to charlotte--and later, to herself--that she loved her husband. she cared for peter--even now, facing the truth and admitting it, she would not use the word, love--she cared for peter, and she was ted's wife, the mother of ted's son. not even the touch of that little son had been powerful to blind her. she cared!--she _cared_! for a moment her face went down into her hands, and the hopeless grief of unfortunate love mastered her, tore her throat with its sobs, burned her eyes with its bitter tears. but presently her head was up again, and with shaking fingers she was bathing her eyes, concealing as best she could the ravages of that instant's surrender. she had no rights in this thing; she had not even the right to suffer. ted or eric might come in at any moment, and they must not see that she had wept; she was theirs. she had no right to suffer. there could be only one right course in this; to fight, to crush out of herself what she was not free to feel, to put between herself and peter some barrier that could not be destroyed. there was ted, there was eric--they should have been barriers enough. but they had not been barriers enough, and there must be another. there must be something--some one--more, to keep her safe, to hold her heart, her thoughts, from this forbidden haven. there must be something--some one--else--. and then her mind leaped to charlotte. charlotte loved peter; she had practically admitted that. well, she should marry him--as she'd said that she might do. though it broke her own heart, charlotte should marry peter. she herself would arrange it. she did not pause to consider that peter might not want to marry charlotte, that he might not be happy in doing so. she did not pause, yet, to question--she did not dare to question, indeed--whether peter turned her own love. she was intent upon but one end: to protect herself from what she felt for him, from what she would continue to feel for him as long as he was free. with this haste and need and fear upon her, she wrote to him, asking him to come to her the next afternoon. it would be their first meeting since ted's ban upon their friendship, and she realized, with fresh humiliation, that in spite of everything, she was glad of this chance to be with peter. she realized that she could scarcely wait until the morrow should bring him to her. because she was thus glad, she almost decided not to send her note after all, and then--lest she would not!--she hurried out and mailed it herself. somehow she got through dinner and the evening. she heard eric's lessons and tucked him away for the night with a bedtime story and the kisses that, when no one was looking on, he was eager enough to receive. she listened to ted's anecdotes of the day and responded with a mechanical vivacity. then, at last, she was hidden by the night, freed by the night--though she lay by ted's side. she had no right to suffer, but she did suffer now. as peter had done months before, she suffered through the darkness. but with her there was no yielding to dear visions of a forbidden love, as there had been with him; there was no picturing of life as it might have been with him; no thrilling to the imaginary caresses and delights of a passion which, in her married self, was wholly unworthy. rather was the night a long battle with the love that it so shamed her to find within herself. thus, in this distress of her soul, she was at least spared the physical torture which peter had endured. not for an instant was her love for peter translated, in her mind, into physical terms; she neither imagined nor desired its touch; in her guilt there was a strange innocence--an innocence characteristic of her. she would go through life unaware of the grosser aspects of things; under any circumstances, however equivocal, she would be curiously pure. in one thing only did she fall now to the level of less idealistic beings; in spite of her struggle to the contrary, she wondered, at last, if peter loved her. she dared and stooped, in the privacy of the night, to wonder that. when peter came to her the next afternoon, he found her haggard, but very quiet, very calm. beneath her calmness, however, he divined the stir of troubled depths, and he carefully kept to the surface; ignored his long banishment; took up one impersonal topic after another for her entertainment; and was altogether so much the safe, unromantic, delightful old friend of the family that, but for the hammering of her pulses, he would have persuaded sheila that the distress of the past night was a mere, ugly dream. but because she could not look at him without a catch of her breath; because she could not speak to him without first pausing to steady her voice; because all her tranquility was but desperate and painful effort, she knew the night was no dream, but even more of a reality than she had thought. "peter," she said at last, with attempted lightness, "peter, i'm going to meddle with your destiny." "what do you mean?" he asked, smiling at her. that smile of his almost cost her her self-control, so dear it was to her. but she went on bravely enough: "i'm going to secure you a wife." he threw up his hands in dismay. "don't try," he pleaded. "you could never find a wife to suit me!" "but i _have_ found one who's sure to suit you." "you've actually selected her?--you have her waiting for me?" she nodded, trying to smile back at him now with a deceiving gayety. "may i know who the fair lady is?" "of course. she's--charlotte! she is just the woman for you, peter." "never," he said promptly. "she is charming and clever and handsome and kind, _but_--she's not the woman for me." "peter"--and sheila dropped her pretense of playfulness--"peter, she's all that you need. she'd make a great man of you." "at this late date?" he inquired a little ruefully. "she'd make a great man of me at forty-six?" "yes, she would. charlotte's very--strong. she could accomplish anything she wished. she'd do much for a man--with a man--if she loved him." "i have no reason to believe that she loves me," said peter. "perhaps i shouldn't tell you, but _i_ have reason to believe that--she loves you." he leaned forward and searchingly studied her face: "i'm sure you are mistaken. but--granting that charlotte may love me--is it for her sake that you want me to marry her?" "for hers--and for yours. i want to see you in a home of your own, peter--with a wife to love you, with children. i want--i want you to be happy!" "i would not be happy if i married charlotte." "why, peter?" "because i do not love her." "you would come to love her." "no, sheila--i am not free to do that." "do you--do you love some one else?" and her voice shook now in spite of her attempt to keep it firm. "yes," he answered quietly, "i love some one else." "some one you can--marry?" she could not look at him, but question him she must. "no--not some one i can marry." the room was very still for a moment; but she seemed to hear the sorrow of his voice echoing and re-echoing through it. "you will get over that in time," she whispered. "i will never get over it," he answered. and now she looked at him. she had wondered if he loved her; looking into his sad eyes, she knew. a sob swelled her throat and broke from her lips. and then they sprang up and faced each other. so they stood, gazing at each other. and though they neither spoke nor touched each other, the heart of each was clear to the other--more clear, indeed, than speech or touch could have made them. so they stood, looking into each other's eyes, and unbearable pain and unbelievable ecstasy were mingled in those few, silent moments. then the ecstasy died; the pain became cruelly intense. and more than pain shone dark in sheila's eyes; fear crouched there, and peter saw it. she loved him--and she was afraid of him. more intolerably than anything else, that hurt him--that she should have to be afraid of him. "peter," she said--and her voice trembled so that he could scarcely understand her words, "peter, i want you to marry charlotte for--_for my sake_." and her fear stared at him out of her eyes, stared at him and implored him. she was asking him to put charlotte between them. he realized that now. she was telling him that ted and eric were not enough to keep them apart. "i will do it--or something which will answer as well," he assured her gently. "you may trust me for that, sheila." and then, still without touching her, without even looking at her again, he was gone. he was gone and everything was ended for them--for them who had not known even the beginnings. chapter xvi peter had engaged to dine with charlotte that night, but after his talk with sheila, his first impulse was to excuse himself. it seemed to him impossible to get back, at once, to the safe level of everyday life, of commonplace affairs. it seemed impossible, too, to meet charlotte without betraying embarrassment. but after an hour's solitude, he had sufficient command of himself to fill the appointment, and he appeared at the davis house with all his usual placidity of manner. after all, he had to go on as if nothing had happened, and it was as well, he told himself, to begin immediately. that was, perhaps, the worst of secret disasters like his and sheila's--that one had to go on as if nothing had happened; that one had to wear, from the first, a bright mask of concealment. but it was, in a way, the best, too--this necessity for taking up tangible, practical matters, for continuing duties, obligations, enterprises that, perforce, diverted at least a part of one's mind from the contemplation of an inner tragedy. there was effort in having to talk, to listen intelligently, to laugh, but there was relief, too, and the sense of safety that, when adrift on chaotic seas, one feels at the touch of something solid. so he talked and listened and laughed with conscientious care. and watching charlotte across the dinner table, he considered sheila's plea. as he had said to sheila, he thought charlotte clever and handsome and kind. whole-heartedly he liked and admired her; he enjoyed her; he was stimulated by her. he was even prepared to admit that, if she would marry him, she might actually make something of him, middle-aged though he was. his attainments, his really brilliant qualities of mind, were there to build with--and she was, by nature, a builder. he could see her taking hold of his life and creating out of its hitherto negative stuff a thing worth while. he could see her thus active for him and with him, and feel a certain pleasure in the picture. to think of himself as dear to a woman like charlotte could not but touch a man pleasantly and warmly. and yet, thus touched, thus drawn, he knew still that his whole-hearted admiration and liking would never be followed by whole-hearted love. his passion for sheila had gone too deep to be effaced. unhappily for himself, he was not one of those whose heart can be enlisted sincerely more than once. he looked across the table at charlotte and noted the strong, rich gold of her hair, the dark, definite blue of her eyes, the gracious lines of her shoulders; he heard her clear, positive, courageous voice, her blithe laughter; he looked and listened and thought of her as his--and his heart clung to its dream of a woman far less compellingly vital and lovely. against charlotte's vivid reality, he set a little ghost with a pale face and wistful gray eyes and a plaintive voice, a little ghost too sensitive to be quite strong, too shy to be self-confident and self-sufficient, too tender to be altogether brave; and with this very sensitiveness, this shyness, this uncourageous tenderness, the little ghost held him. she held him because her eyes were wistfully gray instead of triumphantly blue, because her voice was hauntingly plaintive instead of firmly buoyant; she held him because in her soul there was a strain of weakness, of timidity, of childlike helplessness and innocence that to him was at once piteous and exquisite. she held him by all those qualities--and shortcomings--most unlike charlotte. he saw that charlotte was, as sheila had asserted, just the woman for a man of his indolent, dallying temperament; he saw that he needed such a woman. but he saw, too, that sheila needed him, that she had always needed him, that she would always need him; and from that consciousness of her need he could not wrench himself free. he would never be free of his little, pale ghost. if he married charlotte, it would be for sheila's sake. _if_ he married charlotte----! well, he might marry charlotte. sheila had said that he could, and perhaps she had been right. in these later years, since charlotte had been a woman, a cordial friendship had sprung up between them. whenever she had been in shadyville, he had been much with her, and in her absences there had been letters. for several years, whether in shadyville or away, she had been a presence in his life; they had many tastes and interests in common; she was kind to him--encouragingly kind. it seemed probable that he could marry her; at least there was ground for trying to do so. yet how could he offer less than his best to a creature so fine, so honest, so loyal as he knew charlotte to be? that something weighed on his mind, that he was observing her with unwonted gravity, charlotte perceived before the dinner was over. afterward she took him with her into the garden and they sat down there in the mild spring night, surrounded by flowers, regarded by innumerable stars. the night, the flowers, the stars, all appeared to be conspiring for charlotte. they created an atmosphere of poetry for her; they threw over her a glamour that, with her obvious type of beauty, her downright and positive nature, she had missed. it was as if the night, with its stars and flowers, were striving to invest her with that subtler allurement which, in sheila, was so poignant and enchanting to peter. and instinctively charlotte took up the night's cue; sat a little in shadow; spoke with unusual softness. "what have you been thinking of so seriously all evening?" she asked. "i've been wondering," said peter, "whether a man whose heart is committed, in spite of himself, to a hopeless love, has any right to marry." charlotte did not answer at once; she stirred, moved deeper into protecting shadow. "that depends, i believe, on whether he's sure that the love his heart is committed to is really hopeless--will be hopeless always," she replied finally. "in the case i was considering--the man is sure of that." "then he would get over his unfortunate love in time--wouldn't he? ill-fated love does not often last forever. life--life is more merciful than that, isn't it?" it was his chance with her; he realized that she was giving it to him--giving it to him understandingly and deliberately. he had only to agree that an "ill-fated" love--that his ill-fated love--would die at last. but he could not take his chance like that. he could not be less than honest with her. "he would never get over it altogether," he said. "the woman he could not marry would always be--dearest to him. and, granting that, would it be fair for him to ask another woman to take what was left of--of his affection? would it be fair to ask her to take--a spoiled life?" "she might feel that what was left of his life was well worth having--the woman he _could_ marry. she might feel that--even if he had suffered much, missed what he supremely wanted--his life need not be spoiled after all. she might feel that she could prevent its being spoiled. if he were frank with her, and she felt like that about it, i think it would be fair for him to marry her--perfectly honorable and fair." "it could not be happiness for her," argued peter. "perhaps not. perhaps she could do without happiness." "that would require a great love of her," said peter gravely, "a great love for a man who could not give a great love in return." "yes," she agreed, her voice very low now, but as clear and steady as ever, "yes, it would require a great love from her. but it is not impossible to find a woman who can feel a great love without hope of a full return." she was still in her sheltering shadow, but upon peter's end of the garden seat the moonlight, unchecked by the trees, streamed white and strong. she looked into his face, fully revealed to her now, and she realized, before he spoke, that he was going to refuse her sacrifice; she realized it because she saw in his face a deeper emotion for her than he had ever shown before. he loved her not enough--and yet too much!--to marry her. she saw that and was prepared for his next words. "to such a woman the man i have in mind could not give less than his best," he said. and there was no longer any question, any hesitancy in his tone. "to one so generous no man could be ungenerous--i should have known that! perhaps," he went on, with a note of distress and apology, "perhaps such things should not be talked about. perhaps it is--humiliating----" "to me the truth could never be humiliating," she answered, with quick reassurance. "then it is best to speak it?" he pleaded, as if for self-justification. "then it is best to speak it, after all? for it does make things--plain; it does show one the right, the decent course." "it's best to speak it," she assented kindly; and she held out her hand to him. he lifted her hand and kissed it. and when he spoke again, his voice faltered: "when a man knows a woman like you, charlotte, he sees that happiness--or unhappiness--doesn't matter so much as he's thought. there are other things--better things--to live for. you've found them--and now i'm going to find them, too, my dear." so, for the second time that day, peter went from a woman who loved him. the night and the stars and the flowers had done their best to quicken his pulses; to blur his vision of the truth; to blunt his sense of absolute, unswerving honor. but in the end charlotte herself had defeated what the night was fain to do for her with its witchery; she had defeated the night's intents with her measureless honesty and generosity--to which peter's own generosity and honesty could but respond. to use a woman like charlotte as a barrier between himself and another woman was impossible to him. neither for sheila's safety, nor for any benefit to himself, could he do a thing so base. he recognized now that marriage with charlotte--even without that utter love he had given to sheila--might be a gracious, even a happy destiny for him. but having found her so ready to sacrifice herself, he could not sacrifice her. he could not rob her of the chance of being loved as she could love. such a love might come to her some day; he could but leave her free for it. as he walked homeward along the silent, wide street, other gardens than charlotte's flung their fragrance to him; the night still whispered to him of the sweetness of being loved, of all those compensations from which he had turned away. but he was not allured; he was not vanquished. his course stretched before him--through the befogging, unmanning sweetness--to daylight and self-respect and an uncompromising sincerity of life. it stretched before him farther than he could descry--as far as the great fighting, suffering, achieving world. mrs. caldwell had once told him that he had never grown up, and that some day he would have to grow up; that there could be no escape for him. she had been right about it. until now he had not grown up. not even in his love for sheila and the pain of it, had he grown up. he had been like a child playing in a garden, and though the sweetest rose there had torn him with its thorns, he had stayed on in the garden. but now he was a child no longer; there had been no escape from growing up. he had put it off a long time--more than half his lifetime perhaps--but he had not been able to put it off forever. and now, yielding at last, he was willing to leave his garden; he was willing to go out into the world of men. as he neared the hotel where he lived, he met ted kent, quitting his office--going home to sheila. at once ted stopped and put out his hand. for in his mind no hostility against peter had lingered. indeed, on the occasion when he had upbraided sheila about peter, he had felt very little animosity toward peter himself, and several months having passed in a strict compliance to his wishes on sheila's part, the whole matter had almost vanished from his memory. his was not a nature to cherish resentment, to brood over fancied wrongs; he liked to be at peace with all his fellow-men and upon genial terms with them. he was animated by a distinct cordiality toward peter now, as he extended his hand to him. "been calling on the girls, burnett?" he inquired jovially. "on one of them," admitted peter. "well, it's been a long while since i did anything like that--a long while. and i'm not sorry either. there's nothing like your slippers and your pipe and your paper at home! when i have to work late, as i did to-night, it's a real hardship. have a drink with me before i go on?" "thanks," said peter pleasantly, "but i'm in a bit of a hurry. i've got to pack up. i'm leaving town in the morning." "leaving town? for a vacation?" "no, for work. i've had a job offered me in new york. brentwood, of the brentwood publishing company, has been asking me to come to them for years, and i've finally decided to go." "high-brows, aren't they--the brentwood company?" ted questioned, somewhat impressed. "perhaps you'd call them so. they publish real literature--a good many translations; that's what they want me for." "well, well," pursued ted, still detaining him, "and so you're going to leave little old shadyville for good! and after spending all your days here, too--after making so many friends. i believe you'll miss us, burnett!" "i'm sure i shall," agreed peter, with patient courtesy. "then why go? it may be a good change for you in ways, but i'm convinced there's more to be said against it than for it. for the life of me, i can't see why you're doing it." "no," said peter, a little drily, "you wouldn't see, kent. but i'm sure it's the only thing to do. tell sheila i think so, please, and that i send her my good-byes." "you aren't going to tell her good-bye yourself?" "i'm afraid i can't." and as peter spoke, he was acutely conscious of all that ted did not see, of all that he would never understand. "i'm afraid i can't--i start early in the morning." "all right! you know what's best for yourself, no doubt. sorry you can't say good-bye to sheila, though--she cares a lot for you, as much as if you were one of the family. i'll give her your message, but she'll be disappointed that you didn't deliver it yourself. good luck to you, old man, and don't forget us!" and shaking hands again, ted went cheerfully on his homeward way, serenely unaware of the sorrow--and of the irony!--that had confronted him from peter's quiet eyes. up in his little room, peter began to carry out his sudden plan for leaving shadyville. it was true that he had had an offer, more than once, from brentwood. brentwood had been a chum of his at college, a friend who had never ceased to remember and appreciate him. the offer was still open, and it solved peter's problem. he had told sheila that he would marry charlotte or do something else that would answer as well. he found that something else in going away. he had not many possessions; shabby clothes--with an air to them; shabby books--that shone with their inner grace. the books took longest, and when he had finished packing them, it was dawn. he went to his window and watched the slow coming of the light, and in that silent, gray hour, he felt himself more alone than he had ever been. everything seemed to have been stripped from him; this town where he had been born, and where generations of his family had been born before him; his friends; the little room, so dismantled now, that for years had been his home-place; all these--and his hope of happy love. he remembered how, in his early, romantic boyhood, he had hoped for that--for happy love; and now that hope was gone and everything was gone with it. everything was gone because of sheila; he had given up everything that she might be safe, that she might have peace--the peace, at least, of being unafraid. he thought of her now with a calm tenderness--as if, having given so much for her peace, he had somehow gained peace for himself, too. and then he thought of charlotte, and it was for charlotte, not for sheila, that tears--a man's slow, difficult tears--forced themselves into his eyes. but charlotte was strong. it was her strength that had roused strength in him; strength to leave the garden, to escape the insinuating, ensnaring sweetness of the night and go forth into the daylight world of men. and just then the first ray of sunlight touched his window sill, touched it and stole within the room. the day had come; and though he was forty-six years old and not born for fighting, a sudden elation seized upon peter's sad heart--as if the finger of the sunlight had touched it, too. chapter xvii sheila had thought herself acquainted with loneliness in the days immediately following her grandmother's death--days when she had had the consolation and companionship of peter's frequent visits; but after peter left shadyville, she knew loneliness indeed. charlotte had taken flight to paris soon after peter's departure, and there remained in sheila's small world not one to comprehend the depths of her, the real needs and desires and aspirations of her mind and spirit. to all outward seeming, her life flowed on in its usual channels; she occupied herself with her housewifely duties, with her care for her husband's and child's well-being; she exchanged visits with her neighbors and went to afternoon tea-parties. certainly her life appeared to flow on smoothly enough, but in fact it did not flow at all--that which was really the life current; it was checked, stemmed, thrown back upon itself in a tempestuous flood. heart, mind, spirit, all had come up against an obstacle which there was no surmounting, no eluding--the indestructible obstacle of a mistaken marriage. those were the bitterest days of sheila's existence--the days when all the vital, matured forces of her throbbed and surged and clamored, prisoned things that beat in vain against the walls of circumstances. worn out at last by this inner rebellion and conflict, she began to question whether she might not write once more. what she felt for peter must forever be suppressed; must, if possible, be crushed out altogether; for her heart, importunate though it was with her woman's maturity, there could be no satisfying outlet. and in her conscientious recognition of this, in her resolution to abide by it, her very genuine affection for ted--despite all the differences of temperament that divided them, despite even her realization and resentment of the wrong his selfishness had done her--was her greatest source of strength. but though she thus armed herself with her affection for her husband, though she so strove for utter loyalty to him, the suppression of her gift was no part of her conception of wifely duty now. and, thanks to charlotte, she no longer regarded her compact with god for eric's life as a thing sacred and binding. even before charlotte had expressed herself so vigorously on the subject, sheila had, indeed, grown to see that her vow to renounce her gift had been unfairly wrung from her by a too effective combination of accident and ted's opinions. and after charlotte had cried out upon that vow as "morbid, hysterical nonsense," after she had exclaimed that sheila's only fault had been in wasting her gift, it was but a step for sheila to the conclusion that her vow could not--_should_ not!--bind her. at last she saw herself free for work, if not for love; she saw herself the more free for work because love must be denied. her work should be her recompense; she had earned it now, as all things worth the having must be earned--by what one suffers for them. and she believed that her work would be the better for all that she had suffered, all that she had endured. it would be the better for that secret, unceasing ache of her heart for a love forbidden to her; and it would be the better for all the hours of pure suffering for itself alone. she had suffered for the loss of her work--oh, very really! even through years that had been altogether happy otherwise, the restlessness and hunger and depression of a talent unappeased had come upon her at times, come upon her almost unbearably. though she had set her little son between it and her, it had reached her; it had harassed her unspeakably with demands that she had, perforce, refused to gratify. the sudden note of a violin, the sight of a flowering tree pearly against an april sky, a glimpse of tranquil stars through her window at night--such things as these had been enough to bring her gift's importuning and torment upon her. earnestly and sincerely as she had tried to steel herself from such importunity and torment, they had come upon her again and again; they still came; they would come always--unless she flung off the shackles of that foolish, unnecessary vow. fling off its shackles she did, with a sudden, blessed sense of liberty and strength. with neither confession to ted, nor any attempt at concealment, she set herself to write. for the first time since her marriage--at least since her motherhood--she felt her life, in some measure, her own. that she made no announcement of her independence to ted was significant of the complete independence she had begun to feel. perhaps it was significant of it, also--of the extent to which she conveyed, without words, her emancipation--that ted, discovering, in the ensuing days, what she was about, said nothing of it either. when she sat down, at last, to her writing-table, to her clean sheaf of paper, it was with the conviction of her individual rights spurringly upon her. but though she was finally so sure of her right to set free her gift, she felt within her no stir and flutter of a thing mad to fly and now released to do it. no winged words sprang upon her paper to leave bright traces of a heavenly flight. at the end of a long, uninterrupted morning, there was upon her paper no word at all. not for lack of ideas did the paper remain thus bare. there were ideas enough and to spare in the treasure chamber of her brain, ideas long hoarded, but still fresh with the glamour of their first conception. there was one idea which had especially tantalized and allured her through years of resistance on her part, an idea for a story really insolently quiet and unpretentious--because its stuff was such pure gold. how that gold would shine through the cunningly chosen medium of her simple, unassuming phrases! she had seen it shining so through all the time that she had resisted it. but now--though she gave herself unreservedly to the cherished idea, though she turned over and over, with a passionate preoccupation, the little golden nugget of it--the simple, delicate phrases that were to reveal, to exploit it, did not appear. she had always written with a singular ease, and it seemed strange to sit before her tempting pages and write not a word. but on the first morning, she felt no alarm. after all, it was but natural that she should have to spend some time in coaxing it out to the light--that talent of hers so long confined. it was but natural that it should not have courage to soar and sing at once. but on the second day her paper was as empty as before; it lay upon her table like a useless snare for some wild and lovely bird that no longer had vitality enough to flutter within reach of it. and now, sitting at her writing-table in vain for several days, fear seized upon sheila, fear that she would not name or analyze. well, as one grew older, one often wrote differently, with more difficulty. she had heard that, she reflected eagerly. she had heard that deliberate, intellectual effort had often to succeed the flushed, panting rush of youthful inspiration. this was probably the case with her now; of course it was, indeed. she must undertake the effort; she must accept and master a new method. then all would be right with her. and so she went about deliberately translating the gold of her idea into those dreamed-of words which were so fitly to interpret it. she went about it with an energy, a will to accomplish the feat, that should have been sufficient to achieve miracles. if there had been, hitherto, a strain of weakness in her, she was now all strength. and by that sheer strength--of purpose, of determination--she sought to realize her dream of perfection. now the white sheets on her table were no longer barren. slow, painful writing covered them. she wrote and discarded, and wrote again. day after day, she sat there at her table, engaged, as she came at last to perceive, in her final, her ultimate tragedy. for when the thing that she had visioned as a little golden masterpiece was finished, she knew it for what it was. there was no felicity of phrase, no cunning art of construction, no conviction of truth, no throb of vitality within it. as surely as a still-born child had it been brought into the world dead. and it was incredibly ugly and deformed. there was not a gleam of gold upon it! she recognized all this with unsparing clearness. not one illusion was left to her, not one merciful deception; with a single glance at her completed story, illusions and self-deceptions were swept from her--and hope was swept from her with them. her gift was dead--or, at the least, it was forever ineffectual. there would be no more mad, glad flights; no more songs high in the sunlit heavens. the flights and songs and ecstasies were over for all time. not for an instant did she cheat herself with sophistries of an eventual recovery. she knew that if it lived at all--this gift of hers which had once been more alive than she herself--it would but live within her as the pain of a thing balked and futile, restless still perhaps, but not restless with any power. always--always now--the too exquisite note of a violin, the sight of blossoming trees at dawn, of silver, inscrutable stars at night would waken in her the hunger, the grief, of the unsatisfied. there would never be a time when she could look on poignant beauty with the peace of one who is herself a part of all beauty--having created something beautiful. for the ultimate calamity had befallen her; her gift had been killed, or hopelessly maimed. under the tremendous impact of this blow she was curiously unresentful. she wondered a little how it had happened. she wondered if she had suffered too much, suffered to the point of numbness--a thing fatal to one whose work had been fine largely through her capacity for emotion; or if the habit, the superstition, of her vow, persisting within her after the vow itself had been cast aside, had thus finally broken the wings of her talent. she wondered if her marriage alone, or her motherhood, or her shamed and hopeless love for peter had been most disastrous to her. she had been conscious of them all as she had sat there trying to write. eric's face and peter's had drifted between her and her pages. ted's cold declaration that talent was a bad thing for a married woman, and her own impassioned promise to god to renounce her work for eric's life had both drowned for her the voice of her gift. it was as if all these factors in her destiny had had too much of her; it was as if they had claimed her too entirely and tenaciously ever to release her. even in silence and solitude and a belated sense of liberty and rights, she could not be free of them. she could not decide whether one or all of them had been responsible for this final frustration. she wondered--and then she ceased to wonder at all. she knew that the frustration had been accomplished--and that she was suddenly too weary even to cry out. it was at the moment when she realized all this fully, when she sat staring at the deformed and lifeless thing which she had brought forth, that a letter from charlotte was handed to her. it came from new york--where was peter. sheila opened it with shaking fingers--and found what she desired: i have seen peter [wrote charlotte] and he seems to have fitted himself, very happily, into the right place. i say happily, but i do not use the word literally, for peter is scarcely happy. but he is appreciated here, and he likes his work. i'm sure you'll be glad of that. as for happiness--i sometimes question whether those of us who catch a glimpse of a happiness perfect and transcendent ever experience the reality. i doubt, in fact, if any reality could stand, unimpaired, by that vision. it may be that we have to choose between the vision--beheld for an instant and forever remembered--and an earthy, faulty, commonplace little happiness. we may have to choose between a fairy tale that can never be anything but a wonderful fairy tale, and a grubby reality that will spoil fairy tales for us evermore. if that be true, peter is not to be pitied. he is manifestly one of the chosen; he's had his matchless vision; he still believes in the fairy tale. i told you, once, that i might marry him--in spite of him, as it were! now i know that i will never marry him. but you must not be sorry for me, my dear. i, too, have had my vision. i'll always believe in the fairy tale. sheila laid the letter down--beside the stillborn child of her gift. and fleetingly she saw again the pure gold of her idea--saw it gleaming through the misshapen thing she had actually fashioned. after all, though she could never create masterpieces, she had had her vision of them; that, at least, had been vouchsafed to her. and she had had her vision of the perfect love; not even unspeakable sorrow and humiliation had dimmed it. she, also, was one of the chosen; she would always believe in the fairy tale. chapter xviii it is, perhaps, only after we have put many dreams and hopes behind us that we stumble upon life's real gift to us. and thus it happened for sheila. it was as if, seeing that she held out her hands for gifts no longer, life capriciously resolved to thrust one upon her. but beneath the apparent caprice was a fine justice--for life was at last kind to sheila through her son. as eric grew older, there sprang up between them such a comradeship as, even in her gladdest moments of motherhood, sheila had never foreseen. he was a manly boy, fond of other boys and of boyish sports, but for all that his companionship with his mother persisted, and as he matured somewhat, deepened into an intimate, understanding relation such as sheila had not thought to know again. their kinship was not of the flesh only; that was the thing that sheila began presently to see. it was then that she began to dream once more; to visualize a future beyond her own unrealized future. but she didn't so much as stretch out a shaping hand; she didn't say an illuminating, a determining word. she remembered instances--many of them--of children's lives having been moulded by their parents, and with pitiful mischance. she had known men and women who, with entirely unconscious tyranny, had thrust ready-made destinies on their sons and daughters, saying in extenuation: "we want our children to do all the brave deeds we've failed to do. we want them to fulfill our defeated ambitions and to become what we have never become. we want to save them from our mistakes and our regrets. we haven't done much with our own lives--but we're going to live again, more wisely and effectually, in our children's lives." and so they had advised and coerced, and destroyed individuality and independence, and extinguished, only too often, the very joy of life itself by striving to transfer the flame to a vessel of their own choosing. this she must not do to eric, sheila told herself. from the despotic impulse of parenthood--queer mixture that it was of too zealous love and a thoroughly selfish desire for a second chance through the medium of the child--she must protect eric. therefore she restrained herself; she simply waited--as she might have waited for a seed to spring up from the secret sprouting place of some deep garden bed. it requires a sort of earthy, benign patience thus to hold back one's hand and passively wait--especially when one has, in spite of oneself, the dominating parent instinct!--but sheila forced herself to it. and then, when eric was fourteen years old, the seed sprang up through the soil and turned its face to the light. the boy came to sheila one day, obviously bent upon a confidence. shy, hesitant, shamefaced he was, but so eager. she wanted to kiss him as he stood there before her, awkward and winsome, a little too tall for his knickerbockers, child and adolescent contending in his face and the flush of some portentous thing upon his cheek. she wanted to kiss him--but she didn't. for she divined that the moment was for sterner stuff than kisses. "mother, here's--here's a story i've written." that was all; but sheila saw her own youth, her hopes, her dreams in his eyes. what there was in her eyes she did not know, but at something there eric suddenly exclaimed and put his arms around her. and then sheila knew that she was crying. it was not a marvellous story--that first effort of her young son's--but _something was there_; something that raised the crude, immature pages above immaturity and crudity and made the little tale better than itself. and sensing it--that evanescent, impalpable, but infinitely promising thing--she saw the future shining through the present. but it was not to eric that she went first with her discovery. she longed to make the boy's path smooth for him before she sped him on it, and so she went first to ted, story in hand. ted had not desired talent in his wife. would he desire it in his son? would he cheer and encourage, would he even tolerate, a dreamer, a poet, a worker in mere beauty? would he ever regard art as more than a shadow of life? sheila sought him now to learn that--with eric's story to plead for itself. ted was in his den, a place sacred to those masculine pursuits and possessions which he did not share with her. only for momentous affairs did she invade the shabby, comfortable, littered room, and now ted glanced up at her from his pipe and papers with serious expectancy. "i'd like you to read this," she said, holding out the little manuscript. "now? is it important?" "yes, now. it is very important. i must have a talk with you when you've read it." he took it from her, and she sat down to await his verdict. the story was short. her suspense could have lasted but a little while. but eric's fate was at stake, and the minutes seemed as laggard as years. she had given up her own talent; that it was now a crippled thing within her was because she had renounced it, long before, for eric's life. but she would not easily sacrifice eric's talent--if talent he really had. she was prepared to fight for it, if need be. yet, as she watched ted, reading with inscrutable face, her heart grew heavy within her for dread of dissension, of struggle between them. that hot, rebellious heart of hers had come at last to a sort of peace. the affection between herself and ted, in the past few quiet years, had become for her, unconsciously, more and more of a haven. she had given up much to the end that she and ted might live together in harmony, and she sickened now at the prospect of conflict. for at conflict, old wounds would open, regrets long firmly suppressed would rush upon her, a devastating flood. if she had to fight for eric, she knew that she would fight with the strength of old bitterness, bitterness that she had striven to outlive. and she could not bear that this should happen. she could not bear that her affection for ted should be thus jeopardized. she remembered, as she sat there, the anger she had felt toward him when he had condemned alice north for her art--and, however innocently, through alice north, herself. she remembered how indignant she had felt, how hurt and _divided_. and she remembered, too--thinking, against her will, of peter--how divided from ted she had felt in later years, in years not so long gone that she could recall them calmly. she remembered how she had come, finally, to see ted, and his part in the destruction of her talent, all too clearly--and how her heart had turned from him then to one whom she had no right to love. she had driven her heart back to its appointed path; she had constrained it to its duty--in so far as the heart can be constrained. she had even achieved the supreme triumph of keeping alive for ted, through disillusion and passionate resentment, that very real affection with which they had begun life together--but she trembled now at thought of any further pressure being brought to bear upon it. it was as if she held out her hands to her husband, crying: "oh, let me love you! do nothing that shall make it impossible for me to love you!" and yet--though conflict between them should destroy the love she had so endeavored, in spite of everything, to feel--if ted opposed eric's gift, there must be conflict. for she considered what her own unappeased gift had cost her--the hunger, the restlessness, the pain. she considered how, throughout all the years of her marriage, she had suffered her gift's insistence and its reproach. she thought of how she had never been able to look upon the miracle of the spring, the majesty of the stars, without an aching heart. all beauty had been transmuted for her into unassuageable sorrow--because she had been born to create beauty and had failed of her destiny. and it would be transmuted into sorrow for eric, too--unless he were given the freedom she had foregone. he, too, would face the stars with an aching heart; all high and exquisite creation would be for him the material of suffering--unless he were allowed to create also. she had nerved herself to any effort, any struggle that might be necessary, when ted at last laid down eric's story and turned to his desk without a word. was there as little hope as that? "ted?" she cried. "wait," he answered, rummaging in a drawer of his desk, with his back toward her. and his voice sounded queer--almost as if it were choked with tears. "wait, sheila." he rose, directly, and walked toward her, and his face was queer, too, unsteady with some rarely deep emotion. thus he had looked when he first bent over her after eric's birth. that flashed through sheila's mind, touched her to sudden faith in his being, now, what she prayed to have him. then she saw that in his hand he had, not eric's story, but a bulky package of yellowed manuscripts, tied clumsily with a faded ribbon. in such fashion a romantic man might have tied love letters. but ted was not romantic, and, never having been separated from him at any time since their marriage, she had written him no letters. besides, these papers were large, business-like sheets. she stared at them curiously. what had they to do with eric and eric's future? but to ted they had their significance. he carefully untied the dingy ribbon and spread the loosened pages on the table before her--and she noticed that his fingers were shaking. "look," he said, in that queer, blurred voice. she picked up one of the discolored pages--and her own writing confronted her; for the page was from the unfinished story she had been working on when eric was taken ill with scarlet fever--the story that, in obedience to her vow, she had put aside, still uncompleted. "why, ted--_ted_--!" but even then she did not understand. "i found them," he explained, furtively stroking the shabby sheets, but attempting a bluff and off-hand tone, "i found them--oh, years ago!--just stuck off in a cupboard _like trash that nobody wanted any more_. and so--because i _did_ want them--i brought them down here." "_you_ wanted them?" sheila gasped. "but, ted----" and then he had her in his arms, and his eyes--full of the tears he had tried to repress--were gazing down into hers! "don't you suppose i realize what you might have done? don't you suppose i've seen what you've given up for me--for me and eric?" she could not speak. she could only gaze back at him, incredulous still of the comprehension that he had so long concealed from her. "i've been a selfish brute, sheila," he went on. "i've craved all of you for myself and my child, and i've had all of you. it's been my man's way, i reckon, for i couldn't have helped it. if i had it to do over again, it would be just the same--though i'm ashamed of myself now. of course i didn't ask you to give up your writing, but i'd quite as well have asked you. for i guessed that you'd done it--after eric had scarlet fever--and i _let_ you, without a word. i've let you sacrifice your talent ever since, too--needlessly. yes, i've _let_ you--for i've seen the whole thing." she had sometimes felt that the tragedy of her life had been in all that ted had not seen. now, finding that he had seen so much more than she had ever suspected--so much of what had been profound suffering to her--she might readily have blamed him more than she had ever done before. but generosity rushed out of her to meet his generosity--belated though his was. "no, no," she interrupted, "it isn't that you let me give up my work. the fault isn't yours. that awful night--when it seemed that eric would die--i offered my work for his life--i offered it to _god_! that was why i didn't write afterward." ted fixed pitying eyes upon her: "you poor little girl! was it as bad as that with you? i knew i was taking advantage of your conscience, but i never dreamed you'd carried your remorse so far. did you really believe you had to buy god's mercy? oh, no, dear. it's only your husband that's seized the opportunity to extract a sacrifice from your puritan conscience. but with all my selfishness, i haven't stopped you--i haven't been the end of your talent." she started to tell him of her late emancipation from that unnecessary vow of hers; to tell him that she had tried to write again--and discovered that she could not. but she did not tell him after all. for that could only hurt and shame him--in the hour of his penitence. so she was silent, and he continued with appealing eagerness. "i haven't been the end of your talent," he repeated. "don't you realize, dear, that your talent isn't ended at all?" "you mean--eric?" "yes, i mean that you've handed on your gift to eric. and he's going to have the chance i wasn't unselfish enough to let you have. don't be afraid for him--he's going to have his chance, and he'll know what to do with it! i believe you'll be the mother of a great man--and that eric will probably be the father of great men. i believe it will go on and on and on--what you are, what you might have done." "but, ted--eric is only a child. we cannot be sure yet-- "i believe!" he insisted. "i believe _this_ is to be your work--the work i haven't stopped." and as she listened, there came to her, too, a faith in ted's prophecy. her gift would have its fruition in eric--and perhaps in eric's sons and his sons' sons. she was granted a vision of a torch passed on from one trustworthy hand to another throughout the years; and beholding that vision, she was aware that nothing she had suffered mattered at all. she could face the stars now with a heart at peace. she could watch the earth's miracles, feeling herself a part of them. from the earth sprang flowers; from her flesh had sprung her son--her son who had been born to carry on the torch. she had created beauty indeed--beauty that would outlive her life in her son's art. even peter's image was blurred for her as she beheld her supreme vision. and then she recalled charlotte's words: "i sometimes question if those of us who catch a glimpse of a happiness perfect and transcendent ever experience the reality. i doubt, in fact, if any reality could stand unimpaired by that vision." charlotte was mistaken. there were visions which became realities; this final vision of hers would become a reality--and it would be none the less perfect and transcendent for that. sheila laid her hands on her husband's shoulders. "i'm glad that i've lived!" she said. and again, with a little sob, "oh, my dear, i'm glad that i've lived!" the end woman's work in english fiction from the restoration to the mid-victorian period by clara h. whitmore, a.m. g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, by clara h. whitmore the knickerbocker press, new york preface the writings of many of the women considered in this volume have sunk into an oblivion from which their intrinsic merit should have preserved them. this is partly due to the fact that nearly all the books on literature have been written from a man's stand-point. while in other arts the tastes of men and women vary little, the choice of novels is to a large degree determined by sex. many men who acknowledge unhesitatingly that jane austen is superior as an artist to smollett, will find more pleasure in the breezy adventures of _roderick random_ than in the drawing-room atmosphere of _emma_; while no woman can read a novel of smollett's without loathing, although she must acknowledge that the scottish writer is a man of genius. this book is written from a woman's viewpoint. wherever my own judgment has been different from the generally accepted one, as in the estimate of some famous heroines, the point in question has been submitted to other women, and not recorded unless it met with the approval of a large number of women of cultivated taste. this work was first undertaken at the suggestion of dr. e. charlton black of boston university for a master's thesis, and it was due to his appreciative words that it was enlarged into book form. i also wish to thank professor ker of london university, and dr. henry a. beers and dr. wilbur l. cross of yale university for the help which i obtained from them while a student in their classes. it is with the deepest sense of gratitude that i acknowledge the assistance given to me in this work by mr. charles welsh, at whose suggestion the scope of the book was enlarged, and many parts strengthened. i wish especially to thank him for calling my attention to _the cheap repository_ of hannah more, and to the literary value of maria edgeworth's stories for children. it is my only hope that this book may in a small measure fill a want which a school-girl recently expressed to me: "our club wanted to study about women, but we have searched the libraries and found nothing." c. h. w. contents page chapter i. margaret cavendish, duchess of newcastle ( - )-- aphra behn ( - )--mary manley ( - ) chapter ii. sarah fielding ( - )--eliza haywood ( - )-- charlotte lennox ( - )--frances sheridan ( - ) chapter iii. frances burney ( - ) chapter iv. hannah more ( - ) chapter v. charlotte smith ( - )--elizabeth inchbald ( - ) chapter vi. clara reeve ( - )--ann radcliffe ( - )--sophia lee ( - )--harriet lee ( - ) chapter vii. maria edgeworth ( - )--lady morgan ( - ) chapter viii. elizabeth hamilton ( - )--anna porter ( - )--jane porter ( - ) chapter ix. amelia opie ( - )--mary brunton ( - ) chapter x. jane austen ( - ) chapter xi. susan edmonstone ferrier ( - )--mary russell mitford ( - )--anna maria hall ( - ) chapter xii. lady caroline lamb ( - )--mary shelley ( - ) chapter xiii. catherine grace frances gore ( - )--anna eliza bray ( - ) chapter xiv. julia pardoe ( - )--frances trollope ( - )-- harriet martineau ( - ) chapter xv. emily brontË ( - )--anne brontË ( - )-- charlotte brontË ( - ) chapter xvi. elizabeth cleghorn gaskell ( - ) conclusion index woman's work in english fiction chapter i the duchess of newcastle. mrs. behn. mrs. manley in the many volumes containing the records of the past, the names of few women appear, and the number is still smaller of those who have won fame in art or literature. sappho, however, has shown that poetic feeling and expression are not denied the sex; jeanne d'arc was chosen to free france; mrs. somerville excelled in mathematics; maria mitchell ranked among the great astronomers; rosa bonheur had the stroke of a master. these women possessed genius, and one is tempted to ask why more women have not left enduring work, especially in the realm of art. the madonna and child, what a subject for a woman's brush! yet the joy of maternity which shines in a mother's eyes has seldom been expressed by her in words or on canvas. it was left for a man, william blake, to write some of our sweetest songs of childhood. but as soon as the novel appeared, a host of women writers sprang up. women have always been story-tellers. long before homer sang of the fall of troy, the grecian matrons at their spinning related to their maids the story of helen's infidelity; and, as they thought of their husbands and sons who had fallen for her sake, the story did not lack in fervour. but the minstrels have always had this advantage over the story-tellers: their words, sung to the lyre, were crystallised in rhythmic form, so that they resisted the action of time, while only the substance of the stories, not the words which gave them beauty and power, could be retained, and consequently they crumbled away. when the novel took on literary form, women began to write. they were not imitators of men, but opened up new paths of fiction, in many of which they excelled. the first woman to essay prose fiction as an art was margaret, queen of navarre. in the seventy-two tales of _the heptameron_, a book written before the dawn of realism, she related many anecdotes of her brother, francis the first, and his courtiers. woman's permanent influence over the novel began about , and was due directly to the hotel rambouillet, in whose grand _salon_ there mingled freely for half a century the noblest minds of france. this _salon_ was presided over by the marquise de rambouillet, who had left the licentious court of henry the fourth, and had formed here in her home between the louvre and the tuileries a little academy, where corneille read his tragedies before they were published, and bousset preached his first sermon, while among the listeners were the beautiful duchess de longueville, madame de lafayette, madame de sévigné and mademoiselle de scudéri, besides other persons of royal birth or of genius. the ladies of this _salon_ became the censors of the manners, the literature, and even the language of france. here was the first group of women writers whose fame extended beyond their own country, and has lasted, though somewhat dimmed, to the present. since the seventeenth century the influence of women novelists has been ever widening. in england, women entered the domain of literature later than in france, spain, or italy. not until the restoration did they take any active part in the world of letters; and not until the reign of george the third did they make any marked contribution to fiction. the first woman writer of prose fiction in england was the thrice noble and illustrious princess margaret, duchess of newcastle. during the commonwealth, the duke and duchess of newcastle had lived in exile, but with the restoration of charles the second, in , they returned to london, where the duchess soon became a notable personage. crowds gathered in the park merely to see her pass, attracted partly by her fame as a writer, partly by the singularities she affected. her black coach furnished with white curtains and adorned with silver trimmings instead of gilt, with the footmen dressed in long black coats, was readily distinguished from other carriages in the park. her peculiarities of dress were no less marked. her long black _juste-au-corps_, her hair hanging in curls about her bared neck, her much beplumed velvet cap of her own designing, were objects of ridicule to the court wits, who even asserted that she wore more than the usual number of black patches upon her comely face. more singular than her habiliments were her pretentions as a woman of letters, which caused the courtiers to laugh at her conceit. she was evidently aware of this failing as she writes in her _autobiography_: "i fear my ambition inclines to vain-glory, for i am very ambitious; yet 't is neither for beauty, wit, titles, wealth, or power, but as they are steps to raise me to fame's tower, which is to live by remembrance in after-ages." but, notwithstanding her detractors, she received sufficient praise to foster her belief in her own genius. her plays were well received. her poems were declared by her admirers equal to shakespeare's. her philosophical works, which she dedicated to the great universities of oxford and cambridge, were accepted with fulsome flattery of their author. when she visited the royal society at arundel house, the lord president met her at the door, and, with mace carried before him, escorted her into the room, where many experiments were performed for her pleasure. in , a folio volume was published, entitled _letters and poems in honour of the incomparable princess margaret, duchess of newcastle_, written by men of high rank and of learning, with the following dedication by the university of cambridge: to margaret the first: princess of philosophers: who hath dispelled errors: appeased the difference of opinions: and restored peace to learning's commonwealth. yet this praise was not all flattery, for the scholarly evelyn always speaks of her with respect, and after visiting her writes, "i was much pleased with the extraordinary fanciful habit, garb, and discourse of the duchess." amid the arid wastes of her philosophical works are green spots enlivened by good sense and humour that have a peculiar charm. at the time when the trained minds of the royal society were broadening scientific knowledge by careful experiments, this lady, with practically no education, sat herself down to write her thoughts upon the great subjects of matter and motion, mind and body. she was emboldened to publish her opinions, for, as she says: "although it is probable, that some of the opinions of ancient philosophers in ancient times are erroneous, yet not all, neither are all modern opinions truths, but truly i believe, there are more errors in the one than truth in the other." some of her explanations are very artless, as when she decides that passions are created in the heart and not in the head, because "passion and judgment seldom agree." her philosophical works are often compounded of fiction and fact. her book called _the description of a new world called the blazing world_ reminds one of some of the marvellous stories of jules verne. according to the story a merchant fell in love with a lady while she was gathering shells on the sea-coast, and carried her away in a light vessel. they were driven to the north pole, thence to the pole of another world which joined it. the conjunction of these two poles doubled the cold, so that it was insupportable, and all died but the lady. bear-men conducted her to a warmer clime, and presented her to the emperor of the blazing world, whose palace was of gold, with floors of diamonds. the emperor married the lady, and, at her desire to study philosophy, sent for the duchess of newcastle, "a plain and rational writer," to be her teacher. the story at this point rambles into philosophy. _nature's pictures drawn by fancy's pencil_ contains many suggestions for poems and novels. particularly beautiful is the fragment of a story of a lord and lady who were forbidden to love in this world, but who died the same night, and met on the shores of the styx. "their souls did mingle and intermix as liquid essences, whereby their souls became as one." they preferred to enjoy themselves thus rather than go to elysium, where they might be separated, and where the talk of the shades was always of the past, which to them was full of sorrow. the duchess of newcastle wrote a series of letters on beauty, eloquence, time, theology, servants, wit, and kindred subjects, often illustrated by a little story, reminding the reader of some of the _spectator_ papers, which delighted the next generation. as in those papers, characters were introduced. mrs. p.i., the puritan dame, appears in several letters. she had received sanctification, and consequently considered all vanities of dress, such as curls, bare necks, black patches, fans, ribbons, necklaces, and pendants, temptations of satan and the signs of damnation. in a subsequent letter she becomes a preaching sister, and the duchess has been to hear her, and thus comments upon the meeting: "there were a great many holy sisters and holy brethren met together, where many took their turns to preach; for as they are for liberty of conscience, so they are for liberty of preaching. but there were more sermons than learning, and more words than reason." this is the first example of the use of letters in english fiction. in the next century it was adopted by richardson for his three great novels, _pamela_, _clarissa harlowe_, and _sir charles grandison_; it was used by smollett in the novel of _humphry clinker_, and became a popular mode of composition with many lesser writers. but posterity is chiefly indebted to the duchess of newcastle for her life of her husband and the autobiography that accompanies it. of the former charles lamb wrote that it was a jewel for which "no casket is rich enough." of the beaux and belles who were drawn by the ready pens of the playwrights of the court of charles the second none are worthy of a place beside the duke of newcastle and his incomparable wife. with rare felicity she has described her home life in london with her brothers and sisters before her marriage. their chief amusements were a ride in their coaches about the streets of the city, a visit to spring gardens and hyde park; and sometimes a sail in the barges on the river, where they had music and supper. she announces with dignity her first meeting with the duke of newcastle in paris, where she was maid of honour to the queen mother of england: "he was pleased to take some particular notice of me, and express more than an ordinary affection for me; insomuch that he resolved to choose me for his second wife." and in another place she writes: "i could not, nor had not the power to refuse him, by reason my affections were fixed on him, and he was the only person i ever was in love with. neither was i ashamed to own it, but gloried therein." here is the charm of brevity. richardson would have blurred these clearly cut sentences by eight volumes. in the biography of her husband she relates faithfully his services to charles the first at the head of an army which he himself had raised; his final defeat near york by the parliamentary forces; and his escape to the continent in . then followed his sixteen years of exile in paris, rotterdam, and antwerp, where "he lived freely and nobly," entertaining many persons of quality, although he was often in extreme poverty, and could obtain credit merely by the love and respect which his presence inspired. what a sad picture is given of the return of the exiles to their estates, which had been laid waste in the civil war and later confiscated by cromwell! but how the greatness of the true gentleman shines through it all, who, as he viewed one of his parks, seven of which had been completely destroyed, simply said, "he had been in hopes it would not have been so much defaced as he found it." in the closing chapter the duchess gives _discourses gathered from the mouth of my noble lord and husband_. these show both sound sense and a broad view of affairs. she writes: "i have heard my lord say, i "that those which command the wealth of a kingdom, command the hearts and hands of the people. * * * * * xxxiii "that many laws do rather entrap than help the subject." clarendon, who thought but poorly of the duke's abilities as a general, gives the same characterisation of him: a man of exact proportion, pleasant, witty, free but courtly in his manner, who loved all that were his friends, and hated none that were his enemies, and who had proved his loyalty to his king by the sacrifice of his property and at the risk of his life. perhaps the duchess of newcastle has unwittingly drawn a true representation of the great body of english cavaliers, and has partly removed the stain which the immoralities of the court afterward put upon the name. these biographies give a story of marital felicity with all the characteristics of the domestic novel. at this time the english novel was a crude, formless thing, without dignity in literature. the duchess of newcastle, who aspired to be ranked with homer and plato, would have spurned a place among writers of romance, although her genius was primarily that of the novelist. she constantly thought of plots, which she jotted down at random, her common method of composition. she has described characters, and has left many bright pictures of the manners and customs of her age. her style of writing is better than that of many of her more scholarly contemporaries, who studied latin models and strove to imitate them. she wrote as she thought and felt, so that her style is simple when not lost in the mazes of philosophical speculation. she had all the requisites necessary to write the great novel of the restoration. but in the next century her voluminous writings were forgotten, and the casual visitor to westminster abbey who paused before the imposing monument in the north transept read with amused indifference the quaint inscription which marks the tomb of the noble pair; that she was the second wife of the duke of newcastle, that her name was margaret lucas; "a noble family, for all the brothers were valiant and all the sisters were virtuous." to charles lamb belongs the credit of discovering the worth of her writings. delighting in oddities, but quick to discern truth from falsehood, he loved to pore over the old folios containing her works, and could not quite forgive his sister mary for speaking disrespectfully of "the intellectuals of a dear favourite of mine of the last century but one--the thrice noble, chaste and virtuous, but again somewhat fantastical and original-brained, generous margaret newcastle." her desire for immortality is nearer its fulfilment to-day than at any previous time. a third edition of the _life of the duke of newcastle_ was published in , the year after her death. nearly two hundred years later, in , it was included in russell smith's "library of old authors," and since then a modernised english edition and a french edition of this book have been published. no one can read this biography without feeling the charm of the quaint, childlike personality of the duchess of newcastle. while all london was talking of the "mad duchess of newcastle," another lady was living there no less eminent as a writer, but so distinguished for her wit, freedom of temper, and brilliant conversation, that even the great dryden sought her friendship, and sothern, rochester, and wycherley were among her admirers. she was named "astrea," and hailed as the wonder and glory of her sex. but aphra behn's talents brought her a more substantial reward than fame. her plays were presented to crowded houses; her novels were in every library, and she obtained a large income from her writings; she was the first english woman to earn a living by her pen. in her early youth, mrs. behn lived for a time at surinam in dutch guiana, where her father was governor. on one of the plantations was a negro in whose fate she became deeply interested. she learned from his own lips about his life in africa, and was herself an eye witness of the indignities and tortures he suffered in slavery. she was so deeply impressed by his horrible fate, that on her return to london she related his story to king charles the second and at his request elaborated it into the novel _oroonoko_. according to the story, oroonoko, an african warrior, was married to imoinda, a beautiful maiden of his own people. his grandfather, a powerful chieftain, also fell in love with the beautiful imoinda and placed her in his harem. when he found that her love for oroonoko still continued, he sold her secretly into slavery and her rightful husband could learn nothing of her whereabouts. later oroonoko and his men were invited by the captain of a dutch trading ship to dine on board his vessel. they accepted the invitation, but, after dinner, the captain seized his guests, threw them into chains, and carried them to the west indies, where he sold them as slaves. here oroonoko found his wife, whose loss he had deeply mourned, and they were reunited. oroonoko, however, indignant at the treachery practised against himself and his men, incited the slaves to a revolt. they were overcome, and oroonoko was tied to a whipping-post and severely punished. as he found that he could not escape, he resolved to die. but rather than leave imoinda to the cruelty of her owners, he determined to slay first his wife, then his enemies, lastly himself. he told his plans to imoinda, who willingly accompanied him into the forest, where he put her to death. when he saw his wife dead at his feet, his grief was so great that it deprived him of the strength to take vengeance on his enemies. he was again captured and led to a stake, where faggots were placed about him. the author has described his death with a faithfulness to detail that carries with it the impress of truth: "'my friends, am i to die, or to be whipt?' and they cry'd, 'whipt! no, you shall not escape so well.' and then he reply'd, smiling, 'a blessing on thee'; and assured them they need not tie him, for he would stand fix'd like a rock, and endure death so as should encourage them to die: 'but if you whip me' [said he], 'be sure you tie me fast.'" the popularity of the book was instantaneous. it passed through several editions. it was translated into french and german, and adapted for the german stage, while sothern put it on the stage in england. it created almost as great a sensation as did _uncle tom's cabin_ two hundred years later. like mrs. stowe's novel it had a strong moral influence, as it was among the earliest efforts to call the attention of europe to the evils of the african slave trade. moreover, this her first novel gave mrs. behn an acknowledged place as a writer. _oroonoko_ marks a distinct advance in english fiction. nearly all novels before this had consisted of a series of stories held together by a loosely formed plot running through a number of volumes, sometimes only five, but occasionally, as in _the grand cyrus_, filling ten quartos. their form was such that like the _thousand and one nights_ they could be continued indefinitely. most of these novels belonged either to the pastoral romance or the historical allegory. in the former the ladies and gentlemen who in a desultory sort of way carried on the plot were disguised as shepherds and shepherdesses and lived in idyllic state in arcadia. in the latter they masqueraded under the names of kings and queens of antiquity and entered with the flourish of trumpets and the sound of drums. _oroonoko_ was the first english novel with a well developed plot. it moves along rapidly, without digression, to its tragic conclusion. not until fielding wrote _joseph andrews_ was the plot of any english novel so definitely wrought. the lesser writer had a slight advantage over the greater. mrs. behn's novel is constructed upon dramatic lines, so that it holds the interest more closely to the main characters, and the end is awaited with intense expectation; while fielding chose the epic form, which is more discursive, and _joseph andrews_ like all his novels is excessively tame, almost hackneyed in its conclusion. mrs. behn's black hero is the first distinctly drawn character in english fiction, the first one that has any marked personality. sometimes the enthusiasm with which he is described brings a smile to the lips of the modern reader and reminds one of the heroic savages of james fenimore cooper and helen hunt jackson. she writes of him: "he was pretty tall, but of a shape the most exact that can be fancy'd: the most famous statuary could not form the figure of a man more admirably turned from head to foot.... there was no one grace wanting, that bears the standard of true beauty." and thus she continues the description in the superlative degree. but the story is for the most part realistic. although the scenes in africa show the influence of the french heroic novels, as if the author were afraid to leave her story in its simple truth but must adorn it with purple and ermine, as soon as it is transferred to surinam, where mrs. behn had lived, it becomes real. it has local colouring, at that time an almost unknown attribute. it has the atmosphere of the tropics. the descriptions are vivid, and often photographic. occasionally they are exaggerated, but few travellers to a region of which their hearers know nothing have been able to resist the temptation to deviate from the exact truth. but the whole novel, even at this late day, leaves one with the impression that it is a true biography. in the history of the english novel, in which _pamela_ is given an important place as the morning star which heralded the great light of english realism about to burst upon the world, this well arranged, definite, picturesque story of _oroonoko_, whose author was reposing quietly within the hallowed precincts of westminster abbey fifty years before richardson introduced _pamela_ to an admiring public, should not be forgotten. before _pamela_ was published, the complete works of mrs. behn passed through eight editions. the plots of all her novels are well constructed, with little extraneous matter, but with the exception of oroonoko the characters are shadowy beings, many of whom meet with a violent death. _the nun or the perjured duty_ has only five characters, all of whom perish in the meshes of love. _the fair jilt or the amours of prince tarquin and miranda_, founded on incidents that came to the author's knowledge during her residence in antwerp, is well fitted for the columns of a modern yellow journal; the beautiful heroine causes the death of everyone who stands in the way of her love or her ambition, but she finally repents and lives happy ever after. mrs. behn's style is always careless, owing to her custom of writing while entertaining friends. a great change took place in the public taste during the next hundred years, so that mrs. behn's novels, plays, and poems fell into disrepute. sir walter scott tells the story of his grand-aunt who expressed a desire to see again mrs. behn's novels, which she had read with delight in her youth. he sent them to her sealed and marked "private and confidential." the next time he saw her, she gave them back with the words: "take back your bonny mrs. behn, and, if you will take my advice, put her in the fire, for i find it impossible to get through the very first novel. but is it not a very odd thing that i, an old woman of eighty and upward, sitting alone, feel myself ashamed to read a book which sixty years ago i have heard read aloud for the amusement of large circles, consisting of the first and most creditable society in london?" mrs. behn has been accused of great license in her conduct and of gross immorality in her writings. her friend and biographer says of the former: "for my part i knew her intimately, and never saw ought unbecoming the just modesty of our sex, though more free and gay than the folly of the precise will allow." for the latter the fashion must be blamed more than she. mrs. behn was not actuated by the high moral principles of mademoiselle de scudéri and madame de lafayette, with whom love was an ennobling passion, nor was she writing for the refined men and women of the hotel rambouillet; she was striving to earn a living by pleasing the court of charles the second, and in that she was eminently successful. * * * * * nearly a quarter of a century after the death of mrs. behn, mrs. manley published anonymously the first two volumes of the _new atlantis_, the book by which she is chiefly known, under the title of _secret memoirs and manners of several persons of quality of both sexes from the new atalantis, an island in the mediterranean_. mrs. manley was a tory, and she peopled the new atalantis with members of the whig party under marlborough as prince fortunatus. the book is written in the form of a conversation carried on by astrea, virtue, and intelligence, a personification of the _court gazette_. they described the whig leaders so accurately, and related the scandal of the court so faithfully, that, although fictitious names were used, no key was needed to recognise the personages in the story. the publisher and printer were arrested for libel, but mrs. manley came forward and owned the authorship. in her trial she was placed under a severe cross-examination by lord sunderland, who attempted to learn where she had obtained her information. she persisted in her statement that no real characters were meant, that it was all a work of imagination, but if it bore any resemblance to truth it must have come to her by inspiration. upon lord sunderland's objecting to this statement, on the grounds that so immoral a book bore no trace of divine impulse, she replied that there were evil angels as well as good, who might possess equal powers of inspiration. the book was published in may, ; in the following february, she was discharged by order of the queen's bench. soon after her discharge from court, she wrote a third and fourth volume of the _new atalantis_ under the title, _memoirs of europe toward the close of the eighth century written by eginardus, secretary and favorite to charlemagne, and done into english, by the translator of the new atalantis_. here she has followed the french models. there is a loosely constructed plot, and the characters tell a series of stories. many of the writers of queen anne's reign are described with none of that lustre that surrounds them now, but as they appeared to a cynical woman who knew them well. she refers to steele as don phaebo, and ridicules his search for the philosopher's stone; and laments that addison, whom she calls maro, should prostitute his talents for gold, when he might become a second vergil. mrs. manley had been well trained to write a book like the _new atalantis_. at sixteen, an age when addison and steele were at the charterhouse preparing for oxford, her father, sir roger manley, died. a cousin, taking advantage of her helplessness, deceived her by a false marriage, and after three years abandoned her. upon this she entered the household of the duchess of cleveland, the mistress of charles the second, who soon tired of her and dismissed her from her service. she then began to write, and by her plays and political articles soon won an acknowledged place among the writers of grub street. from the many references to her in the letters and journals of the period, she seems to have been popular with the writers of both political parties. swift writes to stella that she is a very generous person "for one of that sort," which many little incidents prove. she dedicated her play _lucius_ to steele, with whom she was on alternate terms of enmity and friendship, as a public retribution for her ridicule of him in the _new atalantis_, saying that "scandal between whig and tory goes for not." steele, equally generous, wrote a prologue for the play, perhaps in retribution for some of the harsh criticisms of her in the _tatler_. all readers of pope remember the reference to her in the _rape of the lock_, where lord petre exclaims that his honour, name and praise shall live as long as atalantis shall be read. although mrs. manley's pen was constantly and effectively employed in the interest of the tory party, she being at one time the editor of the _examiner_, the tory organ, none of her writings had the popularity of the _new atalantis_. it went through seven editions and was translated into the french. the book has no intrinsic merit; its language is scurrilous and obscene; but it appealed to the eager curiosity of the public concerning the private immoralities of men and women who were prominent at court. human nature in its pages furnishes a contemptible spectacle. the _new atalantis_ has now, however, assumed a permanent place in the history of fiction. this species of writing had been common, in france, but it was the first english novel in which political and personal scandal formed the groundwork of a romance. swift followed its general plan in _gulliver's travels_, placing his political enemies in public office in lilliput and brobdingnag, only he so wrought upon them with his imagination that he gave to the world a finished work of art, while mrs. manley has left only the raw material with which the artist works. smollett's political satire, _adventures of an atom_, was also suggested by the _new atalantis_, but here the earlier writer has surpassed the later. all three of these writers took a low and cynical view of humanity. the women novelists who directly followed mrs. manley did not have her strength, but they had a delicacy that has given to their writings a subtle charm. from the time of sarah fielding to the present threatened reaction the writings of women have been marked by chastity of thought and purity of expression. chapter ii sarah fielding. mrs. lennox. mrs. haywood. mrs. sheridan about the middle of the eighteenth century, some interesting novels were written by women, but their fame was so overshadowed by the early masters of english fiction, who were then writing, that they have been almost forgotten. for in _pamela_ was published, the first novel of samuel richardson; in , _humphry clinker_ appeared, the last novel of tobias smollett; and during the thirty-one years between these two dates all the books of richardson, fielding, sterne, and smollett were given to the world, and determined the nature of the english novel. the plot of most of their fifteen realistic novels is practically the same. the hero falls in love with a beautiful young lady, not over seventeen, and there is a conflict between lust and chastity. the hero, balked of his prey, travels up and down the world, where he meets with a series of adventures, all very much alike, and all bearing very little on the main plot. at last fate leads the dashing hero to the church door, where he confers a ring on the fair heroine, a paltry piece of gold, the only reward for her fidelity, with the hero thrown in, much the worse for wear, and the curtain falls with the sound of the wedding bells in the distance. the range of these novels is narrow. they describe a world in which the chief occupation is eating, drinking, swearing, gambling, and fighting. their chief artistic excellence is the strength and vigour with which these low scenes are described. sidney lanier says of them: "they play upon life as upon a violin without a bridge, in the deliberate endeavour to get the most depressing tones possible from the instrument." and taine, who could hardly endure any of them, writes of fielding what he implies of the others: "one thing is wanted in your strongly-built folks--refinement; the delicate dreams, enthusiastic elevation, and trembling delicacy exist in nature equally with coarse vigour, noisy hilarity, and frank kindness." the women who essayed the art of fiction during these years did not have so firm a grasp of the pen as their male contemporaries, and they have added no portraits to the gallery of fiction; but they saw and recorded many interesting scenes of british life which quite escaped the quick-sighted fielding, or sterne with the microscopic eyes. in , when richardson had written only one book, and fielding had published only two, before _tom jones_ or _clarissa harlowe_ had seen the light of day, sarah fielding published _david simple_, under the title of _the adventures of david simple, containing an account of his travels through the cities of london and westminster in the search of a real friend, by a lady_. the author commenced the story as a satire on society. for a long time david's search is unsuccessful. although he changed his lodgings every week, he could hear of no one who could be trusted. many, to be sure, dropped hints of their own excellence, and the pity that they had to live with inferior neighbours. among these was mr. spatter, who introduced him to mr. varnish. the former saw the faults of people through a magnifying glass; while the latter, when he mentioned a person's failings, added, "he was sure they had some good in them." but david soon learned that mr. varnish was no readier to assist a friend in need than the fault-finding mr. spatter. like her brother henry, sarah fielding is often sarcastic. in one of the chapters she leaves david to his sufferings, "lest it should be thought," she added, "i am so ignorant of the world as not to know the proper time of forsaking people." but the pessimistic vein of the first volume changes to a more optimistic tone in the second. david, in his search for one friend, finds three. fortunately these consist of a brother and sister and a lady in love with the brother. even at this early time, an author had no doubts as to how a novel should end. the heading of the last chapter in the book informs us that it contains two weddings, "and consequently the conclusion of the book." in its construction, the plot is similar to that of the other novels of the period. david has plenty of time at his disposal, and listens with more patience than the reader to the detailed history of all the people he meets, and often begs a casual acquaintance to favour him with the story of his life. but sarah fielding's chief charm to her women readers is the feminine view of her times. in _david simple_ we have the pleasure of travelling through england, but with a woman as our guide. as harry fielding travelled between bath and london, the fair reader wonders what he reported to mrs. fielding of what he had seen and heard. surely at these various inns there must have been some by-play of real affection, some act of modest kindness, some incident of delicate humour. did he regale mrs. fielding with the scenes he has described for his readers? probably when she asked him if anything had happened _en route_, he merely yawned and replied, "oh, nothing worth while." he had too much reverence for his wife to repeat these low scenes to her, and we suspect he had eyes for no others. what would addison or steele have seen in the same place? sarah fielding also takes her characters on a stage-coach journey, but here we sit beside the fair heroine, an intelligent lady, and gaze at the men who sit opposite her. there is the butterfly with his hair pinned up in blue papers, wearing a laced waistcoat, and humming an italian air. he admires nothing but the ladies, and offered some little familiarity to our heroine, which she repulsed; upon this he paid her the greatest respect imaginable, being convinced, as she would not suffer any intimacy from _him_, she must be one of the most virtuous women that had ever been born. there is the atheist, who being alone with her for a few moments makes love to her in an insinuating manner, and tries to prove to her that pleasure is the only thing to be sought in life, and assures her that she may follow her inclinations without a crime, "while she knew that nothing could so much oppose her _gratifying him_, as her _pleasing herself_." then there is the clergyman who makes honourable love to her, but by doing so puts an end to the friendship which she had hoped might be between them; until at the end of the journey, "she almost made a resolution never to speak to a man again, beginning to think it impossible for a man to be civil to a woman, unless he had some designs upon her." whether or not women have ever portrayed the masculine sex truthfully is an open question. but a gentleman mellowed and softened in the light of ladies' smiles is quite a different creature from the same gentleman when seen among the sterner members of his own sex, and there are certain phases of men's characters portrayed in the novels of women which fielding, scott, and thackeray seem never to have seen. miss fielding descants upon many familiar scenes in a manner that would have made her a valuable contributor to the _tatler_ or _spectator_. all kinds of human nature interested her. there is the man who advises david as a friend to buy a certain stock which he himself is secretly trying to sell because he knows it has decreased in value, thus showing that money transactions in london in the reigns of the georges differed little from money transactions on the stock exchange to-day. in some respects, however, society has improved since the days of sarah fielding. she describes the gentlemen of social prominence who tumble up to the carriages of ladies who are driving through covent garden in the morning, and present them with cabbages or other vegetables which they have picked up from the stalls, too intoxicated to know that their conduct is ridiculous. there are the crowds at the theatres who show their displeasure with a playwright by making so much noise that his play cannot be heard on its first night and so is condemned. other writers of the period complain of having received this kind of treatment at the hands of the gentlemen mob. and then we are introduced to a scene in the fashionable west end which is a familiar one to-day, where the ladies of quality have their whist assemblies and spend all the morning visiting each other and discussing how the cards were played the previous evening and why certain tricks were lost. we recognise the fact, however, that miss fielding's knowledge of life was but slight. she writes from the standpoint of a spectator, not like her brother as one who had been a part of it. she was one of that group of gentlewomen who gathered around richardson and heard him read _clarissa_, or discussed life and books with him at the breakfast table in the summer-house at north end, hammersmith. life was not lived there, but philosophy often sat at the board, and there was fine penetration into the characters and manners of men. richardson transferred to miss fielding the compliment which dr. johnson had bestowed upon him, and it was not undeserved by the author of _david simple_: "what a knowledge of the human heart! well might a critical judge of writing say, as he did to me, that your late brother's knowledge of it was not (fine writer as he was) comparable to yours. his was but as the knowledge of the outside of a clock-work machine, while yours was that of all the finer springs and movements of the inside." * * * * * it is not difficult to conjure up a picture of the literary gentlemen and gentlewomen who used to breakfast with richardson in the summer-house at north end; the gentlemen in their many-coloured velvet suits, the ladies wearing broad hoops, loose sacques, and pamela hats. one of these ladies was charlotte ramsay, better known by her married name of mrs. lennox. her father, colonel james ramsay, was lieutenant-governor of new york, where his daughter charlotte was born in . she was sent to england at the age of fifteen, and soon after her father died, leaving her unprovided for. she turned her attention to literature as a means of livelihood, and at once became a favourite in the literary circles of london, where she met and won the esteem of the great dr. johnson. when her first novel, _the life of harriet stuart_, was published, he showed his appreciation of its author in a unique manner. at his suggestion, the ivy lane club and its friends entertained mrs. lennox and her husband at the devil's tavern with a night of festivity. after an elaborate supper had been served, a hot apple-pie was brought in, stuffed full of bay-leaves, and johnson with appropriate ceremonies crowned the author with a wreath of laurel. the night was passed in mirth and conversation; tea and coffee were often served; and not until the creaking of the street doors reminded them that it was eight o'clock in the morning did the guests, twenty in number, leave the tavern. mrs. lennox's claim to a place in english literature rests solely upon her novel, _the female quixote_, published in . arabella, the heroine, is the daughter of a marquis who has retired into the country, where he lives remote from society. her mother is dead; her father is immersed in his books, so that arabella is left alone, and whiles away the hours by reading the novels of mademoiselle de scudéri. her three great novels, _clelia_, _the grand cyrus_ and _ibrahim_, are historical allegories, in which the france of louis xiv is given an historical setting, and his courtiers masquerade under the names of famous men of antiquity. there is no attempt at historical accuracy. but to arabella these books represented true history and depicted the real life of the world. in a fine satirical passage arabella informs mr. selvin, a man so deeply read in ancient history that he fixed the date of any occurrence by olympiads, not years, that pisistratus had been inspired to enslave his country because of his love for cleorante. mr. selvin wonders how this important fact could have escaped his own research, and conceives a great admiration for arabella's learning. in the novels of mademoiselle de scudéri the characters, even in moments of extreme danger, entertain each other with stories of their past experiences. when arabella has unexpected guests she bids her maid relate to them the history of her mistress. she instructs her to "relate exactly every change of my countenance, number all my smiles, half-smiles, blushes, turnings pale, glances, pauses, full-stops, interruptions; the rise and falling of my voice, every motion of my eyes, and every gesture which i have used for these ten years past: nor omit the smallest circumstance that relates to me." all the people arabella meets are changed by her fancy into the characters of her favourite books. in common people she sees princes in disguise. if a man approaches her, she fancies that he is about to bear her away to some remote castle, or to mention the subject of love, which would be unpardonable, unless he had first captured cities in her behalf. yet amid the wildest extravagances arabella never loses her charm. her generosity and purity of thought make her a very lovable heroine, much more womanly than clarissa or sophia western, and we do not wonder that mr. glanville continues to love her, although he is so often annoyed by her ridiculous fancies. but her belief in her hallucinations is as firm as that of the spanish quixote for whom the book was named. everyone will remember his attack on the windmills, which he mistook for giants. arabella was equally brave. thinking herself and some other ladies pursued, when the thames cuts off their escape, she addresses her companions in language becoming one of her favourite heroines: "once more, my fair companions, if your honour be dear to you, if an immortal glory be worth your seeking, follow the example i shall set you, and equal, with me, the roman clelia." she plunged into the river, but was promptly rescued. the doctor who attended her in the illness that followed this heroic deed convinced her of the folly of trying to live according to these old books, and she consented to marry her faithful and deserving lover. the character of arabella is not drawn with the broad strong lines of fielding, nor with the attention to minute detail which gives life to the characters of richardson. but the girlish sweetness of arabella, her refusal to believe wrong of others, her ignorance of life, her contempt for a lover who has not shed blood nor captured cities in her behalf, is a reality, and shows that the author knew the nature of the romantic girl. in the noble simplicity of arabella, mrs. lennox has, perhaps unconsciously, paid a high tribute to the moral effects of the novels of scudéri. arabella is the only clearly drawn character in the book. but one humorous situation follows another, so that the interest never flags. the other novels of mrs. lennox have no value save as they show the trend of thought of the period. in _henrietta_, afterward dramatised as _the sister_, the heroine, granddaughter of an earl, rather than change her religion, leaves her family and becomes the maid of a rich but vulgar tradesman's daughter. of course her mistress, who has treated her scurrilously, in time learns her true rank and is properly humbled. the name given to one of the chapters might suffice for the most of them: "in which our heroine is in great distress." this would seem to be the proper heading for many chapters of many books of the period. in the days of good queen bess, heroines were good and happy. in the merry reign of charles, they were bad but happy. pamela set a fashion from which heroines seldom dared to deviate for over a hundred years. they were good--but, oh, so wretched! this type of women became such a favourite with both sexes, that even the sane-minded scott says: and love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. during her period of distress henrietta lodged with a milliner. her landlady showed her a small collection of books and pointed with especial pleasure to her favourite novels: "there is mrs. haywood's novels, did you ever read them? oh! they are the finest love-sick passionate stories: i assure you, you'll like them vastly." henrietta, however, chose _joseph andrews_ for her diversion. mrs. eliza haywood was never admitted into that inner circle of highly respectable english ladies who clustered around richardson. she was more of an adventuress in the domain of letters. in her first novels she followed the fashion set by mrs. manley and supplied the public with scandals in high life. _memoirs of a certain island adjacent to utopia_, published in , _the secret intrigues of the count of caramania_, published in , are the highly suggestive titles of two of the most popular of her early works. after richardson had made virtue more popular than vice, mrs. haywood followed the literary fashion which he had set, and in wrote _the history of miss betsey thoughtless_. this has sometimes been called a domestic novel, but that is a misnomer, since the characters are seldom found at home, but rather are met in the various pleasure resorts of london. as was the fashion in the novels of this time, and probably not an uncommon occurrence in the english capital, the heroine was often forced into a chariot by some lawless libertine, but fortunately was always rescued by some more virtuous lover. the whole story is but a new arrangement of the one or two incidents with which richardson had wrung the heart of the british public. it has one advantage over the most of the novels which had preceded it. there is little told that does not bear directly on the plot, the characters of the sub-plot being important personages in the main story, and the book has a definite conclusion. none of the characters, however, are pleasing. the hero, mr. trueworthy, a combination of tom jones and sir charles grandison, is a hypocrite. the other male characters are insignificant. miss betsey, the heroine, is almost charming. conscious of her own innocence, she repeatedly appears in a light that makes her worldly lover, mr. trueworthy, suspect her virtue, until at last he begs to be released from his engagement to her. the author of the book stands as a duenna at miss betsey's side, and points out by the misfortunes of the heroine how foolish it is for girls to ignore public opinion, and strives to inculcate the lesson that a husband is the best protection for a young girl. we are properly shocked at miss betsey's levity, who, although she had arrived at the mature age of fourteen, cared not a straw for any of the gentlemen who sought her hand, but liked to have them about her only because they flattered her vanity or afforded her a subject for mirth. miss betsey's gaiety, wit, and generosity would be very attractive--in fact, she is quite an up-to-date young lady--but we see how much better she would "get on" if she had a little more worldly wisdom. she is punished, as she deserves to be, by losing her lover, and marries a man who makes her very unhappy. mr. trueworthy, however, learns of her innocence; her husband fortunately dies, and the author takes the bold step of uniting the widow to her former lover, after a year of mourning and passing through much suffering, brought upon herself by her own thoughtlessness. she is rewarded, however, very much as pamela was rewarded, by marrying a man of honour, who had judged her formerly by his own conduct, being too willing to believe by appearances that she had lost her chastity, or, at least, had sullied her good name. in this novel, mrs. haywood is very near the line that divides the artist from the artisan. like a young girl with good health and good spirits, miss betsey is ever on the verge of sweeping aside the prejudices of her duenna, and asserting her own individuality, but is constantly held back by the sense of worldly propriety. had mrs. haywood permitted miss betsey to carry the plot whither she would without let or hindrance, she would have won for herself an acknowledged place among the heroines of fiction. _the history of miss betsey thoughtless_ was an epoch-making book. the adventures of its heroine in the city of london took possession of the imagination of fanny burney, while little more than a child, and led to the story of _evelina_, the forerunner of jane austen and her school. * * * * * the fashion for weeping heroines was at its height, when, in , mrs. francis sheridan published _the memoirs of miss sidney biddulph_. the story is written in the form of letters, in which the heroine reveals to a friend of her own sex all the secrets of her heart. all london rejoiced over the virtues of sidney biddulph, and wept over her sorrows. she had been educated "in the strictest principles of virtue; from which she never deviated, through the course of an innocent, though unhappy life." it was so pathetic a story that dr. johnson doubted if mrs. sheridan had a right to make her characters suffer so much, and charles james fox, who sat up all night to read it, pronounced it the best of all novels of his time. the book, as first written, was in three volumes. the author had brought the story to a most fitting close. both sidney's husband and the man whom she had really loved were dead, and the widow could have spent her days in pleasing melancholy, contented with the thought that she had never done a wrong. but the public demanded a continuation of the story. in , two volumes were added, giving the history of sidney's daughters, who seem to have inherited from their mother the enmity of the fates, for their sufferings were as great as hers. authors are prone to draw upon their own history for the emotions they depict. but mrs. sheridan's life did not furnish the tragic elements of _sidney biddulph_, although it was not without romance. before her marriage, she wrote a pamphlet in praise of the conduct of one thomas sheridan, the manager of the theatre royal in dublin, during a riot that occurred in the theatre. sheridan read these words in his praise, sought the acquaintance of their author, and before long married her. history furnishes a long list of women of talent whose sons were men of genius. mrs. sheridan's second son, richard brinsley, the author of the light and sparkling _rivals_, inherited his mother's talents without her gloom. but mrs. sheridan also had some ability as a writer of comedy, and the most famous character of the _rivals_ was first sketched by her. in a comedy, _a journey to bath_, declined by garrick, one of the characters was mrs. twyford, whom richard brinsley sheridan transformed into that famous blundering coiner of words, mrs. malaprop. mrs. sheridan's place in literature rests upon _sidney biddulph_. this novel was an innovation in english fiction. nearly one hundred years earlier, madame de lafayette had written _the princess of clèves_, one of the most nearly perfect novels that has ever been written, and the first that depended for its interest, not alone on what was done, but on the subtle workings of the human heart which led to the doing of it. from that time the novels of french women were largely introspective. english women, however, were either less interested in the inner life, or more reserved in laying bare its secrets. _sidney biddulph_ was the first english novel of this kind, and it left no definite trace on fiction, although it was the favourite novel of charlotte smith and had some slight effect upon her writings, and mrs. inchbald, mrs. opie, and mary brunton noted the feelings of their characters. not until _jane eyre_ was published, long after mrs. sheridan had been forgotten, was there any great english novel of the inner life. in its day _sidney biddulph_ was exceedingly popular on the continent of europe as well as in england. it was translated into german, and an adaptation of it was made in french by the abbé prévost, under the title, _memoirs pour servir a l'histoire de la vertu_. but after all, sidney's sorrows were not real, or she herself was not real; and we of to-day smile or yawn over the pages that drew tears from the eyes of the mighty dr. johnson. * * * * * notwithstanding the many excellencies of english fiction during the middle of the eighteenth century, it was held in low repute. there had been many writers attempting to portray real life who, without the genius of the greater novelists, could imitate only their faults. in the preface to _polly honeycomb_, which was acted at drury lane theatre in , george colman, the author, gives the titles of about two hundred novels whose names appeared in a circulating library at that time. _amorous friars, or the intrigues of a convent_; _beauty put to its shifts, or the young virgin's rambles_; _bubbled knights, or successful contrivances, plainly evincing, in two familiar instances lately transacted in this metropolis, the folly and unreasonableness of parents laying a restraint upon their children's inclinations in the affairs of love and marriage_; _the impetuous lover, or the guiltless parricide_; these are the titles of a few of the popular books of that period. colman in the character of polly honeycomb, an earlier lydia languish, attempts to show the moral effects of such reading. her head had been so turned by these books that her father exclaims, "a man might as well turn his daughter loose in covent-garden, as trust the cultivation of her mind to a circulating library." fiction at this time lacked delicacy and refinement. the characters lived largely in the streets or taverns, and were too much engrossed in the pleasures of active life to give any heed to thoughts or emotions. though love was the constant theme of these books, as yet no true love story had been written. the fires of home had not been lighted. the refinements, the pure affections, the high ideals which cluster around the domestic hearth had as yet no place in the novel. it needed the feminine element, which, while no broader than that which had previously made the novel, by its own addition gave something new to it and made it truer to life. while no woman of marked genius had appeared, the number and influence of women novelists continued to increase throughout the eighteenth century. tim cropdale in the novel _humphry clinker_, who "had made shift to live many years by writing novels, at the rate of five pounds a volume," complains that "that branch of business is now engrossed by female authors, who publish merely for the propagation of virtue, with so much ease, and spirit, and delicacy, and knowledge of the human heart, and all in the serene tranquillity of high life, that the reader is not only enchanted by their genius, but reformed by their morality." schlosser in his _history of the eighteenth century_ pays this tribute to the moral influence of the women novelists: "with the increase of the number of writers in england in the course of the eighteenth century, women began to appear as authors instead of educating their children, and their influence upon morals and modes of thinking increased, as that of the clergy diminished." chapter iii fanny burney a noteworthy transformation took place in the english novel during the late years of the eighteenth century and the early part of the nineteenth. this change cannot be explained by the great difference in manners only. the mode of life described by the early novelists was in existence sixty years after they wrote scenes typical of the customs and manners of their day, just as the quiet home life described by miss austen was to be found in england a hundred years before it graced the pages of a book. this new era in the english novel was due not to a change of environment, but to the new ideals of those who wrote. in , english fiction was represented by the work of miss burney, and for thirty-six years, until , when _waverley_ appeared, this rare plant was preserved and kept alive by a group of women, who trimmed and pruned off many of its rough branches and gave to the wild native fruit a delicacy and fragrance unknown to it before. english women writers did at that time for the english novel what french women had done in the preceding century for the french novel; they made it so pure in thought and expression that bishop huet was able to say of the french romances of the seventeenth century, "you'll scarce find an expression or word which may shock chaste ears, or one single action which may give offence to modesty." this great change in the english novel was inaugurated by a young woman ignorant of the world, whose power lay in her innocent and lively imagination. at his home in queen square and later in st. martin's street, charles burney, the father of frances, entertained the most illustrious men of his day. johnson, reynolds, garrick, burke, and colman were frequent guests, while members of the nobility thronged his parlours to listen to the famous italian singers who gladly sang for the author of the _history of music_. here fanny, a bashful but observant child, saw life in the drawing-room. but as dr. burney gave little heed to the comings and goings of his daughters, they played with the children of a wigmaker next door, where, perhaps, fanny became acquainted with the vulgar side of london life, which is so humorously depicted in _evelina_. she received but little education, nor was she more than a casual reader, but she was familiar with _pamela_, _betsey thoughtless_, _rasselas_, and the _vicar of wakefield_. such was her preparation for becoming a writer of novels. from her earliest years, she had delighted in writing stories and dramas, although she received little encouragement in this occupation. in her fifteenth year her stepmother proved to her so conclusively the folly of girls' scribbling that fanny burned all her manuscripts, including _the history of caroline evelyn_. she could not, however, banish from her mind the fate of caroline's infant daughter, born of high rank, but related through her grandmother to the vulgar people of the east end of london. the many embarrassing situations in which she might be placed haunted the imagination of the youthful writer, but it was not until her twenty-sixth year that these situations were described, when _evelina or a young lady's entrance into the world_ was published. the success of the book was instantaneous. the name of the author, which had been withheld even from the publishers, was eagerly demanded. all agreed that only a man conversant with the world could have written such accurate descriptions of life both high and low. the wonder was increased when it was learned that the author was a young woman who had drawn her scenes, not from a knowledge of the world, but from her own intuition and imagination. miss burney became at once an honoured member of the literary circle which mrs. thrale had gathered at streatham, and a favourite of dr. johnson, who declared that _evelina_ was superior to anything that fielding had written, and that some passages were worthy of the pen of richardson. the book was accorded a place among english classics, which it has retained for over a century. "it was not hard fagging that produced such a work as _evelina_," wrote mr. crisp to the youthful author. "it was the ebullition of true sterling genius--you wrote it because you could not help it--it came--and so you put it down on paper." the novel, following the form so common in the eighteenth century, is written in the form of letters. the plot is somewhat time-honoured; there is the nurse's daughter substituted for the real heiress, and a mystery surrounding some of the characters; it is unfolded slowly with a slight strain upon the readers' credulity at the last, but it ends to the satisfaction of all concerned. in many incidents and in some of the characters the story suggests _betsey thoughtless_, but miss burney had greater powers of description than mrs. haywood. the plot of the novel is forgotten, however, in the lively, witty manner in which the characters are drawn and the ludicrous situations in which they are placed. so long had these men and women held the mind of the author that they are intensely real as they are presented to us at assemblies, balls, theatres, and operas, where we watch their oddities with amusement. indeed no woman has given so many graphic, droll, and minute descriptions of life as miss burney. her genius in this respect is different from that of other women novelists. she has made a series of snap-shots of people in the most absurd situations and ridicules them while she is taking the picture. few women writers can resist the temptation of peeping into the hearts of their men and women, and the knowledge thus gained gives them sympathy, while it often detracts from the strong lines of the external picture; a writer will not paint a villain quite so black if he believes he still preserves some remnants of a noble nature. but miss burney has no interest in the inner life of her men and women. she saw their peculiarities and was amused by them, and has presented them to the reader with minute descriptions and lively wit. she also makes fine distinctions between people. sir clement willoughby, the west end snob, and mr. smith, the east end beau, are drawn with discrimination. with what wit miss burney describes the scene at the _ridotto_ between evelina and sir clement. he had asked her to dance with him. unwilling to do so, because she wished to dance with another gentleman, if he should ask her, she told sir clement she was engaged for that dance. he did not leave her, however, but remained by her side and speculated as to who the beast was so hostile to his own interests as to forget to come to her; pitied the humiliation a lady must feel in having to wait for a gentleman, and pointed to each old and lame man in the room asking if he were the miscreant; he offered to find him for her and asked what kind of a coat he had on. when evelina did not know, he became angry with the wretch who dared to address a lady in so insignificant a coat that it was unworthy of her notice. to save herself from further annoyance she danced with him, for she now knew that sir clement had seen through her artifice from the beginning. but the portrait of mr. smith, the east end snob, is even better than that of sir clement willoughby. evelina is visiting her relatives at snow hill, when mr. smith enters, self-confident and vulgar. his aim in life, as he tells us, is to please the ladies. when tom branghton is disputing with his sister about the place where they shall go for amusement, he reprimands tom for his lack of good breeding. "o fie, tom,--dispute with a lady!" cried mr. smith. "now, as for me, i'm for where you will, providing this young lady [meaning evelina] is of the party; one place is the same as another to me, so that it be but agreeable to the ladies. i would go anywhere with you, ma'm, unless, indeed, it were to church;--ha, ha, ha, you'll excuse me, ma'm, but, really, i never could conquer my fear of a parson;--ha, ha, ha,--really, ladies, i beg your pardon, for being so rude, but i can't help laughing for my life." mr. smith endeavoured to make himself particularly pleasing to evelina, and for that purpose bought tickets for her and her relatives to attend the hampstead assembly. when he observed that evelina was a little out of sorts, he attributed her low spirits to doubts of his intentions towards her. "to be sure," he told her, "marriage is all in all with the ladies; but with us gentlemen it's quite another thing." he advised her not to be discouraged, saying with a patronising air, "you may very well be proud, for i assure you there is nobody so likely to catch me at last as yourself." both sir clement willoughby and mr. smith are selfish and conceited; but the former had lived among the gentlemen of mayfair, the latter among the tradespeople of snow hill, and this difference of environment is shown in every speech they utter. it is the contrast between these two distinct classes of society that saves the book from becoming monotonous. evelina visits the pantheon with her west end friends. when captain mirvan wonders what people find in such a place, mr. lovel, a fashionable fop, quickly rejoins: "what the ladies may come hither for, sir, it would ill become _us_ to determine; but as to we men, doubtless we can have no other view, than to admire them." at another time evelina visits the opera with the vulgar branghtons, who all rejoiced when the curtain dropped, and mr. branghton vowed he would never be caught again. the branghtons at the opera is hardly inferior to partridge at the play. tom branghton is a good representative of his class. he describes with glee the last night at vauxhall: "there's such squealing and squalling!--and then all the lamps are broke,--and the women skimper scamper;--i declare i would not take five guineas to miss the last night!" all the characters, even the heroine, take delight, in boisterous mirth. much of the humour of the book consists rather in ludicrous situations than in any real delicacy of wit. too often the laugh is at another's discomfiture, and so fails to please the present age with its kindlier feeling towards others. such are the practical jokes which captain mirvan plays upon madame duval. in one instance, disguised as a robber, he waylays the lady's coach, and leaves her in a ditch with her feet tied to a tree. the many tricks which the doughty salt plays upon this lady so much resemble some of the humorous scenes in _joseph andrews_, and _tom jones_ that we may infer the readers of that century found them laughable. the captain and the french woman are two puppets which serve to introduce much of this horse-play. they are not even caricatures; they are entirely unlike anything in human life. with the exception of these two characters, all the men and women who provoked the mirth of the heroine are well portrayed. miss burney is less felicitous in her descriptions of serious characters. lord orville, the same type of man as sir charles grandison, is true only in the sense that miss burney announces the truth of the entire book. "i have not pretended to show the world what it actually _is_, but what it _appears_ to a girl of seventeen," she wrote in the preface to _evelina_. lord orville, all dignity, nobility, charm, and perfection, is but the ideal of a young girl. evelina was a new woman in literature, a revelation to the men of the time of george the third. the sincerity of the book could not be doubted. "but," they asked, "did evelina represent the woman's point of view of life? surely no man ever held like views." the lovelaces and tom joneses are not so attractive as when seen through the eyes of their own sex, and the heroines are not so soft and yielding as a man would create them. evelina, like all miss burney's heroines, is independent, fearless, and witty, with scarcely a trace of the traditional heroine of fiction. saints and magdalenes have always appealed to the masculine imagination. _la donna dolorosa_ has occupied a prominent place in the art and literature of man's creation. here he has revealed his sex egoism in all its nudity: the woman weeping for man, either lover, husband, or son; man the centre of her thoughts, her hopes and fears. this new heroine with a new regard towards man was a revelation to them. evelina was the first woman to break the spell, to show them woman as woman, in lieu of woman as parasite and adjunct to man. evelina is not always pleasing; she hasn't always good manners; she sometimes laughs in the faces of the dashing beaux who are addressing her. but she is a woman of real flesh and blood; such women have existed in all time, and, liked many women we meet every day and whom men in all ages have known, evelina insists on being the centre of every scene. in july, , miss burney's second book, _cecilia, or memoirs of an heiress_, was published. this novel met with as enthusiastic a reception as _evelina_. gibbon read the whole five volumes in a day; burke declared they had cost him three days, though he did not part with the story from the time he first opened it, and had sat up a whole night to finish it; and sir joshua reynolds had been fed while reading it, because he refused to quit it at the table. the book shows more care and effort than _evelina_. that was an outburst of youthful vivacity and spirits, but in _cecilia_ the author is striving to do her best. this is particularly revealed in the style, which shows the influence of doctor johnson, for it has lost the simplicity of _evelina_. the diction is more ambitious, and the sentences are longer, many of them balanced. even some of the inferior characters from their speech, appear to have received a lesson in english composition from dr. johnson. but the novel owes its place among english classics to the varieties of characters portrayed and the vivid pictures of english life. here again the gaieties of vauxhall, ranelagh, marylebone and the pantheon have become immortal, drawn with colours as vivid and enduring as hogarth used in painting the sadder sides of london life. no other writer has brought these places before our eyes as clearly and as fully as fanny burney. the plot of _cecilia_, like that of _evelina_, is so arranged as to present different classes of society. _cecilia_ has three guardians, with one of whom she must live during her minority. first she visits mr. harrel, a gay, fashionable man, a spendthrift and a gambler, who lives in a fashionable house in portman square, where cecilia, during a constant round of festivities, meets the fashionable people of london. next she visits mr. briggs in the city, "a short thick, sturdy man, with very small keen black eyes, a square face, a dark complexion, and a snub nose." he was so miserly that when cecilia asked for pen, ink, and a sheet of paper, he gave her a slate and pencil, as he supposed she had nothing of consequence to say. he was as sparing of his words as of his money, and used the same elliptical sentences in his speech as dickens afterwards put into the mouth of alfred jingle, the famous character in _pickwick papers_. he thus advises cecilia in regard to her lovers: "take care of sharpers; don't trust shoe-buckles, nothing but bristol stones! tricks in all things. a fine gentleman sharp as another man. never give your heart to a gold-topped cane, nothing but brass gilt over. cheats everywhere: fleece you in a year; won't leave you a groat. but one way to be safe,--bring 'em all to me." lastly she visits mr. delvile, her third guardian, a man of family, who despised both the men associated with him as trustees of cecilia; he lived in such gloomy state in his magnificent old house in st. james's square that it inspired awe, and repressed all pleasure. pride in their birth and prejudice against all parvenus were the faults of mr. and mrs. delvile. besides these characters, there were many others whose names were for a long time familiar in every household. sir robert floyer was as vain as mr. smith. mr. meadows was constantly bored to death; it was insufferable exertion to talk to a quiet woman, and a talkative one put him into a fever. at the opera the solos depressed him and the full orchestra fatigued him. he yawned while ladies were talking to him, and after he had begged them to repeat what they had said, forgot to listen. "i am tired to death! tired of everything," was his constant expression. in his critical essay on madame d'arblay, fanny burney's married name, under which her later works were published, macaulay has thus dealt with her treatment of character: "madame d'arblay has left us scarcely anything but humours. almost every one of her men and women has some one propensity developed to a morbid degree. in _cecilia_, for example, mr. delvile never opens his lips without some allusion to his own birth and station; or mr. briggs without some allusion to the hoarding of money; or mr. hobson, without betraying the self-indulgence and self-importance of a purse-proud upstart; or mr. simkins, without uttering some sneaking remark for the purpose of currying favour with his customers; or mr. meadows, without expressing apathy and weariness of life; or mr. albany, without declaiming about the vices of the rich and the misery of the poor; or mrs. belfield, without some indelicate eulogy on her son; or lady margaret, without indicating jealousy of her husband. morrice is all skipping, officious impertinence, mr. gosport all sarcasm, lady honoria all lively prattle, miss larolles all silly prattle; if ever madame d'arblay aimed at more, as in the character of monckton, we do not think that she succeeded well.... the variety of humours which is to be found in her novels is immense; and though the talk of each person separately is monotonous, the general effect is not monotony, but a most lively and agreeable diversity." while the character of monckton is not strongly drawn, one or two scenes in which he figures have great power. mr. monckton, who had married an aged woman for her money, lived in constant hope of her dissolution. he planned to keep cecilia from marrying until that happy event, when he schemed to make her his bride, and thus acquire a second fortune. he had used his influence as a family friend to prejudice her lovers in her eyes, and had just succeeded in breaking up an intimacy which he feared: "a weight was removed from his mind which had nearly borne down even his remotest hopes; the object of his eager pursuit seemed still within his reach, and the rival into whose power he had so lately almost beheld her delivered, was totally renounced, and no longer to be dreaded. a revolution such as this, raised expectations more sanguine than ever; and in quitting the house, he exultingly considered himself released from every obstacle to his view,--till, just as he arrived home, he recollected his wife!" cecilia, the heroine of the novel, is only evelina grown a little older, a little sadder, a little more worldly wise. the humour is, too, a little kindlier. the practical jokes so common in _evelina_ do not mar the pages of _cecilia_. at times the latter novel becomes almost tragic. the scene at vauxhall where mr. harrel puts an end to his life of dissipation is dramatic and thrilling. but miss burney had lost the buoyancy and lively fancy which made the charm of _evelina_. miss burney's last two novels, _camilla, or a picture of youth_ and _the wanderer, or female difficulties_, have no claim to a place among english classics. it is strange that, as she saw more of life, she depicted it with less accuracy. this might seem to show that her first novels owe their excellence to her vivid imagination rather than to her powers of observation. her weary life at court as second keeper of the robes to queen charlotte; her marriage to monsieur d'arblay, and the sorrows that came to her as the wife of a french refugee; all her deeper experiences of life during the fourteen years between the publication of _cecilia_ and _camilla_--these had completely changed her light, humorous view of externals, and with that loss her power as an artist disappeared. _camilla_ has several heroines whose love affairs interest the reader. it thus bears a resemblance to miss austen's novels, who speaks of it with admiration and was, perhaps, influenced by it. eugenia, who has received the education of a man, is pleasing. clermont lynmere, like mr. smith and sir robert floyer, imagines that all the ladies are in love with him. sir hugh tyrold, with his love for the classics and his regret that he had not been beaten into learning them when he was a boy, his strict ideas of virtue and his desire to make everybody happy, is well conceived, but the outlines are not strong enough to make him a living character. _camilla_ shows more than _cecilia_ the style of dr. johnson. it is heavy and slow, the words are long, and many of them of latin derivation. it was not until the year , the year of _waverley_, that her last novel, _the wanderer, or female difficulties_, was published, which, following the style of _camilla_, was in five volumes. it was partly founded on incidents arising out of the french revolution. the book was eagerly awaited; the publishers paid fifteen hundred guineas for it; but even the friendliest critic pronounced it a literary failure. to sum up, macaulay in the essay before quoted makes clear miss burney's place in fiction: "miss burney did for the english novel what jeremy collier did for the english drama; and she did it in a better way. she first showed that a tale might be written in which both the fashionable and the vulgar life of london might be exhibited with great force and with broad comic humour, and which yet should not contain a single line inconsistent with rigid morality, or even with virgin delicacy. she took away the reproach which lay on a most useful and delightful species of composition. she vindicated the right of her sex to an equal share in a fair and noble province of letters ... we owe to her not only _evelina_, _cecilia_, and _camilla_, but also _mansfield park_ and _the absentee_." chapter iv hannah more during the time that dr. johnson dominated the literary conscience of england, a group of ladies who had wearied of whist and quadrille, the common amusements of fashion, used to meet at the homes of one another to discuss literary and political subjects. they were called in ridicule the "blue stocking club," because mr. benjamin stillingfleet, who was always present at these gatherings, wore hose of that colour. among the members distinguished by their wit and talents were mrs. elizabeth montagu, the author of an _essay on the genius of shakespeare_; mrs. elizabeth carter, a poetess and excellent greek scholar; mrs. chapone, whose _letters to young ladies_ formed the standard of conduct for young women of two generations; miss reynolds, the sister of sir joshua; and mrs. vesey, noted as a charming hostess. dr. johnson, david garrick, reynolds, and burke were frequenters of this club. one may well imagine that the conversation and wit of the blue stockings were far too rare to be understood by the grosser minds of the mere devotees of fashion, who in consequence threw a ridicule upon them which has always adhered to the name. hannah more, who had already become known as a playwright, visited london in , and at once was welcomed by this group. in a poem called _the bas bleu_, dedicated to mrs. vesey, she thus describes the pleasure of these meetings: enlighten'd spirits! you, who know what charms from polish'd converse flow, speak, for you can, the pure delight when kindling sympathies unite; when correspondent tastes impart communion sweet from heart to heart; you ne'er the cold gradations need which vulgar souls to union lead; no dry discussion to unfold the meaning caught ere well 't is told: in taste, in learning, wit, or science, still kindled souls demand alliance: each in the other joys to find the image answering to his mind. the blue stocking club was composed largely of tories, so that when all europe became restless under the influence of the french revolution, they strongly combated the levelling doctrines of democracy. hannah more in particular, who had been conducting schools for the very poor near bristol, saw how the teachings of the revolutionists affected men already prone to idleness and drink. to offset these influences, she published a little book with the following title-page: "village politics. addressed to all the mechanics, journeymen, and labourers, in great britain. by will chip, a country carpenter." it is not a novel in the strict sense of the word, but in simple language, easily understood, it teaches the labouring people the inconsistent attitude of france, and the strength and safety of the english constitution. it is not a deep book, but has good work-a-day common-sense, such as keeps the world jogging on, ready to endure the ills it has rather than fly to others it knows not of. the book is in the form of a dialogue between jack anvil, the blacksmith, and tom hood, the mason. "tom. but have you read the _rights of man_? "jack. no, not i: i had rather by half read the _whole duty of man_. i have but little time for reading, and such as i should therefore only read a bit of the best." * * * * * "tom. and what dost thou take a _democrat_ to be? "jack. one who likes to be governed by a thousand tyrants, and yet can't bear a king." * * * * * "tom. what is it to be _an enlightened people_? "jack. to put out the light of the gospel, confound right and wrong, and grope about in pitch darkness." * * * * * "tom. and what is _benevolence_? "jack. why, in the new-fangled language, it means contempt of religion, aversion to justice, overturning of law, doating on all mankind in general, and hating everybody in particular." for a long time the authorship of the book remained a secret, and will chip became a notable figure. the clergy and the land-owners in particular rejoiced over his homely common-sense, and distributed these pamphlets broadcast over the land. one hundred thousand copies were sold in a short time. _village politics_ is said to have been one of the strongest influences in england to awaken the common people to the dangers which lie in a sudden overthrow of government. the book was timely, for that decade had become intoxicated by the name of liberty. to-day democracy and equality are no longer feared. during many years hannah more worked industriously among the poor of cheddar and its vicinity. on a visit to the cliffs of cheddar she found an ignorant, half-savage people, many of whom dwelt in the caves and fissures of the rocks, and earned a miserable subsistence by selling stalactites and other minerals native to the place, to the travellers who were attracted thither by the beautiful scenery. among these people hannah more opened a sunday-school, and later a day school, where the girls were taught knitting, spinning, and sewing. a girl trained in her school was presented on her marriage day with five shillings, a pair of white stockings, and a new bible. the teaching in the schools was so practical that within a year schools were opened in nine parishes. in this missionary work, miss more became intimately acquainted not only with the very poor, but also with the rich farmers living in the neighbourhood and the prosperous tradespeople of the villages. from these better educated men she met with great opposition. one petty landlord met her request for assistance with the remark: "the lower classes are fated to be poor, ignorant and wicked; and wise as you are, you cannot alter what is decreed." another man informed her that religion was the worst thing for the poor, it made them so lazy and useless. * * * * * but the minds of the people had been awakened by the french revolution. they were beginning to think. books and ballads attacking church and constitution were hawked through the country and placed within reach of all. to counteract the influence of these "corrupt and inflammatory publications" hannah more, between the years - , published _the cheap repository_, the first regular issue of this kind. every month a story, a ballad, and a tract for sunday were published. hannah more knew so well the common reasoning and the mental attitude of those for whom she wrote, that she was able to make her lessons most effective. so great was the demand for these chap-books that over two million were sold the first year.[ ] [ ] for a complete bibliography of these chap-books, see the _catalogue of english and american chap-books_ in harvard college library, pp. - ; compiled in part by charles welsh. these stories were divided into two classes, those for "persons of middle rank" and those for the common people. the former point out the dangers of pride and covetousness; of substituting abstract philosophy for religion; and warn masters not to forget their moral obligations towards their servants. the latter aim to teach neatness, sobriety, regularity in church attendance, and point out the happiness of those who follow these precepts, and the misery of those who neglect them. her two best known stories are _mr. fantom_ and _the shepherd of salisbury plain_. _mr. fantom: or the history of the new-fashioned philosopher, and his man william_ was written to warn masters of the danger of teaching their servants disrespect for the bible and for civil law. mr. fantom was a shallow man, who glided upon the surface of philosophy and culled those precepts which relieved his conscience from any moral obligations. when he was asked to help the poor in his own parish, he refused to consider their wants because his mind was so engrossed by the partition of poland. like mrs. jellyby of a later time, he was so much troubled by sufferings which he could not see that he neglected his family and servants. when he reprimanded his butler, william, for being intoxicated, the young man replied: "why, sir, you are a philosopher, you know; and i have often overheard you say to your company, that private vices are public benefits; and so i thought that getting drunk was as pleasant a way of doing good to the public as any, especially when i could oblige my muster at the same time." in course of time william became a thief and a murderer, and expiated his crimes on the scaffold. in contrast to this is _the shepherd of salisbury plain_. this shepherd was contented with his lot, and says: "david was happier when he kept his father's sheep on such a plain as this, and employed in singing some of his own psalms perhaps, than ever he was when he became king of israel and judah. and i dare say we should never have had some of the most beautiful texts in all those fine psalms, if he had not been a shepherd, which enabled him to make so many fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may say, from country life, flocks of sheep, hills and valleys, fields of corn, and fountains of water." the shepherd's neat cottage with its simple furnishings, his frugal wife and industrious children are described in simple and convincing language. in the stories of the poor there are many interesting details of the everyday life of that class that did not blossom into heroes and heroines of romance for nearly half a century. mrs. sponge, in _the history of betty brown, the st. giles's orange girl_, is a character that dickens might have immortalised. mrs. sponge kept a little shop and a kind of eating-house for poor girls near the seven dials. she received stolen goods, and made such large profits in her business that she was enabled to become a broker among the poor. she loaned betty five shillings to set her up in the orange business; she did not ask for the return of her money, but exacted a sixpence a day for its use, and was regarded by betty, and the other girls whom she thus befriended, as a benefactor. at last, betty was rescued from the clutches of mrs. sponge. by industry and piety she became mistress of a handsome sausage-shop near the seven dials, and married a hackney coachman, the hero of one of miss more's ballads: i am a bold coachman, and drive a good hack with a coat of five capes that quite covers my back; and my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many miles from the narrowest alley in all broad st. giles. though poor, we are honest and very content, we pay as we go, for meat, drink, and for rent; to work all the week i am able and willing, i never get drunk, and i waste not a shilling; and while at a tavern my gentleman tarries, the coachman grows richer than he whom he carries, and i'd rather (said i), since it saves me from sin, be the driver without, than the toper within. _the cheap repository_ was written to teach moral precepts. neither hannah more nor her readers saw any artistic beauty in the sordid lives of this lower stratum of society. they were not interested in the superstitions of "poor sally evans," who hung a plant called "midsummer-men" in her room on midsummer eve so that she might learn by the bending of the leaves if her lover were true to her, and who consulted all the fortune-tellers that came to her door to learn whether the two moles on her cheek foretold two husbands or two children. hannah more recorded these simple fancies of poor sally only to show her folly and the misfortunes that afterwards befell her on account of her superstitions. writers of that century either laughed at the ignorant blunders of the poor, or used them to point a moral. an interest in them because they are human beings like ourselves with common frailties belongs to the next century. nothing proves more conclusively the growth of the democratic idea than the changed attitude of the novel toward the ignorant and the criminal. * * * * * hannah more was always interested in the education of young ladies. she wrote a series of essays called _strictures on the modern system of female education_, in which she protested loudly against the tendency to give girls an ornamental rather than a useful education. this was so highly approved that she was asked to make suggestions for the education of the princess charlotte. this led to her writing _hints towards forming the character of a young princess_. hannah more finally embodied her theories on the education of women in a book which she thought might appeal most strongly to the young ladies themselves, _coelebs in search of a wife_. running through it, is a slight romance. coelebs, filled with admiration for eve, as described in _paradise lost_, where she is intent on her household duties, goes forth into the world to find, if possible, such a helpmate for himself. as he meets different women, he compares them with his ideal, and, finding them lacking, passes a severe criticism upon female education and accomplishments. finally, he meets a lady with well-trained mind, who delights in works of charity and piety, one well calculated to conduct wisely the affairs of his household. she has besides proper humility, and accepts with gratitude the honour of becoming coelebs's wife. until her death at the advanced age of eighty-eight years, hannah more continued to write moral and religious essays, so that she was before the public view for over fifty years, mrs. s. c. hall in her book _pilgrimages to english shrines_ thus describes her in old age: "hannah more wore a dress of very light green silk--a white china crape shawl was folded over her shoulders; her white hair was frizzled, after a by-gone fashion, above her brow, and that _backed_, as it were, by a very full double border of rich lace. the reality was as dissimilar from the picture painted by our imagination as anything could well be; such a sparkling, light, bright, 'summery'-looking old lady--more like a beneficent fairy, than the biting author of _mr. fantom_, though in perfect harmony with _the shepherd of salisbury plain_." chapter v charlotte smith. mrs. inchbald while hannah more was endeavouring to improve the condition of the poor by teaching them diligence and sobriety, a group of earnest men and women were writing books and pamphlets in which they claimed that poverty and ignorance were due to unjust laws. the writings of voltaire and rousseau had filled their minds with bright pictures of a democracy. these theories were considered most dangerous in england, but they were the theories which helped to shape the american constitution. among these english revolutionists were william godwin, mary wollstonecraft, charlotte smith, mrs. inchbald, and for a time amelia opie. the strongest political novel was _caleb williams_ by william godwin. in this he shows how through law man may become the destroyer of man. this interest in the rights of man awakened interest in the condition of women; and mary wollstonecraft, who afterward became mrs. godwin, wrote _vindication of the rights of woman_. this pamphlet was declared contrary to the bible and to christian law, although all its demands have now been conceded. charlotte smith was also interested in the position of women and the laws affecting them. in _desmond_ she discussed freely a marriage problem which in her day seemed very bold, while in her private life she ignored british prejudices. she was the mother of twelve children and the wife of a man of many schemes, so that she was continually devising ways to extricate her large family from the financial difficulties into which he plunged them. at one time a friend suggested to her that her husband's attention should be turned toward religion. her reply was: "oh, for heaven's sake, do not put it into his head to take to religion, for if he does, he will instantly begin by building a cathedral." she is supposed to have caricatured him in the projector who hoped to make a fortune by manuring his estate with old wigs. but when her husband was imprisoned for debt, she shared his captivity, and began to write to support her family. although she died at the age of fifty-seven, she found time during her manifold cares to write thirty-eight volumes. but not only did mrs. smith endure sorrows as great as those of her favourite heroine, sidney biddulph, but one of her daughters was equally unfortunate. she was married unhappily, and returned with her three children for her mother to support. mr. and mrs. smith, after twenty-three years of married life, agreed to live in separate countries, he in normandy, and she in england, although they always corresponded and were interested in each other's welfare. yet this separation, together with the revolutionary tendencies discovered in her writings, raised a storm of criticism against her. in _desmond_, which was regarded as so dangerous, mrs. smith has presented the following problem: geraldine, the heroine, is married to a spendthrift, who attempts to retrieve his fortunes by forcing his wife to become the mistress of his friend, the rich duc de romagnecourt. to preserve her honour she leaves him, hoping to return to her mother's roof; but her mother refuses to receive her and bids her return to her husband. as she dares not do this, and is without money, a faithful friend, desmond, takes her under his protection, asking no reward but the pleasure of serving her. finally geraldine receives a letter informing her that her husband is ill. she returns to him, and nurses him until he dies; after a year of mourning she marries desmond. how could a woman have behaved more virtuously than geraldine? she is always high-minded and actuated by the purest motives. but it was feared that her example might encourage wives to desert their husbands, and consequently the novel was declared immoral. _desmond_ was published in , when the feeling against france was very bitter in england. the plot, as it meanders slowly through three volumes, is constantly interrupted by political discussions. the author's clearly expressed preference for a republican government, and her criticism of english law, met with bitter disapproval. one of the characters pronounces a panegyric upon the greater prosperity and happiness that has come to the french soldiers, farmers, and peasants, since they came to believe that they were sharers in their own labours, and the hero of the book, writing from france to a friend in england, says: "i lament still more the disposition which too many englishmen show to join in this unjust and infamous crusade, against the holy standard of freedom; and i blush for my country." in the same book, the author censures the penal laws of england, by which robbery to the amount of forty shillings is punishable with death; and criticises the delay of the courts in dealing justice. this criticism is expressed tamely, barely more than suggested, when compared with the vigorous attacks which dickens made in the next century on english law and the slow action of justice in the famous "circumlocution office." dickens wrote with such vigour that he brought about a reform. a modern reader finds _desmond_ earnest and sincere, but tame to the point of dulness. it seems strange how the tory party could see in this book a menace to the british constitution. but a writer in the _monthly review_ for december, , advocated her cause. "she is very justly of opinion," he writes, "that the great events that are passing in the world are no less interesting to women than to men, and that, in her solicitude to discharge the domestic duties, a woman ought not to forget that, in common with her father and husband, her brothers and sons, she is a citizen." the publication of _the old manor house_ in the following year won back for her many of the friends that she had lost by _desmond_. but in this work also the same love of liberty, the same indifference to social distinctions, occur. the hero of _the old manor house_ joins the english army, and is sent to fight against the americans; in the many reflections upon this conflict, the author shows that her sympathies are with the colonists. the father of the hero had married a young woman who had nothing to recommend her but "beauty, simplicity, and goodness." the hero himself falls in love with and marries a girl beneath him in rank, but he does not seem to feel that he has done a generous thing, nor does the heroine show any gratitude for this honour. each seems unconscious that their difference in rank should be a bar to their union, provided they do not offend old mrs. rayland, the owner of the manor. a great change had come over the novel since pamela was overpowered with gratitude to her profligate master, mr. b, for condescending to make her his wife. the revolutionary principles of mrs. smith's novels were soon forgotten, but two new elements were introduced by her that bore fruit in english fiction. her great gift to the novel was the portrayal of refined, quiet, intellectual ladies, beside whom evelina and cecilia seem but school-girls. her heroines may be poor, they may be of inferior rank, but they are always ladies of sensitive nature and cultivated manners, and are drawn with a feeling and tenderness which no novelist before her had reached. a contemporary said of emmeline, "all is graceful, and pleasing to the sight, all, in short, is simple, femininely beautiful and chaste." this might be said of all the women she has created. old mrs. rayland, the central personage in her most popular novel, _the old manor house_, notwithstanding her exalted ideas of her own importance as a member of the rayland family, and the arbitrary manner in which she compels all to conform to her old-fashioned notions, is always the high-born lady. we smile at her, but she never forfeits our respect. scott said of her, "old mrs. rayland is without a peer." mrs. smith's second gift to the novel was her charming descriptions of rural scenery. nature had for a long time been banished from the arts. wordsworth in one of his prefaces wrote: "excepting _the nocturnal reverie_ of lady winchelsea, and a passage or two in the _windsor forest_ of pope, the poetry of the period intervening between the publication of _paradise lost_ and _the seasons_ does not contain a single new image of external nature; and scarcely presents a familiar one, from which it can be inferred that the eye of the poet had been steadily fixed upon his object, much less that his feelings had urged him to work upon it in the spirit of genuine imagination." fiction was as barren of scenery as poetry. none of the novelists were cognisant of the country scenes amid which their plots were laid, with the possible exception of goldsmith. _the vicar of wakefield_ has a rural setting, and there are references to the trees, the blackbirds, and the hayfields; but description is not introduced for the sake of its own beauty as in the novels of charlotte smith. in _ethelinda_ there are beautiful descriptions of the english lakes, part of the scene being laid at grasmere; _celestina_ is in the romantic provence; _desmond_ in normandy; and in _the old manor house_ we have the soft landscape of the south of england. in _the old manor house_ she thus describes one of the paths that led from the gate of the park to rayland hall: "the other path, which in winter or in wet seasons was inconvenient, wound down a declivity, where furze and fern were shaded by a few old hawthorns and self-sown firs: out of the hill several streams were filtered, which, uniting at its foot, formed a large and clear pond of near twenty acres, fed by several imperceptible currents from other eminences which sheltered that side of the park; and the bason between the hills and the higher parts of it being thus filled, the water found its way over a stony boundary, where it was passable by a foot bridge unless in time of floods; and from thence fell into a lower part of the ground, where it formed a considerable river; and, winding among willows and poplars for near a mile, again spread into a still larger lake, on the edge of which was a mill, and opposite, without the park paling, wild heaths, where the ground was sandy, broken, and irregular, still however marked by plantations made in it by the rayland family." every feature of the landscape is brought distinctly before the eye. such descriptions are not unusual now, but they were first used by charlotte smith. even more realistic is the picture of a road in a part of the new forest near christchurch: "it was a deep, hollow road, only wide enough for waggons, and was in some places shaded by hazel and other brush wood; in others, by old beech and oaks, whose roots wreathed about the bank, intermingled with ivy, holly, and evergreen fern, almost the only plants that appeared in a state of vegetation, unless the pale and sallow mistletoe, which here and there partially tinted with faint green the old trees above them. * * * * * "everything was perfectly still around; even the robin, solitary songster of the frozen woods, had ceased his faint vespers to the setting sun, and hardly a breath of air agitated the leafless branches. this dead silence was interrupted by no sound but the slow progress of his horse, as the hollow ground beneath his feet sounded as if he trod on vaults. there was in the scene, and in this dull pause of nature, a solemnity not unpleasant to orlando, in his present disposition of mind." in , miss mitford wrote to miss barrett: "charlotte smith's works, with all their faults, have yet a love of external nature, and a power of describing it, which i never take a spring walk without feeling." and again she wrote to a friend referring to mrs. smith, "except that they want cheerfulness, nothing can exceed the beauty of the style." * * * * * the life and writings of mrs. inchbald had some things in common with the life and writings of mrs. smith. both were obliged to write to support themselves as well as those dependent upon them. both had seen many phases of human nature, and both viewed with scorn the pretensions of the rich and beheld with pity the sorrows of the poor. both were champions of social and political equality. mrs. inchbald, however, was an actress and a successful playwright, hence her novels are the more dramatic, but they lack the beautiful rural setting which gives a poetic atmosphere to the writings of charlotte smith. _a simple story_, the first, of mrs. inchbald's two novels, has been called the precursor of _jane eyre_. it is the first novel in which we are more interested in what is felt than in what actually happens. mr. dorriforth, a catholic priest, and miss milner, his ward, fall in love with each other, and we watch this hidden passion, which preys upon the health of both. he is horrified that he has broken his vows; she is mortified that she loves a man who, she believes, neither can nor does return her feeling for him. when he is released from his vow, it is the emotion, not external happenings, that holds the interest. the first part of the story is brought to a close with the marriage of mr. dorriforth, now lord elmwood, and miss milner. seventeen years elapse between the two halves of the novel. during this time trouble has come between them and they have separated. the character of each has undergone a change. traits of disposition that were first but lightly observed have been intensified with years. mrs. inchbald writes of the hero: "dorriforth, the pious, the good, the tender dorriforth, is become a hard-hearted tyrant; the compassionate, the feeling, the just lord elmwood, an example of implacable rigour and justice." his friend sandford has also changed with the years, but he has been softened, not hardened by them--"the reprover, the enemy of the vain, the idle, and the wicked, but the friend and comforter of the forlorn and miserable." the story of dorriforth gives unity to the two parts of the novel. the conflict between his love and his anger holds the reader in suspense until the conclusion. the characters of eighteenth-century fiction were actuated by but a small number of motives. in nearly all the novels the men were either generous and free or stingy and hypocritical; the women were either virtuous and winsome, or immoral and brazen. mrs. inchbald possessed, only in a less degree, george eliot's power of character-analysis; she observed minor qualities, and she was as unflinching in following the development of evil traits to a tragic conclusion as was the author of _adam bede_. in _the gentleman's magazine_ for march, , some one wrote of _a simple story_: "she has struck out a path entirely her own. she has disdained to follow the steps of her predecessors, and to construct a new novel, as is too commonly done, out of the scraps and fragments of earlier inventors. her principal character, the roman catholic lord, is perfectly new: and she has conducted him, through a series of surprising well-contrasted adventures, with an uniformity of character and truth of description that have rarely been surpassed." there is, however, one hackneyed scene. a young girl is seized, thrust into a chariot, and carried at full speed to a lonely place. there is hardly an early novel where this bald incident is not worked up into one or more chapters, with variations to suit the convenience of the plot. it was as much a part of the stock in trade of the novelist of the eighteenth century as a family quarrel is of the twentieth. with this exception, _a simple story_ is new in its plot, incidents, characters, and mode of treatment. emotion did not play so important a part in a novel again until charlotte brontë wrote _jane eyre_. mrs. inchbald's only other novel, _nature and art_, shows the artificialities of society. two cousins, william and henry, are contrasted. william is the son of a dean. henry's father went to africa to live, whence he sent his son to his rich uncle to be educated. henry fails to comprehend the society in which he finds himself placed, and cannot understand that there should be any poor people. "'why, here is provision enough for all the people,' said henry; 'why should they want? why do not they go and take some of these things?' "'they must not,' said the dean, 'unless they were their own.' "'what, uncle! does no part of the earth, nor anything which the earth produces, belong to the poor?'" his uncle fails to answer this question to his nephew's satisfaction. the vices and the fawning duplicity of william are contrasted with the virtues and independent spirit of henry. "'i know i am called proud,' one day said william to henry. "'dear cousin,' replied henry, 'it must be only then by those who do not know you; for to me you appear the humblest creature in the world.' "'do you really think so?' "'i am certain of it; or would you always give up your opinion to that of persons in a superior state, however inferior in their understanding? ... i have more pride than you, for i will never stoop to act or to speak contrary to my feelings.'" william rises to eminence, in time becoming a judge. henry, who is always virtuous, can obtain no preferment. this contrast in the two cousins is not so overdrawn as at first appears. william represents the aristocracy of the old world; henry, the free representative of a new country. a tragic story runs through the novel, which becomes intensely dramatic at the point where william puts on his black cap to pronounce sentence on the girl whom he had ruined years before. he does not recognise her; but she, who had loved him through the years, becomes insane, not at the thought of death, but that he should be the one to pronounce the sentence. it is doubtful if any novelist before scott had produced so thrilling a situation, a situation which grew naturally out of the plot, and the anguish of the poor unfortunate agnes has the realism of thomas hardy or tolstoi. only by reading these old novels can one comprehend the change produced in england by the next half-century. the teachings of mrs. charlotte smith and mrs. inchbald were declared dangerous to the state. that they taught disrespect for authority, was one of the many charges brought against them. yet with what ladylike reserve they advance views which a later generation applauded when boldly proclaimed by dickens, thackeray, and disraeli! chapter vi clara reeve. ann radcliffe. harriet and sophia lee the novel of the mysterious and the supernatural did not appear in modern literature until horace walpole wrote _the castle of otranto_ in , during the decade that was dominated by the realism of smollett and sterne. the author says it was an attempt to blend two kinds of romance, the ancient, which was all improbable, and the modern, which was a realistic copy of nature. the machinery of this novel is clumsy. an enormous helmet and a huge sword are the means by which an ancestor of otranto, long since dead, restores the castle to a seeming peasant, who proves to be the rightful heir. * * * * * this book produced no imitators until , when clara reeve wrote _the old english baron_, which was plainly suggested by walpole's novel, but is more delicate in the treatment of its ghostly visitants. here, as in _the castle of otranto_, the rightful heir has been brought up a peasant, ignorant of his high birth. again his ancestors, supposedly dead and gone, bring him into his own. one night he is made to sleep in the haunted part of the castle, where his parents reveal to him in a dream things which he is later able to prove legally. he learns the truth about his birth, comes into his estate, and wins the lady of his heart. when he returns to the castle as its master, all the doors fly open through the agency of unseen hands to welcome their feudal lord. the characters of both these novels are without interest, and the mysterious element fails to produce the slightest creepy thrill. * * * * * twelve years passed before walpole's novel found another imitator in mrs. ann radcliffe, who so far excelled her two predecessors that she has been called the founder of the gothic romance, and in this field she remains without a peer. in her first novel, _the castles of athlin and dunbayne_, as in _the old english baron_ by clara reeve, a peasant renowned for his courage and virtue loves and is beloved by a lady of rank. a strawberry mark on his arm proves that he is the baron malcolm and owner of the castle of dunbayne, at which juncture amid great rejoicings the story ends. the characters and the style foreshadow mrs. radcliffe's later work. the usurping baron of dunbayne, who has imprisoned in his castle the women who might oppose his ambition; the two melancholy widows; their gentle and pensive daughters; their brave, loyal, and virtuous sons in love respectively with the two daughters; the count santmorin, bold and passionate, who endeavours by force to carry off the woman he loves--these are types that mrs. radcliffe repeatedly developed until in her later novels they became real men and women with strong conflicting emotions. but superior to all her other powers is her ability to awaken a feeling of the presence of the supernatural. the castle of dunbayne has secret doors and subterranean passages. the mysterious sound, as of a lute, is wafted on the air from an unknown source. alleyn, in endeavouring to escape through a secret passage, stumbles over something in the dark, and, on stooping to learn what it is, finds the cold hand of a corpse in his grasp. this dead man has nothing to do with the story, but is introduced merely to make the reader shudder, which mrs. radcliffe never fails to do, even after we have learned all the secrets of her art. we learn later in the book how the corpse happened to be left here unburied; for in that day of intense realism, half-way between the ancient belief in ghosts and the modern interest in mental suggestion, every occurrence outside the known laws of physics was greeted with a cynical smile. but, although mrs. radcliffe always explains the mystery in her books, we hold our breath whenever she designs that we shall. _the sicilian romance_, _the romance of the forest_, _the mysteries of udolpho_, and _the italian_ were written and published during the next seven years and each one shows a marked artistic advance over its predecessor. with the opening paragraph of each, we are carried at once into the land of the unreal, into regions of poetry rather than of prose. rugged mountains with their concealed valleys, whispering forests which the eye cannot penetrate, gothic ruins with vaulted chambers and subterranean passages, are the scenes of her stories; while event after event of her complicated plot happens either just as the mists of evening are obscuring the sun, or while the moonlight is throwing fantastic shadows over the landscape. it is an atmosphere of mystery in which one feels the weird presence of the supernatural. this is heightened by the ghostly suggestions she brings to the mind, as incorporeal as spirits. a low hurried breathing in the dark, lights flashing out from unexpected places, forms gliding noiselessly along the dark corridors, a word of warning from an unseen source, cause the reader to wait with hushed attention for the unfolding of the mystery. sometimes the solution is trivial. the reader and the inmates of udolpho are held in suspense chapter after chapter by some terrible appearance behind a black veil. when emily ventures to draw the curtain, she drops senseless to the ground. but this appearance turns out to be merely a wax effigy placed there by chance. often the explanation is more satisfactory. the disappearance of ludovico during the night from the haunted chamber where he was watching in hopes of meeting the spirits that infested it, makes the most sceptical believe for a time in the reality of the ghostly visitants; and his reappearance at the close of the book, the slave of pirates who had found a secret passage leading from the sea to this room, and had used it as a place of rendezvous, is declared by sir walter scott to meet all the requirements of romance. but by a series of strange coincidences and dreams mrs. radcliffe still makes us feel that the destiny of her characters is shaped by an unseen power. adeline is led by chance to the very ruin where her unknown father had been murdered years before. she sees in dreams all the incidents of the deed, and a manuscript he had written while in the power of his enemies falls into her hands. again by chance she finds an asylum in the home of a clergyman, arnaud la luc, who proves to be the father of her lover, theodore peyrou. it seems to be by the interposition of providence that ellena finds her mother and is recognised by her father. so in every tale we are made aware of powers not mortal shaping human destiny. mrs. radcliffe adds to this consciousness of the presence of the supernatural by another, perhaps more legitimate, method. she felt what wordsworth expressed in _tintern abbey_, written the year after her last novel was published: and i have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man; a motion and a spirit, that impels all thinking things, all objects of all thought, and rolls through all things. mrs. radcliffe seldom loses her feeling for nature, and has a strong sense of the effect of environment on her characters. julia, when in doubt about the fate of hippolitus, often walked in the evening under the shade of the high trees that environed the abbey. "the dewy coolness of the air refreshed her. the innumerable roseate tints which the parting sun-beams reflected on the rocks above, and the fine vermil glow diffused over the romantic scene beneath, softly fading from the eye as the night shades fell, excited sensations of a sweet and tranquil nature, and soothed her into a temporary forgetfulness of her sorrow." as the happy lovers, vivaldi and ellena, are gliding along the bay of naples, they hear from the shore the voices of the vine-dressers, as they repose after the labours of the day, and catch the strains of music from fishermen who are dancing on the margin of the sea. sometimes nature is prophetic. the whole description of the castle of udolpho, when emily first beholds it, is symbolical of the sufferings she is to endure there: "as she gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. from these, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. silent, lonely, and sublime it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all who dared invade its solitary reign." when emily is happy in the peasant's home in the valley below, she lingers at the casement after the sun has set: "but a clear moonlight that succeeded gave to the landscape what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens all their harsh features, and throws over the whole the mellowing shade of distant contemplation." it is this feeling for nature as a constant presence in daily life, now elating the mind with joy, now awakening a sense of foreboding or inspiring terror, and again soothing the mind to repose, that gives to her books a permanent hold upon the imagination and marks their author as a woman of genius. in her response to nature, she belongs to the lake school. scott said of her: "mrs. radcliffe has a title to be considered as the first poetess of romantic fiction, that is, if actual rhythm shall not be deemed essential to poetry." mrs. smith describes nature as we all know it, as it appears on the canvasses of constable and wilson. mrs. radcliffe's descriptions of ideal and romantic nature have earned for her the name of the english salvator rosa. mrs. radcliffe's characters are not without interest, although they are often mere types. all her heroes and heroines are ladies and gentlemen of native courtesy, superior education, and accomplishments. in _the mysteries of udolpho_ she has set forth the education which st. aubert gave to his daughter, emily: "st. aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. he gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance with every part of elegant literature. he taught her latin and english, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. she discovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was st. aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness. 'a well informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the contagion of vice and folly.'" in all their circumstances her characters are well-bred. this type has been nearly lost in literature, due, perhaps, to the minuter study of manners and the analysis of character. when an author surveys his ladies and gentlemen through a reading-glass, and points the finger at their oddities and pries into their inmost secrets, even the chesterfields become awkward and clownish. but mrs. radcliffe, like mrs. smith, is a true gentlewoman, and speaks of her characters with the delicate respect of true gentility. julia, adeline, emily, and ellena, the heroines of four of her books, love nature, and while away the melancholy hours by playing on the lute or writing poetry, and are, moreover, well qualified to have charge of a baronial castle and its dependencies. her heroes are worthy of her heroines. as they are generally seen in the presence of ladies, if they have vices there is no occasion for their display. it is only in the characters of her villains that good and evil are intertwined, and she awakens our sympathy for them equally with our horror. monsieur la motte, a weak man in the power of an unscrupulous one, is the best drawn character in _the romance of the forest_. he has taken adeline under his protection and has been as a father to her. but before this he had committed a crime which has placed his life in the hands of a powerful marquis. to free himself he consents to surrender adeline to the marquis, who has become enamoured of her beauty, hoping by the sacrifice of her honour to save his own life. he is agitated in the presence of adeline, and trembles at the approach of any stranger. scott said of him, "he is the exact picture of the needy man who has seen better days." in _the italian_, schedoni, a monk of the order of black penitents for whom the novel is named, is guilty of the most atrocious crimes in order that he may further his own ambition, but he is not devoid of natural feeling. scott says the scene in which he "is in the act of raising his arm to murder his sleeping victim, and discovers her to be his own child, is of a new, grand, and powerful character; and the horrors of the wretch who, on the brink of murder, has just escaped from committing a crime of yet more exaggerated horror, constitute the strongest painting which has been produced by mrs. radcliffe's pencil, and form a crisis well fitted to be actually embodied on canvas by some great master." every book has one or more gloomy, deep-plotting villains. but all the people of rank bear unmistakable marks of their nobility, even when their natures have become depraved by crime. in this she is the equal of scott. in every ruined abbey and castle there is a servant who brings in a comic element and relieves the strained feelings. peter, annette, and paulo are all faithful but garrulous, and often bring disaster upon their masters by overzeal in their service. when vivaldi, the hero of _the italian_, is brought before the tribunal of the inquisition, his faithful servant, paulo, rails bitterly at the treatment his master has received. vivaldi, well knowing the danger which they both incur by too free speech, bids him speak in a whisper: "'a whisper,' shouted paulo, 'i scorn to speak in a whisper. i will speak so loud that every word i say shall ring in the ears of all those old black devils on the benches yonder, ay, and those on that mountebank stage, too, that sit there looking so grim and angry, as if they longed to tear us in pieces. they--' "'silence,' said vivaldi with emphasis. 'paulo, i command you to be silent.' "'they shall know a bit of my mind,' continued paulo, without noticing vivaldi. 'i will tell them what they have to expect from all their cruel usage of my poor master. where do they expect to go to when they die, i wonder? though for that matter, they can scarcely go to a worse place than that they are in already, and i suppose it is knowing that which makes them not afraid of being ever so wicked. they shall hear a little plain truth for once in their lives, however; they shall hear--'" but by this time paulo is dragged from the room. the plots of all mrs. radcliffe's novels are complicated. a whole skein is knotted and must be unravelled thread by thread. _the mysteries of udolpho_ is the most involved. characters are introduced that are for a time apparently forgotten; one sub-plot appears within another, but at the end each is found necessary to the whole. _the italian_ is simpler than the others: the plot is less involved, and there are many strong situations. the opening sentence at once arouses the interests of the reader: "within the shade of the portico, a person with folded arms, and eyes directed towards the ground, was pacing behind the pillars the whole extent of the pavement, and was apparently so engaged by his own thoughts as not to observe that strangers were approaching. he turned, however, suddenly, as if startled by the sound of steps, and then, without further pausing, glided to a door that opened into the church, and disappeared." another scene in which the marchesa vivaldi and schedoni are plotting the death of ellena, is justly famous. the former is actuated by the desire to prevent her son's marriage to a woman of inferior rank; the latter hopes that he may gain an influence over the powerful marchesa that will lead to his promotion in the church. their conference, which takes place in the choir of the convent of san nicolo, is broken in upon by the faint sound of the organ followed by slow voices chanting the first requiem for the dead. _the italian_ is generally considered the strongest of mrs. radcliffe's novels. it was published in , and was as enthusiastically received as were its predecessors, but for some reason it was the last book mrs. radcliffe published. neither the fame it brought her, nor the eight hundred pounds she received for it from her publishers, tempted its author from her life of retirement. publicity was distasteful to her. at the age of thirty-four, at an age when many novelists had written nothing, she ceased from writing, and spent the rest of her years either in travel or in the seclusion of her own home. the novel at this time was not considered seriously as a work of art, and mrs. radcliffe may have considered that she was but trifling with time by employing her pen in that way. in looking over the book reviews in _the gentlemen's magazine_ for the years from to , it is significant that, while column after column is spent in lavish praise of a book of medicine or science which the next generation proved to be false, and of poetry that had no merit except that its feet could be counted, seldom is a novel reviewed in its pages. _the mysteries of udolpho_ was criticised for its lengthy descriptions, and _the italian_ was ignored. the direct influence of these novels on the literature of the nineteenth century cannot be estimated. mrs. radcliffe's influence upon her contemporaries can be more easily traced. the year after the publication of _the mysteries of udolpho_ lewis wrote _the monk_. this has all the horrors but none of the refined delicacy of mrs. radcliffe's work. robert charles maturin borrowed many suggestions from her, and the gentle satire of _northanger abbey_ could never have been written if jane austen had not herself come under the influence of _the romance of the forest_. but her greatest influence was upon scott. the four great realistic novelists of the eighteenth century, richardson, fielding, smollett and sterne whose influence can be so often traced in thackeray and dickens, seem never to have touched the responsive nature of scott. he edited their works and often spoke in their praise, but that which was deepest and truest in him, which gave birth to his poetry and his novels, seems never to have been aware of their existence. mrs. radcliffe and maria edgewood were his most powerful teachers. andrew lang in the introduction to _rob roy_ in the border edition of the _waverley novels_ calls attention to the fact that waverley, guy mannering, lovel of _the antiquary_, and frank osbaldistone were all poets. not only these men, but others, as edward glendinning and edgar ravenswood, bear a strong family resemblance to theodore peyrou, valancourt, and vivaldi, as well as to some of the other less important male characters in mrs. radcliffe's novels. scott's men stand forth more clearly drawn, while mrs. radcliffe's are often but dimly outlined. ellen douglas, the daughter of an exiled family; the melancholy flora macivor, who whiled away her hours by translating highland poetry into english; mary avenel, dwelling in a remote castle, are all refined, educated gentlewomen such as mrs. smith and mrs. radcliffe delighted in, and are placed in situations similar to those in which julia, adeline, and emily are found. but the heroines of mrs. smith and mrs. radcliffe have a quality which not even scott has been able to give to his women. it is expressed by a word often used during the reign of the georges, but since gone out of fashion. they were women of fine sensibilities. johnson defines this as quickness of feeling, and it has been used to mean a quickness of perception of the soul as distinguished from the intellect. the sensibilities of women may not be finer than those of men, but they respond to a greater variety of emotions. this gives to them a certain evanescent quality which we find in elizabeth bennet, jane eyre, maggie tulliver, romola, the portraits of madame le brun and angelica kauffman, and the poetry of elizabeth barrett browning. this quality men have almost never grasped whether working with the pen or the brush. rosalind, juliet, viola, beatrice, all possess it; and in a less degree, diana of the crossways is true to her sex in this respect. but the features of nearly every famous madonna, no matter how skilful the artist that painted her, are stiff and wooden when looked at from this point of view, and scott's heroines, with the possible exception of jeanie deans, are immobile when compared with woman as portrayed by many an inferior artist of her own sex. scott's complicated plots and his constant introduction of characters who are surrounded by mystery or are living in disguise again suggest mrs. radcliffe. again and again he selected the same scenes that had appealed to her, and in his earlier novels and poems he filled them in with the same details which she had chosen. perhaps it is due to her influence that all the hills of scotland, as some critic has observed, become mountains when he touches them: "the sun was nearly set behind the distant mountain of liddesdale" was the beginning of an early romance to have been entitled _thomas the rhymer_. knockwinnock bay in _the antiquary_ is first seen at sunset, and it is night when guy mannering arrives at ellangowan castle. melrose is described by moonlight. the sun as it sets in the trossachs brings to the mind of scott the very outlines and colours which mrs. radcliffe had used in giving the first appearance of udolpho, a scene which scott has highly praised; while these famous lines of james fitz-james have caught the very essence of one of her favourite spots: on this bold brow, a lordly tower; in that soft vale, a lady's bower; on yonder meadow, far away, the turrets of a cloister grey! how blithely might the bugle horn chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! how sweet, at eve, the lover's lute chime, when the groves were still and mute! and, when the midnight moon should lave her forehead in the silver wave, how solemn on the ear would come the holy matin's distant hum. in his later works scott is tediously prosaic in description, far inferior to mrs. radcliffe, and in the romantic description of scenery he never excels her. it would seem to be no mere chance that in his poetry and in his earlier novels he has so often struck the same key as did the author of _the mysteries of udolpho_. * * * * * two sisters, harriet and sophia lee, were writing books and finding readers during the time of mrs. smith, mrs. inchbald, and mrs. radcliffe. in , sophia lee published a three-volume novel, _the recess_, a story of the time of queen elizabeth, in which elizabeth, mary queen of scots, and the earls leicester, norfolk, and essex play important rôles. the two heroines are unacknowledged daughters of mary queen of scots and norfolk, to whom she has been secretly married during her imprisonment in england. many other situations in the book are equally fictitious. the historical novels written in france during the reign of louis xiv paid no heed to chronology, but men and women whom the author knew well were dressed in the garb of historical personages, and various periods of the past were brought into the space of the story. _the recess_ was not a masquerade, but the plot and characters slightly picture the reign of elizabeth. this was one of the first novels in which there was an attempt to represent a past age with something like accuracy. as this was one of the first historical novels, using the term in the modern sense, it had perhaps a right to be one of the poorest; for it is impossible to conceive three volumes of print in which there are fewer sentences that leave any impress on the mind than this once popular novel. sophia lee wrote other novels which are said to be worse than this; but in she and her sister harriet, who had the greater imagination, published _the canterbury tales_. some of those written by harriet are excellent. according to the story a group of travellers have met at an inn in canterbury, where they are delayed on account of a heavy fall of snow. to while away the weary hours of waiting, as they are gathered about the fire in true english fashion, they agree, as did the canterbury pilgrims of long ago, that each one shall tell a story. but the pilgrims whom chaucer accompanied to the shrine of thomas à becket are accurately described, and between the tales they discuss the stories and exchange lively banter in which the nature of each speaker is clearly revealed. in _the canterbury tales_ there is little character-drawing. any one of the stories might have been told by any one of the narrators, and before the conclusion the authors dropped this device. in the stories that are told the characters are weak, but the plots are interesting and many of them original and clever. these _tales_ represent the beginning of the modern short story. in a preface to a complete edition of the _tales_ published in , harriet lee wrote: "before i finally dismiss the subject, i think i may be permitted to observe that, when these volumes first appeared, a work bearing distinctly the title of _tales_, professedly adapted to different countries, and either abruptly commencing with, or breaking suddenly into, a sort of dramatic dialogue, was a novelty in the fiction of the day. innumerable _tales_ of the same stamp, and adapted in the same manner to all classes and all countries, have since appeared; with many of which i presume not to compete in merit, though i think i may fairly claim priority of design and style." _the canterbury tales_ were read and reread a long time after they were written. a critic in _blackwood's_ says of them: "they exhibit more of that species of invention which, as we have already remarked, was never common in english literature than any of the works of the first-rate novelists we have named, with the single exception of fielding." the most famous story of the collection is _kruitzener, or the german's tale_. part of the story is laid in silesia during the thirty years' war. frederick kruitzener, a bohemian, is the hero, if such a term may be used for so weak a man. in his youth he is thus described: "the splendour, therefore, which the united efforts of education, fortune, rank, and the merits of his progenitors threw around him, was early mistaken for a personal gift--a sort of emanation proceeding from the lustre of his own endowments, and for which, as he believed, he was indebted to nature, he resolved not to be accountable to man.... he was distinguished!--he saw it--he felt it--he was persuaded he should ever be so; and while yet a youth in the house of his father--dependent on his paternal affection, and entitled to demand credit of the world merely for what he was to be--he secretly looked down on that world as made only for him." the tale traces the troubles which kruitzener brings upon himself, his misery and his death. it belongs to romantic literature; the mountain scenes, a palace with secret doors, a secret gallery, a false friend, a mysterious murder, all these remind us of mrs. radcliffe's novels, but the story does not possess her power or her poetic charm. ernest hartley coleridge said of this tale: "but the _motif_--a son predestined to evil by the weakness and sensuality of his father, a father's punishment for his want of rectitude by the passionate criminality of his son, is the very key-note of tragedy." byron read this story when he was about fourteen, and it affected him powerfully. by a strange coincidence kruitzener bears a strong resemblance to lord byron himself. he was proud and melancholy, and, while he led a life of pleasure, his spirits were always wrapped in gloom. "it made a deep impression on me," writes byron, "and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that i have since written." in , he dramatised it under the title of _werner, or the inheritance_. the play follows the novel closely both in plot and conversation. an editor of byron's works wrote of it: "there is not one incident in his play, not even the most trivial, that is not in miss lee's novel. and then as to the characters--not only is every one of them to be found in _kruitzener_, but every one is there more fully and powerfully developed." _the landlady's tale_ is far superior to all others in the collection, if judged by present-day standards. this story of sin and its punishment reminds one in its moral earnestness of george eliot. mr. mandeville had brought ruin upon a poor girl, mary lawson, whose own child died, when she became the wet nurse of robert, mr. mandeville's legitimate son and heir. mary grew to love the boy, but, when the father threatened to expose her character unless she would continue to be his mistress, she ran away, taking the infant with her. she became a servant in a lodging-house in weymouth, where she lived for fifteen years, respected and beloved. at the end of that time, mr. mandeville came to the house as a lodger, where he neither recognised mary nor knew his son. but he disliked robert, and paid no heed to the fact that one of his own servants was leading the boy into evil ways. when robert was accused of a crime which his own servant had committed, he saw him sent to prison and later transported with indifference. the grief of the father when he learned that robert was his own child was most poignant, and his unavailing efforts to save him are vividly told. he is left bowed with grief, for he suffers under the double penalty of "a reproachful world and a reproaching conscience." chapter vii maria edgeworth. lady morgan "my real name is thady quirk, though in the family i have always been known by no other than 'honest thady'; afterward, in the time of sir murtagh, diseased, i remember to hear them calling me 'old thady,' and now i'm come to 'poor thady.'" thus the faithful servant of the rackrent family introduces himself, before relating the history of the lords of the castle, where he and his had lived rent-free time out of mind. and what consummate art maria edgeworth showed in her first novel, _castle rackrent_, in letting "poor thady" ramble with all the garrulity of old age. to him, who had never been farther than a day's tramp from the castle, there was nothing in the world's history but it and its owners. no servant but an irish servant could have told the story as he did, judging the characters of his masters with shrewd wit and relating their worst failings with a "god bless them." and where out of ireland could thady have found such masters, ready to spend all they had and another man's too, happy and free, and dying as merrily as they had lived! there was sir patrick, who, as thady tells us, "could sit out the best man in ireland, let alone the three kingdoms"; sir kit, who married a jewess for her money; and sir condy, who signed away the estate rather than be bothered to look into his steward's accounts, and then feigned that he was dead that he might hear what his friends said of him at the wake. but he soon came to life, and a merry time they had of it. "but to my mind," says thady, "sir condy was rather upon the sad order in the midst of it all, not finding there was such a great talk about himself after his death, as he had expected to hear." but thady loved his master, and it is with genuine grief that he records his ultimate death, and with simple and unconscious wit he adds, "he had but a very poor funeral after all." in _the absentee_, the manners and customs of the irish peasants are more broadly delineated than in _castle rackrent_. _the absentee_ was written to call the attention of the irish landlords who were living in england to the wretched condition of their tenants left in the power of unscrupulous stewards. lord colambre, the son of lord clonbrony, an absentee, visits his father's estates, which he has not seen for many years, in disguise, and goes among the peasants, many of whom are in abject poverty. but the quick generosity of the nation speaks in the poor widow o'neil's "kindly welcome, sir," with which she opens the door to the unknown lord, and its enthusiastic loyalty in the joyful acclamations of the peasants when he reveals himself to them,--a scene which macaulay has pronounced the finest in literature since the twenty-second book of the _odyssey_. _ennui_ is another of her stories of irish life, in which the supposed earl of glenthorn, after a long residence in england, returns to his irish estates. the heroine of this tale is the old nurse, ellinor o'donoghoe. as the nurses of many stories are said to have done, she had substituted her own child for the rightful heir, and was frantic with joy when she saw him the master of glenthorn castle. her devotion to the earl is pathetic, and her secret fears of the deception she had practised on the old earl may have prompted her strange speech that, if it pleased god, she would like to die on christmas day, of all days, "because the gates of heaven will be open all that day; and who knows but a body might slip in unbeknownst?" ellinor is a woman of many virtues and many failings, but she is always pure celt. how well contrasted are the two cousins, friends of ormond, sir ulick o'shane, a wily politician and a member of parliament, and mr. cornelius o'shane, king of the black islands, called by his dependents king corny. the latter, bluff, generous, brave, open as the day, is yet a match for his crafty kinsman. sir ulick's visit to king corny is a masterpiece. he has a purpose in his visit and a secret to guard, which king corny is watching to discover. sir ulick has been bantering his kinsman on the old-fashioned customs observed on his estate and ridicules his method of ploughing: "'your team, i see, is worthy of your tackle,' pursued sir ulick. 'a mule, a bull, and two lean horses. i pity the foremost poor devil of a horse, who must starve in the midst of plenty, while the horse, bull, and even mule, in a string behind him, are all plucking and munging away at their hay ropes.' "cornelius joined in sir ulick's laugh, which shortened its duration. "''tis comical ploughing, i grant,' said he, 'but still, to my fancy, anything's better and more profitable nor the tragi-comic ploughing you practise every sason in dublin.' "'i?' said sir ulick. "'ay, you and all your courtiers, ploughing the half-acre, continually pacing up and down that castle-yard, while you're waiting in attendance there. every one to his own taste, but, "'if there's a man on earth i hate, attendance and dependence be his fate.'" king corny has been studying his diplomatic kinsman carefully to learn his secret, until the wily politician, by unnecessary caution in guarding it, overreaches himself, when king corny exclaims to himself: "woodcocked! that he has, as i foresaw he would." while the trained diplomat murmurs as he takes his leave, "all's safe." native wit had got the better of artful cunning. and when sir ulick dies in disgrace, how pithy is the remark of one of the men, as he is filling in the grave: "there lies the making of an excellent gentleman--but the cunning of his head spoiled the goodness of his heart." in the same book, how generous and how irish is moriarty, lying on the brink of death, as he thinks of ormond, who had shot him in a fit of passion but bitterly repented his rash deed: "i'd live through all, if possible, for his sake, let alone my mudther's, or shister's or my own--'t would be too bad, after all the trouble he got these two nights, to be dying at last, and hanting him, maybe, whether i would or no." the quick kindness which so often twists an irishman's tongue is humorously illustrated in the _essay on irish bulls_, which maria edgeworth and her father wrote together. mr. phelim o'mooney, disguised as sir john bull, accepts his brother's wager that he cannot remain four days in england without the country of his birth being discovered eight times. whenever his speech betrays him, it is the result of his emotions. when he sees bourke, a pugilist of his own country, overcome by an englishman, he cries to him excitedly: "how are you, my gay fellow? can you see at all with the eye that is knocked out?" a little later, in discussing a certain impost duty, he grows angry and exclaims: "if i had been the english minister, i would have laid the dog-tax upon cats." the humour of his situation increases to a climax, so that the fun never flags. such stories as this in which the wit is simply sparkling good-nature, with no attempt to use it as a weapon against frail humanity as did fielding and thackeray, or to produce a smile by exaggeration as did dickens, but simply bubbling fun, as free from guile as the sun's laughter on killarney, show that miss edgeworth was a comedian of the first rank. like all true comedians, she is also strong in the pathetic, but it is the irish pathos, in which there is ever a smile amid the tears. this is found in the story of the return of lady clonbrony to her own country; the fall of castle rackrent; and the ruin by their sudden splendour of the family of christy o'donoghoe. whenever miss edgeworth writes of ireland and its people, her pages glow with the inspiration of genius. there is no exaggeration, no caricature; all is told with simple truth. it has often been the fate of novelists whose aim has been to depict the manners and customs of a locality to win the ill-will of the obscure people they have brought into prominence. but not so with maria edgeworth. her family, although originally english, had been settled for two hundred years in ireland. she loved the country and always wrote of it with a loving pen. before _castle rackrent_ was written, ireland had been for many centuries an outcast in literature, known only for her blunders and bulls. but, as one of her characters says, "an irish bull is always of the head, never of the heart." even though her characters are humorous, they are never clowns. all the men have dignity, and all the women grace. she gave them a respectable place in literature. but her influence was felt outside of ireland. old thady, in his garrulous description of the masters of castle rackrent, had introduced the first national novel, in which the avowed object is to represent traits of national character. patriotic writers in other countries learned through her how to serve their own land, and she was one of the many influences which led to the writing of the waverley novels. scott says in the preface of these books: "without being so presumptuous as to hope to emulate the rich humour, pathetic tenderness, and admirable tact which pervade the work of my accomplished friend, i felt that something might be attempted for my own country, of the same kind with that which miss edgeworth so fortunately achieved for ireland--something which might introduce her natives to those of the sister kingdom in a more favourable light than they had been placed hitherto, and tend to procure sympathy for their virtues and indulgence for their foibles." as the reader realises the power of maria edgeworth's mind, her ability to describe manners and customs, to read character, and to depict comic and tragic scenes, he wishes that her father, richard lovell edgeworth, had not so constantly interfered in her work, and insisted that every book she wrote must illustrate some principle of education. he was not singular in this respect. rousseau, whom he greatly admired at one time, had taught educational methods by a novel. madame de genlis, the teacher of louis philippe, was writing novels that were celebrated throughout europe, in which she expounded rules for the training of the young. maria edgeworth, with her father at her elbow, never lost sight of the moral of her tale. vivian, in the story of that name, was so weak that he was always at the mercy of the artful. ormond's passions led him into trouble. beauclerc was almost ruined by his foolish generosity. lady delacour, with no object in life but pleasure, cast aside her own happiness that she might outshine the woman she hated. lady clonbrony squandered her fortune and health that she might be snubbed by her social superiors. mrs. beaumont played a deep diplomatic game in her small circle of friends, and finally overreached herself. lady cecilia, the friend of helen, brought sorrow to her and infamy upon herself by her duplicity. in the analysis of motive, and the growth of cecilia's wrong-doing from a small beginning, the book resembles the novels of george eliot. but maria edgeworth could not know her own characters as she otherwise would, because the moral was always uppermost. when mrs. inchbald criticised her novel _patronage_, she replied: "please to recollect, we had our moral to work out." mr. edgeworth, in his preface to _tales of fashionable life_, thus sets forth his daughter's purpose: "it has been my daughter's aim to promote by all her works the progress of education from the cradle to the grave. all the parts of this series of moral fiction bear upon the faults and excellencies of different ages and classes; and they have all risen from that view of society which we have laid before the public in more didactic works on education." such a method of writing tended to kill emotion, yet emotion breaks out at times with genuine force, and always has a true ring. this is especially true in the _tales of fashionable life_. there society women appear cold and heartless in the drawing-room, and so they have generally been represented in fiction. so thackeray regarded them. but maria edgeworth followed them to the boudoir, and there reveals beneath the laces and jewels many beautiful womanly traits. as we see in tale after tale true feeling welling to the surface, and then choked up by the moral, we recognise the pathetic truth that mr. edgeworth's educational methods were fatal to genius. but strong emotion sways only a small part of the lives of most men and women. were it otherwise, like the great lyric poets, we should all die young. and she has written about the common, everyday, prosaic life with a truthfulness rarely excelled. one of the most interesting studies in a novel is to observe the author's view of life. with the exception of those of mademoiselle de scudéri nearly all the novels of french women considered love as the ruling passion for happiness or woe, and all of the characters were under its sway. even mademoiselle de scudéri in the preface to _ibrahim_ announced it as her distinct purpose that all her heroes were to be ruled by the two most sublime passions, love and ambition; but she was a humorist and unconsciously interested her readers more by her witty descriptions of people than by the loves of cyrus and mandane. but this passion has seldom held such an exaggerated place in the stories of english women. maria edgeworth in particular noticed that men and women were actuated by many motives or passions. a large income or a title was often capable of inspiring a feeling so akin to love that even the bosom that felt its glow was unable to distinguish the difference. loss of respect could kill the strongest passion, and some of her heroines have even remained single, or else married men whom at first they had regarded with indifference, rather than marry the object of their first love after he had forfeited their esteem. sometimes the tameness of her heroines shocked their author. while correcting _belinda_ for mrs. barbauld's "novelists' library," miss edgeworth wrote to a friend: "i really was so provoked with the cold tameness of that stick or stone belinda, that i could have torn the pages out." propinquity, opportunity, almost a mental suggestion are quite enough to produce a long chain of events affecting a lifetime. "ask half the men you are acquainted with why they are married, and their answer, if they speak the truth, will be, 'because i met miss such-a-one at such a place, and we were continually together.' 'propinquity, propinquity,' as my father used to say, and he was married five times, and twice to heiresses." so speaks mrs. broadhurst, a match-making mother in _the absentee_. and this is the reason why most of miss edgeworth's heroes and heroines love. but the advances of a designing woman are quite sufficient, as in _vivian_, to make a fond lover forget his plighted troth to another, and the flattery of an unscrupulous man makes him suspicious of his real friends. character is destiny, if the character is strong, but circumstances are destiny, if the character is weak. it is the aim of her novels to show how certain traits of character, as indecision, pride, love of luxury, indolence, lead to misfortune, and how these dangerous traits may be overcome. * * * * * notwithstanding her moral, her plots are never hackneyed and never repeated. they are drawn from life and have the variety of life. in the story of _ennui_, there is the twice-told tale of the nurse's son substituted for the real heir; but when he learns the true story of his birth, and resigns the castle, the title, and all its wealth to the rightful earl of glenthorn, who has been living in the village working at the forge, there is a great change from the usual story. the heir of the ancient family of glenthorn accepts the earldom for his son, but with reluctance. the manners of the peasant remain with the earl, and the poor man, at last, begs the one who has been educated for the position to accept the title and the estates. in this she emphasised again what she constantly taught, that education and environment are more powerful than heredity. as she taught that reason should be the guide of life, so she lived. her fourscore years and three were spent largely at her ancestral home of edgeworthstown. she assisted her father in making improvements to better the condition of the tenantry, and to promote their happiness. when in paris, she met a mr. edelcrantz, a gentleman in the service of the king of sweden. admiration was succeeded by love. but he could not leave the court at stockholm, and miss edgeworth felt that neither duty nor inclination would permit her to leave her quiet life in ireland. reason was stronger than love. so they parted like her own heroes and heroines. all that history records of him is that he never married. she resumed her responsibilities at home, and if the thought of this separation sometimes brought the tears to her eyes, as her stepmother once wrote to a friend, she was as cheerful, gay, and light-hearted in the home circle as she had always been. * * * * * besides her moral tales for adults, which were read throughout europe, maria edgeworth was always interested in the education of boys and girls. the eldest sister in a family of twenty-one children, the offspring of four marriages, she taught her younger brothers and sisters, and thus grew to know intimately the needs of childhood and what stories would appeal to them. as her father wrote, it was her "aim to promote by all her works the progress of education from the cradle to the grave." in her stories for children she inculcated lessons of industry, economy, thoughtfulness, and unselfishness. if she helped to eradicate from the novel its false, highly colored sentimental pictures of life, still greater was her work in producing literature for young people. hers were among the first wholesome stories written for children. before this the chapman had carried about with him in his pack small paper-covered books which warned boys and girls of the dangers of a life of crime. one book was named _an hundred godly lessons which a mother on her death-bed gave to her children_. another book of religious and moral sunday reading was called _the afflicted parent, or the undutiful child punished_. this gives the sad history of the two children of a gentleman in chester, a son and a daughter. the daughter chided her brother for his wickedness, upon which he struck her and killed her. he was hanged for this, but even then his punishment was not completed. he came back to life, told the minister several wicked deeds which he had committed, and was hanged a second time. in most of these tales the gallows loomed dark and threatening. * * * * * in contrast to these morbid tales are the wholesome stories of maria edgeworth. the boys and girls about whom she writes are drawn from life. if they are bad, their crimes are never enormous, but simply a yielding to the common temptations of childhood. hal, in _waste not, want not_, thinks economy beneath a gentleman's notice, and at last loses a prize in an archery contest for lack of a piece of string which he had destroyed. fisher in _the barring out_, a cowardly boy, buys twelve buns for himself with a half-crown which belonged to his friend, and then gives a false account of the money. his punishment is expulsion from the school. lazy lawrence has a worse fate. he will not work, plays pitch farthing, is led by bad companions to steal, and is sent to bridewell. but he is not left in a hopeless condition. after he had served his term of imprisonment he became remarkable for his industry. but there are more good boys and girls than bad ones in her stories. the love of children for their parents, and the sacrifices they will make for those they love, are beautifully told. in the story of _the orphans_, mary, a girl of twelve, finds a home for her brothers and sisters, after her father and mother die, in the ruins of rossmore castle, where they support themselves by their labour. mary finds that she can make shoes of cloth with soles of platted hemp, and by this industry the children earn enough for all their needs. as directions are given for making these shoes, any little girl reading the story would know how to follow the example of mary. jem in the story of _lazy lawrence_ finds that there are many ways by which he can earn the two guineas without which his horse lightfoot must be sold. he works early and late, and at last accomplishes his purpose. mrs. ritchie says of this story: "lightfoot deserves to take his humble place among the immortal winged steeds of mythology along with pegasus, or with black bess, or balaam's ass, or any other celebrated steeds." the story of _simple susan_ with its pictures of village life has the charm of an idyl. the children by the hawthorn bush choosing their may queen; susan with true heroism refusing this honour, in order that she may care for her sick mother; the incident of the guinea-hen; rose's love for susan; the old harper, playing tunes to the children grouped about him--are all simply told. susan's love for her pet lamb reminds one of wordsworth's poem of that name. and yet these children are not unusual. most boys and girls have days when they are as good as mary, or jem, or susan. maria edgeworth is not inculcating virtues which are impossible of attainment. a hundred years ago, these stories, as they came from the pen of maria edgeworth, delighted boys and girls, and for at least fifty years were read by parents and children. then for a time they were hidden in libraries, but a collection of them has lately been edited by mr. charles welsh under the appropriate title _tales that never die_, which have proved as interesting to the children of to-day as to those of by-gone generations. whether maria edgeworth is writing for old or young, there is one marked trait in all her stories, her kind feeling for all humanity. the vices of her villains are recorded in a tone of sorrow. she seldom uses satire; never "makes fun" of her characters. her attitude towards them is that of the lady of edgeworthstown towards her dependents, or rather that of the elder sister towards the younger members of the family. such broad and loving sympathy is found in shakespeare and scott, but seldom among lesser writers. * * * * * in sydney owenson, better known by her married name of lady morgan, ireland found at this time another warm but less judicious friend. her life was more interesting than her books. her father, an irish actor, introduced his daughter, while yet a child, to his associates, so that she appeared in society at an early age. but mr. owenson was improvident; debts accumulated, and sydney at the age of fourteen began to earn her own living. the position of a governess, which she filled for a time, being unsuited to her gay, independent disposition, she began to write. like johnson a half century or more earlier, with a play in manuscript as her most valuable possession, she went alone to london. she did not wait so long as he did for recognition. new books by new authors were eagerly read. she earned money, a social position, fame, and with it some disagreeable notoriety. an independent, witty irish woman of great charm, fearless in expressing her opinions, who had introduced herself into society and for whom nobody stood as sponsor, was looked upon by the old-fashioned english aristocracy as an adventuress; and later, when she came forth as the champion of irish liberties, and upbraided england for tyranny, she was maliciously denounced by the tory party. she entered upon life with three purposes, to each of which she adhered: to advocate the interest of ireland by her writings; to pay her father's debts; and to provide for his old age. all of these purposes she accomplished. besides plays and poems, and two or three insignificant stories, she wrote four novels upon irish subjects: _the wild irish girl_, _o'donnel_, _florence macarthy_, and _the o'briens and the o'flahertys_. in all these books the beauty of irish scenery is depicted as background; the fashionable life of dublin is described, as well as the peasant life in remote hamlets; while the natural resources of the land and the native gaiety of the celtic temperament are feelingly contrasted with the poverty and misery brought about by unjust laws. she thus feelingly describes the condition of ireland in the novel _o'donnel_. its sincerity must excuse its overwrought style: "silence and oblivion hung upon her destiny, and in the memory of other nations she seemed to hold no place; but the first bolt which was knocked off her chain roused her from paralysis, and, as link fell after link, her faculties strengthened, her powers revived; she gradually rose upon the political horizon of europe, like her own star brightening in the west, and lifting its light above the fogs, vapours, and clouds, which obscured its lustre. the traveller now beheld her from afar, and her shores, once so devoutly pressed by the learned, the pious, and the brave, again exhibited the welcome track of the stranger's foot. the natural beauties of the land were again explored and discovered, and taste and science found the reward of their enterprise and labours in a country long depicted as savage, because it had long been exposed to desolation and neglect." in this book a party of travellers visits the giant's causeway and its scenery is described as an almost unfrequented place. the new interest in ireland of which she writes was very largely due to the novels of maria edgeworth, and partly to those of lady morgan herself. her last novel, _the o'briens and the o'flahertys_, is of historic value. its plot was furnished by the stirring events which took place when the society of united irishmen were fighting for parliamentary reforms. lord edward fitzgerald, the devoted patriot, is easily recognised in the brave lord walter fitzwalter, and the life of thomas corbet furnished the thrilling adventures of the hero, lord arranmore. when thomas moore visited thomas corbet at caen he referred to the account given of his escape from prison in lady morgan's novel as remarkably accurate in its details. the style of miss owenson's earlier books was execrable and fully justified the severe criticism in the first number of the _quarterly review_. it gives this quotation from _ida, or the woman of athens_: "like aurora, the extremities of her delicate limbs were rosed with flowing hues, and her little foot, as it pressed its naked beauty on a scarlet cushion, resembled that of a youthful thetis from its blushing tints, or that of a fugitive atalanta from its height." the wonder is that any serious magazine should have wasted two pages of space upon such nonsense. in ridiculing the book and the author, it gives her some serious advice, with the encouragement that if she follow it, she may become, not a writer of novels, but the happy mistress of a family. whether lady morgan took this ill-meant advice or not, her style improved with each book, until in _the o'briens and the o'flahertys_ it became simple and clear, with only an occasional tendency to high colouring and bombast. maria edgeworth has described the customs and manners of ireland, and unfolded the character of its people in a manner that has never been equalled. but lady morgan, far inferior as an artist, has given fuller and more picturesque descriptions of the landscape of the country, and has made a valuable addition to the books bearing on the history of ireland. chapter viii elizabeth hamilton. anna porter. jane porter elizabeth hamilton was also an irish writer, but through her one novel she will always be associated with scotland. in _the cottagers of glenburnie_ she did for the scotch people what maria edgeworth had done for the irish, and represented for the first time in fiction the life of the common people. it is a story of poor people of the serving class. mrs. mason, who had been an upper servant in the family of a lord, has been pensioned and takes up her abode with a cousin in the village of glenburnie. she was among the earliest of our settlement workers. this little village with the pretty name, situated in a beautiful country, had accumulated about its homes as much filth as the tenements of the poorest ward of a large city, and for the same reason, that its inhabitants did not understand the value of cleanliness. its thatched cottages, had it not been for their chimneys and the smoke issuing from them, would have passed for stables or hog-sties, for there was a dunghill in front of every door. mrs. macclarty's cottage, where mrs. mason was to live, was like all the rest. it was as dirty inside as out. mrs. macclarty picked up a cloth from the floor beside her husband's boots, with which to wipe her dishes, and made her cheese in a kettle which had not been washed since the chickens had eaten their last meal from it, although the remains of their feast still adhered to the sides. when mrs. macclarty put her black hands into the cheese to stir it, mrs. mason reminded her gently that she had not washed them: "'hoot,' returned the gudewife, 'my hands do weel eneugh. i canna be fash'd to clean them at ilka turn.'" when mrs. mason proposed that the windows should be hung on hinges and supplied with iron hooks, so that they could be opened at pleasure, mr. macclarty objected to the plan: "'and wha do you think wad put in the cleek?' returned he. 'is there ane, think ye, aboot this hoose, that would be at sic a fash?' "'ilka place has just its ain gait,' said the gudewife, 'and ye needna think that ever we'll learn yours. and, indeed, to be plain wi' you, cusine, i think you hae owre mony fykes. there, didna ye keep grizzy for mair than twa hours, yesterday morning, soopin' and dustin' your room in every corner, an' cleanin' out the twa bits of buird, that are for naething but to set your foot on after a'?'" it may be well to explain that the chickens had been roosting in this chamber before mrs. mason's arrival. the story of mr. macclarty's death is pathetic. he is lying ill with a fever in the press-bed in the kitchen, where not a breath of air reaches him. the neighbours have crowded in to offer sympathy. the doors are tightly closed, and his wife has piled blankets over him and given him whiskey and hot water to drink. when mrs. mason, who knows that with proper care his life can be saved, urges that he be removed to her room where he can have air, all the neighbours violently oppose her advice. but peter macglashon, the oracle of the village, looks at it more philosophically: "'if it's the wull o' god that he's to dee, it's a' ane whar ye tak him; ye canna hinder the wull o' god.'" but upon mrs. mason's insisting that we should do our best to save the life of the sick with the reason god has given us, peter becomes alarmed: "'that's no soond doctrine,' exclaimed peter. 'it's the law of works.'" elizabeth hamilton had been a teacher and had written books on education, so that her description of the school which mrs. mason opened in the village gives an accurate idea of the scottish schools for the poorer classes. each class was divided into landlord, tenants, and under-tenants, one order being responsible for a specific amount of reading and writing to the order above it. the landlord was responsible to the master both for his own diligence and the diligence of his vassals. if the tenants disobeyed the laws they were tried by a jury of their mates. the results of the training at mrs. mason's school might well be an aim of teachers to-day: "to have been educated at the school of glenburnie implied a security for truth, diligence and honesty." the pupils in the school gradually learned to love cleanliness and order. the little flower-garden in front gave pleasure to all. the villagers declared, "the flowers are a hantel bonnier than the midden and smell a hantel sweeter, too." with this improvement in taste, the "gude auld gaits" gave way to a better order of things. _the cottagers of glenburnie_ is more realistic in detail than anything which had yet been written. it is a short simple story told in simple language. there is a slight plot, but it is the village upon which our attention is fastened. one individual stands out more strongly than the rest: that is mrs. macclarty with her constant expression, "it is well eneugh. i canna be fashed." this little book was read in every scotch village, and many of the poor people saw in it a picture of their own homes. but its sound common-sense appealed to them. it was reasonable that butter without hairs would sell for more than with them, and that gardens without weeds would produce more vegetables than when so encumbered. the book did for the cottagers of scotland what mrs. mason had done for those of glenburnie. * * * * * the lives of anna maria and jane porter resemble in a few particulars that of elizabeth hamilton. like her they belonged, at least on the father's side, to ireland, and like her they lived in scotland, and their names will always be associated with that country. but elizabeth hamilton wrote the first novel of scotland's poor, the ancestor of _the window in thrums_ and _beside the bonnie brier bush_; jane porter wrote the first novel of scotland's kings, the immediate forerunner of _waverley_, _the abbot_, and _the monastery_. upon the death of major porter, who had been stationed for some years with his regiment at durham, mrs. porter removed to edinburgh, where her children were educated. their quick lively imaginations found food for growth on scottish soil. at that time caledonia was a land of cliff and crag, inhabited by a quarrelsome people, whom the english still regarded with something the same aversion which dr. johnson had so often expressed to boswell. but every castle had its story of brave knights and fair ladies, and every brae had been the scene of renowned deeds of arms. in every cottage the memory of the past was kept alive, and fathers and mothers related to their children stories of wallace and of bruce, until the romantic past became more real than the living present. mrs. porter's servants delighted to relate to her eager children stories of scotland's glory. the maids would sing to them the songs of "wallace wight," and the serving-man would tell them tales of bannockburn and cambus-kenneth. rarely have stories fallen on such fertile soil. in a short time, three of these children became famous. sir robert ker porter, the brother of anna and jane, followed closely in the footsteps of scotland's heroes, and became distinguished as a soldier and diplomat, as well as a famous painter of battles. he painted the enormous canvas of _the storming of seringapatam_, a sensational panorama, one hundred and twenty feet in length, the first of its kind, but in a style that has often been followed in recent years. the idol of his family, it would seem that he was endowed with many of those qualities which his sisters gave to the heroes of their romances. anna maria porter, the youngest of the group, was the first to appear in print. at the age of fifteen, she published a little volume called _artless tales_. from this time until her death, at least every two years a new book from her pen was announced. she wrote a large number of historical romances, which were widely read and translated into many languages. this kind of story, in the hands of sophia lee, was tame and uninteresting. anna porter increased its scope and its popularity. her plots are well worked out with many thrilling adventures. her imagination, however, had been quickened by reading, not by observation, and although her scenes cover many countries of europe and many periods of history, they differ but little in pictorial detail, and her characters are lifeless. her style of writing is, moreover, so inflated that it gives an air of unreality to her books. she thus describes the hungarian brothers: "they were, indeed, perfect specimens of the loveliness of youth and the magnificence of manhood." this novel, dealing with the french revolution, was one of the most popular of all her stories. it went through several editions both in england and on the continent. superlative expressions seem to have been fashionable in that age which was still encumbered by much that was artificial in dress and manners. miss porter with proper formality thus writes of her heroine as she was recovering from a fainting fit: "with a blissful shiver, ippolita slowly unclosed her eyes, and turning them round, with such a look as we may imagine blessed angels cast, when awakening amid the raptures of another world, she met those of her sweet and gracious uncle." some of her society novels are witty and have a lively style, which suggests the truth of mr. s. c. hall's description of the sisters. anna, a blonde, handsome and gay, he named l'allegro, in contrast to jane, a brunette, equally handsome, but with the dignified manners of the heroines of her own romances, whom he styled il penseroso. * * * * * jane porter took a more serious view of the responsibilities of authorship than her sister. her first novel, _thaddeus of warsaw_, was written while england was agitated against france and excited over the wrongs of poland. it grew out of popular feeling. miss porter had become acquainted with friends of kosciusko, men who had taken part with him in his country's struggle for liberty, and made him the hero of the story. the scenery of poland was so well described that the poles refused to believe that she had not visited their country; and events were related in a manner so pleasing to them that they distinguished the author by many honours. it is one thing to write an historical novel of people and events that have long been buried in oblivion; but to write a story of times so near the present that its chief actors are still living, is, indeed, a rash task. and for any history to meet with the approval of its hero and his friends bespeaks rare excellence in the work. in the light of the classic standing of the historical novel, due to the genius of scott and dumas, it is interesting to read how _thaddeus of warsaw_ came to be published. miss porter wrote the romance merely for her own amusement, with no thought of its being read outside the circle of her family and intimate friends. they urged her to publish it. but for a long time she resisted their importunities on the ground that it did not belong to any known style of writing: stories of real life, like _tom jones_, or improbable romances, like _the mysteries of udolpho_, were the only legitimate forms of fiction. _thaddeus of warsaw_ had the exact details of history with a romance added to please the author's fancy. thus did jane porter discover to the world the possibilities of the historical novel. her next novel, _the scottish chiefs_, grew out of the stories she had heard in her childhood. besides the tales of scotland's struggle for independence which she heard from the servants in her own home, a venerable old woman called luckie forbes, who lived not far from mrs. porter's house, used to tell her of the wonderful deeds of william wallace. of the influence these stories had upon her childish mind, jane porter has thus written: "i must avow, that to luckie forbes's familiar, and even endearing, manner of narrating the lives of william wallace and his dauntless followers; her representation of their heart-sacrifices for the good of their country, filling me with an admiration and a reverential amazement, like her own; and calling forth my tears and sobs, when she told of the deaths of some, and of the cruel execution of the virtuous leader of them all;--to her i must date my early and continued enthusiasm in the character of sir william wallace! and in the friends his truly hero-soul delighted to honour." before writing _the scottish chiefs_, miss porter read everything she could find bearing upon the history of england and scotland during the reigns of the first two edwards. she personally visited the places she described. she wrote in the preface: "i assure the reader that i seldom lead him to any spot in scotland whither some written or oral testimony respecting my hero had not previously conducted myself." besides these sources of information, miss porter was familiar with the poem of _wallace_ by blind harry the minstrel, the biographer of scotland's national hero. blind harry lived nearly two centuries after the death of wallace, but he had access to books now lost, and collected stories about scotland's struggle for independence while it was still prominent in the public mind. although he tells many exalted stories of the numbers whom wallace overcame by his single arm, the poem is on the whole authentic. sheriff mackay in the _dictionary of national biography_ writes that the life of wallace by blind harry "became the secular bible of his countrymen, and echoes through their later history." miss porter introduced love scenes to vary the deeds of war, but there is nothing else in _the scottish chiefs_ which is not true to history, or to that more legitimate source of romance, the traditions common among the people. from the opening chapter, in which wallace is described as an outlaw because he had refused to take the oath of allegiance to an english king, to his death in london and the final crowning of bruce, there is not a dull page. especially interesting is the scene between william wallace and the earl of carrick, after the battle of falkirk, and the appearance of robert bruce, who overheard this conversation, fighting by the side of wallace. the truth of this incident has been denied, but it is related by blind harry. the trial of william wallace in the great hall at westminster for treason, and his defence that he had never acknowledged the english government, is most impressive, and is a matter of record. _the scottish chiefs_ is the first historical novel in which the author made diligent research in order to give a truthful representation of the times. it has the atmosphere of feudal days. notwithstanding the ridicule cast upon wallace as a lady's hero, he is drawn in heroic proportions. miss mitford declared that she scarcely knew "one _herós de roman_ whom it is possible to admire, except wallace in miss porter's story." the work is written in the style of the old epics. the many puerile attempts of the last few years to write an historical romance in which washington or lincoln should figure have shown how difficult is the task. how weak and commonplace have these great men appeared in fiction! it requires a nature akin to the heroic to draw it. in , when it was published, _the scottish chiefs_ was the only great historical romance. four years later _waverley_ was published, the first of the novels of sir walter scott. this was superior in imagination and in craftsmanship to miss porter's novel, but not in interest. _the scottish chiefs_ has since been excelled by many others of the waverley novels, though not by all, by _henry esmond_, and _a tale of two cities_, but it preceded all these in time, and still holds a place as a classic of the second rank. critics of to-day smile at its enthusiastic style, but miss porter speaks with no more enthusiasm than did the poor folk from whom she heard the story. as long as enthusiastic youth loves an unblemished hero, _the scottish chiefs_ will be read. it is impossible to analyse these early impressions or to test their truth. one can only remember them with gratitude. jane porter has, however, taught the youth of other lands to reverence scotland's popular hero, so that the mention of his name awakens a thrill of pleasure, and the hills and glades associated with his deeds glow with the light of romance. in , jane porter wrote a third historical novel, _the pastor's fireside_. this is far inferior to _the scottish chiefs_. it has the same elevated style, and the mystery which surrounds the hero awakens and holds the attention. but the novel deals with the later stuarts, and one feels that the author herself was but little interested in the historical events about which she was writing. the book has no abiding qualities. in was published a book bearing the title _sir edward seaward's narrative of his shipwreck and consequent discovery of certain islands in the caribbean sea, with a detail of many extraordinary and highly interesting events in his life from the year to as written in his own diary. edited by jane porter._ in the preface miss porter explains how the manuscript was given to her by the relatives of sir edward. the story reads like a second robinson crusoe. it has all the minute details that give an air of verisimilitude to the writings of defoe. in the opening chapter, edward seaward supposedly gives this account of himself: "born of loyal and honest parents, whose means were just sufficient to give a common education to their children, i have neither to boast of pedigree nor of learning; yet they bequeathed to me a better inheritance--a stout constitution, a peaceable disposition, and a proper sense of what is due to my superiors and equals; for such an inheritance i am grateful to god, and to them." in the story he is married to a woman of his own rank, and she embarks with him for jamaica, but they are shipwrecked on an island near lat. deg. min. n. and long. deg. w. they find bags of money hidden on the island, some negroes come to them, and a schooner is driven to their haven. edward sees in this a purpose which afterward is fulfilled. he says to his wife: "i should be the most ungrateful of men, to the good god who has bestowed all this on me, if i did not feel that this money, so wonderfully delivered into my hands, was for some special purpose of stewardship. the providential arrival of the poor castaway negroes, and then of the schooner,--all--all working together to give us the means of providing every comfort, towards planting a colony of refuge in that blessed haven of our own preservation,--seem to me, in solemn truth, as so many signs from the divine will, that it is our duty to fulfil a task allotted to us, in that long unknown island." this island becomes inhabited by a happy people, and seaward is knighted by george the second. everybody read the book. a second edition was called for within the year. old naval officers got out their charts, and hunted up the probable locality of the places mentioned. nobody at first doubted its veracity. the _quarterly_, however, decided that no such man had ever existed and that the whole story was a fiction. it hunted for a schooner mentioned and the names of the naval officers. the latter had never served in his majesty's navy and the former had not timed her voyages according to the story. the uniform of a naval officer described in the narrative was not worn until thirteen years after these adventures had taken place, and no man by the name of seaward had been knighted during this time, nor was there any village in england having the name of the village which he gave as his birthplace. supposing the editor had changed names and dates, the _quarterly_ criticism becomes valueless. although the magazine declared it a work of fiction, it gave both the story and the style high praise, and declared it far superior to her romances. when miss porter was asked about it, she declined to answer, but said that scott had his great secret and she might be permitted to have her little one. it is generally considered now to have been the work of jane porter. no two books differ more in style than _the scottish chiefs_ and _sir edward seaward_. but twenty-two years had elapsed between them. the former is written in dignified, stately language; the latter in simple homely words, and both its invention and its style entitle it to a place among english classics. chapter ix amelia opie. mary brunton every novel that touches upon the life of its generation naturally in course of time becomes historical. these novels should be preserved, not necessarily for their literary excellence, but because they bear the imprint of an age. such are the novels of amelia opie and mary brunton. mrs. opie, then miss alderson, left her quiet home in norwich to visit london at the height of the furor occasioned by the french revolution. the literary circles in which she was received were discussing excitedly the rights of men and women, and the beauties of life lived according to the dictates of nature. among these enthusiasts, miss alderson met mary wollstonecraft, the author of _vindication of the rights of woman_, and esteemed her highly. her own imagination did not, however, yield to the intoxication of a life of perfect freedom, a dream which wrecked the life of mary wollstonecraft. there is no sadder biography than that of mary wollstonecraft. in paris, she met gilbert imlay, an american, with whom she fell in love. when he wished to marry her, she refused to permit him to make her his wife, because she had family debts to pay, and she was unwilling to have him legally responsible for them. but she had read the books of rousseau, and had been deeply impressed with the thought that marriage is a bondage, not needed by true love. she took the name of imlay, and passed for his wife, but the marriage was not sanctioned either by the church or by law. after the birth of a daughter, imlay deserted her. at first she tried to commit suicide, and there is the sad picture of this talented woman walking about in the drenching rain, and then throwing herself from the bridge at putney. she was rescued, and a little over a year later became the wife of william godwin. the life-story of mary wollstonecraft suggested to amelia opie the novel of _adeline mowbray, or the mother and daughter_, which was not written until after the death of the original. it is a tender pathetic story. mrs. mowbray, the mother of adeline, believed by her neighbours to be a genius, is interested in new theories of education, and, while writing a book on that subject, occasionally experiments with adeline, although she neglects her for the most part. in spite of this adeline grows up beautiful and pure, totally ignorant of the world and its wickedness. her mother often quoted in her presence the book of a mr. glenmurray, in which he proves marriage to be a tyranny and a profanation of the sacred ties of love. adeline is captivated by the enthusiastic ideals of the young author. there is a fine contrast in character and motive, where adeline is entertaining mr. glenmurray, the high-minded writer, and sir patrick o'carrol, a man of many gallantries. sir patrick is shocked to meet at her home the man whose theories have banished him from respectable society. adeline, innocent of any low interpretation that may be put upon her words, makes the frank avowal that, in her opinion, marriage is a shameless tie, and that love and honour are all that should bind men and women. sir patrick heartily agrees with her sentiments, and as a consequence accosts her with a freedom repugnant to her, although she hardly understands its import, while glenmurray sits by gloomily, resolving to warn her in private that the opinions she had expressed were better confined in the present dark state of the public mind to a select and discriminating circle. after they leave adeline, glenmurray, as the outcome of this meeting, had the satisfaction of fighting a duel with sir patrick, contrary to the tenets of his own book. but when, to escape the advances of sir patrick, adeline places herself under the protection of glenmurray, who ardently loves her, he urges her to marry him. this she refuses to do, and encourages him to show the world the truth and beauty of his teachings. glenmurray, a man of sensitive nature, suffers more than adeline from the indignities she constantly receives when she frankly says she is mr. glenmurray's companion, not his wife. he takes her from place to place to avoid them, for he realises that the world censures her, while it excuses him. but adeline is so happy in her love for him, and in her faith in his teachings, that she endures every humiliation with the faith of the early christian martyrs. when he urges her, as he so often does, to marry him, he reads in her eyes only grief that he will not gladly suffer for what he believes to be right, and desists rather than pain her. but his death is hastened by the harassing thought that her whole future is blighted by his teachings. as he says to her just before his death: "had not i, with the heedless vanity of youth, given to the world the crude conceptions of four-and-twenty, you might at this moment have been the idol of a respectable society; and i, equally respected, have been the husband of your heart; while happiness would perhaps have kept that fatal disease at bay, of which anxiety has facilitated the approach." it is a beautiful love story, but the hero and heroine were of too fine a fibre to stand alone against the world. after the death of glenmurray, the interest flags. the conclusion is weak, not at all worthy of the beginning. love of every variety has been the theme of poets and novelists, but there is no love story more beautiful for its self-sacrificing devotion to principle and to each other, than the few pages of this novel which tell of the unsanctioned married life of the high-minded idealist and his bride. mrs. opie wrote _simple tales_ and _tales of real life_. they are for the most part pathetic stories in which unhappiness in the family circle is caused either by undue sternness of a parent, the unfilial conduct of a son or daughter, or a misunderstanding between husband and wife. the feelings of the characters are often minutely described. a firm faith in the underlying goodness of human nature is shown throughout all these tales, and all teach love and forbearance. * * * * * mary brunton like mrs. opie wrote to improve the ethical ideals of her generation. in the books of that day the theory was often advanced that young men must sow their wild oats, and that men were more pleasing to the ladies for a few vices. her first novel, _self-control_, was written to contradict this doctrine. in a letter to joanna baillie, mrs. brunton wrote: "i merely intended to show the power of the religious principle in bestowing self-command, and to bear testimony against a maxim as immoral as indelicate, that a reformed rake makes the best husband." laura, the heroine of _self-control_, ardently loved a man of rank and fashion. when she learned of his amours, her love turned first to grief, then to disgust. stung by her abhorrence, he attempted to seduce her to conquer her pride. the purity of the heroine triumphs. she meets a man whom she esteems and afterwards marries. many of laura's adventures border on the improbable, but her emotions are truthfully depicted. this was a bolder novel than appears on the surface. long before this the wicked heroine had been banished from fiction. the leading lady must be virtuous to keep the love of the hero. richardson laid down that law of the novel. mary brunton asserted the same rule for the hero, and maintained that a gentleman, handsome, noble, accomplished, could not retain the love of a pure woman, if he were not virtuous. the book gave rise to heated discussions. two gentlemen had a violent dispute over it: one said it ought to be burnt by the common hangman; the other, that it ought to be written in letters of gold. beyond its ethical import, the novel has no literary value. the kind reception given to _self-control_ led the author to begin her second novel, _discipline_. this was intended to show how the mind must be trained by suffering before it can hope for true enjoyment when self-control is lacking. mary brunton had read miss edgeworth's description of the irish people with pleasure; so she planned to set forth in this novel the manners of the scottish highlands and of the orkneys, where she herself had been born. but before it was finished, _waverley_ was published. there the scottish highlands stood forth on a large canvas, distinct and truthful, and mrs. brunton realised at once how weak her own attempts were compared with scott's masterly work. her interest in her book flagged, although it was published in december of that year. some of the highland scenes are interesting because accurately described, and her account of a mad-house in edinburgh is said to be an exact representation of an asylum for the insane in that city. mrs. brunton died before her third novel, _emmeline_, was finished. her husband, the reverend alexander brunton, professor of oriental languages at edinburgh university, published the fragment of it with her memoirs after her death. the aim of this novel was to show how little chance of happiness there is when a divorced woman marries her seducer. it only shows the inability of emmeline to live down her past shame and the unhappiness which follows the married pair. in the novels of mrs. opie and mary brunton the standard of conduct is the same as to-day. both men and women are expected to lead upright lives, with true regard for the happiness of those about them. in _self-control_ the hero refuses to fight a duel with the villain who has injured him, and forgives him with a true christian spirit. to be sure, there are still seductions, and the world of fashion is without a heart. but conduct which the former generation would have regarded with a smile is here denominated sin, and that which they named prudery shines forth as virtue. the problems of life which these novels discuss are the same, as we have said, which agitate the world to-day. chapter x jane austen if in this age of steam and electricity you would escape from the noise of the city, and experience for an hour the quiet joys of the english countryside, at a time when a chaise and four was the quickest means of reaching the metropolis from any part of the kingdom, turn to the pages of jane austen. in them have been preserved faithful pictures of the peaceful life of the south of england exactly as it existed a hundred and more years ago. the gently sloping downs crossed by hedgerows, the lazy rivers meandering through the valleys, the little villages half hidden in the orchards of apple, pear, peach, and plum, all suggest the land of happy homes. on the outskirts of every village there are the two of three gentlemen's houses: the substantial mansion of the squire, with its park of old elms, oaks, and beeches; a smaller house suitable for a gentleman of slender income, like mr. bennet, the father of the four girls of _pride and prejudice_, or for an elder son who will in time take possession of the hall, like charles musgrove in the story of _persuasion_; and the still smaller parsonage standing in the garden of vegetables and flowers, surrounded by a laurel hedge, where lives a younger son or a friend of the family. the gentry that inhabit these homes carry on the plot of jane austen's novels. and what an even, almost uneventful life they lead. life with them is one long holiday. dance follows dance, varied only by a dinner at the mansion, a picnic party, private theatricals, a brief sojourn at bath, a briefer one in london, or a ride to lyme, seventeen miles away. but cupid ever hovers near, and in each one of these groups of gentle folk we watch the course of true love, "which never did run smooth." for in spite of match-making mammas and stern fathers with an eye that the marriage settlements shall be sufficient to clothe sentiment with true british respectability, the six novels of jane austen contain as many true and tender love stories, differing from one another not so much in the incidents as in the characters of the lovers. unlike the older novelists, who constantly drew the attention away from the main theme by stories of thrilling adventure, jane austen holds closely to the great problem of fiction, whether or not the youths and maidens will be happily married at the conclusion of the book. when darcy first meets elizabeth, the heroine of _pride and prejudice_, he shuns her and her family as vulgar. elizabeth is so prejudiced against him that she cannot forget his insulting arrogance. but darcy's love cannot be stemmed. other heroes have plunged into raging floods to rescue the fair heroine. darcy does more. for love of elizabeth he accepts the whole bennet family, including mrs. bennet, who always says the silly thing, and lydia, who had almost invited wickham to elope with her and was indifferent as to whether or not he married her, until darcy compelled him to do so--a bitter humiliation for a man whose greatest fault was overweening pride of birth. at last, elizabeth comprehends the extent of his generosity, his superior understanding and strength of character, and darcy is rewarded by the hand of the sunniest heroine in all fiction. who but elizabeth with her independent spirit, quick intelligence and lively wit could curb his family pride! they marry, and we know they will be happy. _sense and sensibility_ works out a problem for lovers. like many romantic girls, marianne asserts that a woman can love but once. "he never loved that loved not at first sight" is also part of her creed. but after her infatuation for willoughby has been cured, she contentedly marries colonel brandon, although she knows that he frequently has rheumatism and wears flannel waistcoats. marianne will be much happier as the wife of a man of mature years who loves her impulsive nature and can control it than she would have been with the gallant who won her first love. in the piquant satire of _northanger abbey_ there is another problem suggested. this book is distinctly modern. man is the pursued; woman the pursuer. bernard shaw has treated this momentous question in a serious manner in many of his plays. jane austen regards it with a humorous smile. did henry tilney ever know why he married catherine morland? or was this daughter of a country parsonage, without beauty, without accomplishments, and without riches, aware that on her first visit to bath she used feminine arts that would have put becky sharp to shame--who, by the way, was a little girl at that time--and would have made anne, the knowing heroine of _man and superman_, green with envy? yet her arts consisted simply in following the dictates of her heart. she fell in love with henry tilney; looked for him whenever she entered the pump-room; was unhappy if he were absent and expressed her joy at his approach; saw in him the paragon of wisdom and looked at every thing with his eyes. from first ignoring her, he began to seek her society, and learn the true excellence of her character. and then jane austen explains: "i must confess that this affection originated in nothing better than gratitude; or in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. it is a new circumstance in romance, i acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's dignity, but if it is as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will be all my own." but lest we think that miss austen is asserting a rule that women take the initiative in this matter of love and marriage, it is well to remember that darcy first loved elizabeth bennet, and forced her to acknowledge his worth, and that colonel brandon married a young lady who had formerly supposed him at the advanced age of thirty-five to be occupied with thoughts of death rather than of love. and mr. knightley is another hero who fell in love and waited patiently for its return. emma is like marianne in one respect, she needed guidance. almost from childhood the mistress of her father's house and the first lady in the society of highbury, she was threatened by two evils, "the power of having too much her own way, and a disposition to think a little too well of herself." mr. knightley, the elder brother of her elder sister's husband, is the only person that sees that she is not always wise and that she is sometimes selfish. he is the only one that chides her. emma is interested in promoting the welfare of all about her, but she lacks that most feminine quality of insight, so that her well-meant help, as in the case of her protégée, poor harriet smith, is sometimes productive of evil. and yet emma is brave and self-forgetful. not until she has schooled herself to think of mr. knightley as married to harriet, is she aware how much he is a part of her own life. but this is only another instance of her blindness. when she learns that he has loved her with all her faults ever since she was thirteen, she is very happy. there is no tumultuous passion in this union, but we are assured of a love that will abide through the years. in _mansfield park_ and in _persuasion_, there is another variety of the old story. fanny price and anne elliot, the one the daughter of a poor lieutenant of marines, whose family is the most ill-bred in all miss austen's books, the other the neglected daughter of sir walter elliot, baronet, have more in common than any other of her heroines. although these stories are different, yet in each it is the devotion of the heroine that guides the course of love through many obstacles into a quiet haven. who that reads their story will say that miss austen's maidens are without passion? they do not analyse their feelings, nor do they pour them forth in wild soliloquy. but the heart of each is clearly revealed through little acts and expressions. fanny price, cherishing a love for edmund bertram, who was kind to her when she was neglected by everybody else, refuses to marry the rich, handsome, and brilliant mr. crawford, although she herself is penniless. we feel her misery as she realises that she is nothing but a friend to edmund and rejoice with her when her love awakens a response. anne elliot, the gentlest of all her heroines, who in obedience to her father has broken her engagement to captain wentworth eight years before, when she is again thrown into his company, observes his every expression, and grows sad and weak in health at his studied neglect. other heroines have said more, but none have felt more than miss austen's. anne elliot herself has spoken for them: "all the privilege i claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one) is that of loving longest, when existence, or when hope, is gone." but jane austen, like shakespeare, is a dramatist. so, lest this be taken for miss austen's opinion, captain wentworth has the last word here when he writes to anne, "dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. unjust i have been, weak and resentful i have been, but never inconstant." and so, at the close of these novels, two more happy homes are added to those of rural england. are there many heroes and heroines for whom we dare predict a happy married life? would mr. b. and pamela have written such long letters to each other about the training of their children if conversation had not been a bore? evelina must have been disappointed to discover that lord orville lived on roast beef, plum-pudding, and port wine instead of music and poetry. of all scott's heroes and heroines none had sacrificed more for each other than ivanhoe and rowena; he gave up rotherwood, and, as a disinherited son, sought forgetfulness of her charms in distant palestine; she put aside all hopes of becoming a saxon queen, and was true to the gallant son of cedric. yet we have thackeray for authority that they were not only unhappy, but often quarrelled after scott left them at the altar. and none of thackeray's marriages turned out well, although becky sharp made rodney crawley very happy until he discovered her wiles. dickens was perhaps more fortunate, but david was led away by the cunning ways of dora before he discovered a companion and helpmate in agnes, a heroine worthy to be placed beside elizabeth and jane bennet. george eliot's books and those of later novelists are rather a warning than an incentive to matrimony. have all our sighs and tears over the mishaps of ill-starred lovers been in vain, and is it true that when the curtain falls at the wedding it is only to shut from view a scene of domestic infelicity? not so with jane austen. she is the queen of match-makers. the marriages brought about by her guidance give a belief in the permanency of english home life, quite as necessary for the welfare of the kingdom as the stability of magna charta. her heroes have qualities that wear well, and her heroines might have inspired wordsworth's lines: a creature not too bright or good for human nature's daily food, for transient sorrows, simple wiles, praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles. besides the lovers, many diverting people lived in these homes of the gentry, quite as amusing as any of the peasants who were brought upon the stage by the older dramatists for our entertainment; perhaps more amusing, because of their self-sufficiency. these people seldom do anything that is peculiar, nor are they the objects of practical jokes, as were so many men and women in the earlier books; but they talk freely both at home and abroad about whatever is of interest to them. they seldom use stereotyped words or phrases, yet their conversation is a crystal from which the whole mental horizon of the speaker shines forth. when mrs. bennet learns that netherfield park has been let to a single gentleman of fortune, her first exclamation comes from the heart--"what a fine thing for our girls!" after mr. collins, upon whom mr. bennet's estate is entailed, has resolved to make all possible amends to his daughters by marrying one of them, and is making his famous proposal to elizabeth, he says with solemn composure: "but, before i am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying--and, moreover, for coming into hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as i certainly did." no wonder elizabeth laughed at such a lover. mr. collins is the same type of man as mr. smith, whom evelina meets at snow hill, but infinitely more ridiculous because he is an educated man of some attainments. then there is mr. woodhouse, the father of emma, with his constant solicitude for everybody's health and his fears that they may have indigestion. when his daughter and her family arrive from london, all well and hearty, he says by way of hospitality: "you and i will have a nice basin of gruel together. my dear emma, suppose we all have a basin of gruel." his friend mrs. bates is always voluble. she is describing mr. dixon's country seat in ireland to emma: "jane has heard a great deal of its beauty--from mr. dixon, i mean--i do not know that she ever heard about it from anybody else--but it was very natural, you know, that he should like to speak of his own place while he was paying his addresses--and as jane used to be very often walking out with them--for colonel and mrs. campbell were very particular about their daughter's not walking out often with only mr. dixon, for which i do not at all blame them; of course she heard everything he might be telling miss campbell about his own home in ireland." one respects the mental power of a woman who could remember the main thread of her discourse amid so many digressions. how characteristic is sir walter elliot's reply to the gentleman who is trying to bring a neighbour's name to his mind. "wentworth? oh, ay! mr. wentworth, the curate of monkford. you misled me by the term _gentleman_. i thought you were speaking of some man of property." and not the least amusing of these people is mr. elton's bride, a pert sort of woman who for some reason patronises everybody into whose company she is thrown. after meeting mr. knightley, by far the most consequential person about highbury, she expresses her approval of him to emma: "knightley is quite the gentleman! i like him very much! decidedly, i think, a very gentlemanlike man." and emma wonders if mr. knightley has been able to pronounce this self-important newcomer as quite the lady. pick out almost any speech at random, and anyone who is at all familiar with miss austen will easily recognise the speaker. this ability to describe people by such delicate touches has been highly praised by macaulay in the essay on madame d'arblay before quoted. he thus compares jane austen with shakespeare: "admirable as he [shakespeare] was in all parts of his art, we must admire him for this, that, while he has left us a greater number of striking portraits than all other dramatists put together, he has scarcely left us a single caricature. shakespeare has had neither equal nor second. but among the writers who, in the point which we have mentioned, have approached nearest to the manner of the great master, we have no hesitation in placing jane austen, a woman of whom england is justly proud. she has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, commonplace, all such as we meet every day. yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. there are, for instance, four clergymen, none of whom we should be surprised to find in any parsonage in the kingdom, mr. edward ferrars, mr. henry tilney, mr. edmund bertram, and mr. elton. they are all specimens of the upper part of the middle class. they have all been liberally educated. they all lie under the restraints of the same sacred profession. they are all young. they are all in love. not one of them has any hobbyhorse, to use the phrase of sterne. not one has a ruling passion, such as we read of in pope. who would not have expected them to be insipid likenesses of each other? no such thing. harpagon is not more unlike to jourdain, joseph surface is not more unlike to sir lucius o'trigger, than every one of miss austen's young divines to his reverend brethren. and almost all this is done by touches so delicate that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and that we know them to exist only by the general effect to which they have contributed." like shakespeare jane austen knew the inner nature by intuition, and had learned its outward expression by observation. character not only affects the speech of each one of her men and women, but determines their destiny and shapes the plot of the story. the class she has chosen to represent is the least under the sway of circumstances of any in england. with money for all needs, and leisure for enjoyment, free from obligations which pertain to higher rank, character here develops freely and naturally. not one of the matchmaking men or women, not even the intelligent emma, succeeds in changing the life of those whom they attempt to influence. character is stronger than any outside agency. in this respect, jane austen is decidedly at variance with thomas hardy or tolstoi, but she is at one with shakespeare. in the opening paragraph of each book, character begins to assert itself. if darcy had been without pride, and elizabeth had been without prejudice; if marianne had had her sensibilities under control; if emma had not been blind; if captain wentworth had not been unjust and resentful--there would have been no story to tell, the course of true love would have run so smooth. but all of them are loving and faithful, and these qualities in the end conquer, and bring the stories to a happy conclusion. edmund gosse thus writes of her delineation of character: "like balzac, like tourgenieff at his best, jane austen gives the reader an impression of knowing everything there was to know about her creations, of being incapable of error as to their acts, thoughts, or emotions. she presents an absolute illusion of reality; she exhibits an art so consummate that we mistake it for nature. she never mixes her own temperament with those of her characters, she is never swayed by them, she never loses for a moment her perfect, serene control of them. among the creators of the world, jane austen takes a place that is with the highest and that is purely her own." this seeming control of her characters is due largely to the fact that whatever happens to them is just what might have been expected. this is particularly true of the bad people she has created. innocence led astray has been a popular means of exciting interest ever since richardson told the sad story of clarissa harlowe. but there is no such incident in jane austen's books. lydia, who hasn't a thought for anybody nor anything but a red-coat, and wickham, who elopes with her without any intention of matrimony, are properly punished, by being married to each other, and the future unhappiness which must be their lot is due to their own natures. willoughby had seduced one girl, trifled with the affections of another, and married an heiress, but he finds only misery, and sadly says: "i must rub through the world as well as i can." henry crawford, and his sister, with so much that is good in their natures, yet with a lack of moral fibre, are both unhappy. each has lost the one they respected and loved and might have married. with what wit she leaves william elliot, the all-agreeable man, the heir of sir walter, who, that he may keep the latter single, has enticed the scheming mrs. clay from his home: "and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning or hers may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from being the wife of sir walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of sir william." and so punishment is meted out with that nicety of judgment which distinguishes every detail of her novels. but jane austen has little interest in immorality. "let other pens dwell on guilt and misery; i quit such odious subjects as soon as i can," she says in _mansfield park_. and her readers have observed that deeds of evil take place off the stage, while she records only what is reported of them in the drawing-room. she dwells as little on misery as on guilt. she shows in her letters charitable regard for the poor people of steventon and chawton. she describes minutely the unkempt house of lieutenant price at portsmouth with its incessant noise of heavy steps, banging doors, and untrained servants, where every voice was loud excepting mrs. price's, which resembled "the soft monotony of lady bertram's, only worn into fretfulness." miss austen's pen was able to portray scenes of squalor and vice; she chose to turn from them. perhaps she felt instinctively that true æsthetic pleasure cannot be produced by dwelling on a scene in a book which would be repulsive to the eye. miss austen wrote before there was much serious interest in the lives of the poor. their only function in literature had been to provoke laughter. the sensitive daughter of the rector of steventon may have felt, as others have, that there was no occasion to laugh at the blunders and ill-manners of peasants, which were proper and natural to their condition of life. she did not need these people to entertain us. there were quite as funny people in the hall as in the cottage, funnier, even, because their humorous sayings spring from a humorous twist in their natures, not from ignorance. sir walter scott, after reading _pride and prejudice_ for the third time, said: "that young lady had a talent for describing the involvements and feelings and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful i ever met with. the big bow-wow strain i can do myself, like any now going; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me." sir walter scott proved the truth of the above statement in _st. ronan's well_, one of the least successful of his novels, which was written in imitation of jane austen. because jane austen confined her work so closely to ordinary middle-class people, she has been called narrow. but if we judge men and women not by dress and manners, but by what they are, these people furnish as broad a view of humanity as could be obtained by travelling up and down the world. a trained botanist will gather an herbarium from a country lane that will give a more extended knowledge of botany than a less skilful one could get by travelling through the woods and fields of a continent. very few novelists have portrayed greater varieties of human nature than miss austen. jane austen's style has been praised by all critics. george william curtis wrote of her art: "she writes wholly as an artist, while george eliot advocates views, and miss brontë's fiery page is often a personal protest. in miss austen, on the other hand, there is in kind, but infinitely less in degree, the same clear atmosphere of pure art which we perceive in shakespeare and goethe." while miss austen has been so often likened to shakespeare, she is in no sense a romantic writer. she belongs purely to the classic school. she has the restraint, the perfect poise of the greeks. she recognises everywhere the need of law. she accepts society as it exists under the restraints of law and religion. she no more questioned the english prayer book and the english constitution than homer questioned the existence of the gods and the supreme power of kings. this feeling for law shaped her art. her plots are perfectly symmetrical. there is no redundancy in expression. there is none of that wild luxuriance in fancy or expression so common in romanticism. each word used is needed in the sentence, and is in its proper place. the strength of romanticism lies in its impetuosity; the strength of classicism lies in its self-control. this is the strength of jane austen. emotion in her books is so restrained that the superficial reader doubts its existence. yet her characters feel deeply and are sensitive to the acts and words of those about them. although their feelings are under control, they are none the less real. the reader watches, but is not asked to participate in their griefs. as she never moves to tears, neither does she provoke laughter, but she lightens every page with a quiet glow of humour. humour was as natural to her as to elizabeth bennet, whose sayings give the sparkle to _pride and prejudice_. much of the humour in her letters consists of an unexpected turn to a sentence or an incongruous combination of words. she writes of meeting "dr. hall in such very deep mourning that either his mother, his wife or himself must be dead." she announces the marriage of a gentleman to a widow by the laconic message, "dr. gardiner was married yesterday to mrs. percy and her three daughters." and again she says that a certain mrs. blount appeared the same as in september, "with the same broad face, diamond bandeau, white shoes, pink husband, and fat neck." she sees through the affectations of society and observes the pleasure afforded by the small misfortunes of another as plainly as did thackeray later. the wife of a certain gentleman is discovered "to be everything the neighbourhood could wish, silly and cross as well as extravagant." she finds continual source of enjoyment in people's foibles, and thinks that her own misfortunes ought to furnish jokes to her acquaintances, or she will die in their debt for entertainment. in a less refined degree, this was the view of life of miss burney, her favourite author. miss austen was but three years old when evelina made her début at ranelagh, and not over seven when cecilia visited her three guardians in london: _camilla_ was published in the year that it is thought that miss austen began _pride and prejudice_. during these years, miss burney's fame was undimmed. consider yourself for a moment in a circulating library, in the year or , suppose you are fond of novel reading, and have moreover the refined tastes of miss austen; you will find there no novelist who can hold a rival place to miss burney. miss austen refers to her both in her novels and letters. in only one passage in her novels has she interrupted her story to express a general opinion; that is in _northanger abbey_, where she praises the art of the novelist, and refers particularly to _cecilia_, _camilla_, and _belinda_. in the same novel john thorpe's lack of taste is emphasised by his calling _camilla_ a stupid book of unnatural stuff, which he could not get through. she evidently discussed miss burney's novels with the people she met; a certain young man just entered at oxford has heard that _evelina_ was written by dr. johnson, and she finds two traits in a certain miss fletcher very pleasing: "she admires _camilla_, and drinks no cream in her tea." but miss austen was no blind disciple of miss burney. all the odd characters which miss burney culled from the lower ranks of society were swept away by miss austen. everything approaching tragedy or the improbable is avoided, but what is left is amplified and refined until there is no more trace of miss burney than there is of perugino in the paintings of raphael. artists in other lines have striven in their work for a unified whole. most novelists have been more intent on pointing a moral or producing a sensation than on the technique of their writing. their works as a whole lack proportion. they obtrude unnecessarily in one part and are weak in another. miss austen wrote because the characters in her brain demanded expression. who could remain silent with elizabeth bennet urging her to utterance? she wrote with the greatest care because she could do nothing slovenly. whatever place may be assigned to her as the years go by, her novels surpass all others written in english in their perfect art. miss austen's genius was but slowly recognised. her first books were published in , only three years before _waverley_, and her last novels were published after it. who will linger over the teacups while knights in armour are riding the streets without? it is not until the cavalcade has passed that home seems again a quiet, refreshing spot. so the public, tired of the brilliant scenes and conflicting passions of other novels, has in the last few years turned back to the simple, wholesome stories of jane austen. chapter xi miss ferrier. miss mitford. anna maria hall walter scott, the most chivalrous of all writers, brought to an end woman's supremacy in the novel, in . at this time prose fiction was far different from what it was in , when tobias smollet died, and much of this difference was due to women. professor masson, in his lectures on the novel, gives the names of twenty novelists who wrote between - who are remembered in the history of english literature. "with the exception of godwin," he writes, "i do not know that any of the male novelists i have mentioned could be put in comparison, in respect of genuine merit, with such novelists of the other sex as mrs. radcliffe, miss edgeworth, and miss austen." it is equally worthy of note that, of the twenty names given, fourteen are women. although during these years women had developed the historical novel, and had brought the novel of mystery to a high degree of perfection, they left the most enduring stamp on literature as realists, as painters of everyday life and commonplace people. francis jeffrey wrote: "it required almost the same courage to get rid of the jargon of fashionable life and the swarms of peers, foundlings, and seducers, that infested our modern fables as it did in those days to sweep away the mythological persons of antiquity, and to introduce characters who spoke and acted like those who were to peruse their adventures." women awakened interest in the humdrum lives of their neighbours next door, and this without any exaggeration, simply by minute attention to little things, and quick sympathy in the joys and sorrows of others. they described manners and customs; their view of life was largely objective. it is a noteworthy fact that while scott was casting over all europe the light of romanticism, the women writers of the time, with but one or two exceptions, were viewing life with the clear vision of miss edgeworth and miss austen, as if the world obtruded too glaringly upon their eyes to be lost sight of in happy day-dreams. * * * * * susan edmonstone ferrier is better known to-day as the friend of scott, and an occasional visitor at abbotsford, than as a successful novelist. she was born at edinburgh in , where her father, james ferrier, was writer to the signet, and at one time clerk of session, scott being one of his colleagues. that great genius was one of the earliest to appreciate the excellence of her descriptions of scottish life given in her first book, entitled _marriage_, published anonymously in . in the conclusion of the _tales of my landlord_ he paid the unknown writer this graceful tribute: "there remains behind not only a large harvest, but labourers capable of gathering it in; more than one writer has of late displayed talents of this description, and if the present author, himself a phantom, may be permitted to distinguish a brother, or perhaps a sister, shadow, he would mention in particular the author of the very lively work entitled _marriage_." miss ferrier wrote but three novels, _marriage_, _the inheritance_, and _destiny_, a period of six years intervening between the appearance of each of them. like miss burney and miss edgeworth she depicts two grades of society. she shows forth the fashionable life of edinburgh and london, and the cruder mode of living found in the scottish highlands. but between her and her models there is the great difference of genius and talent. they passed what they had seen through the alembic of imagination; she has depicted what she saw with the faithfulness of the camera, and the crude realism of these scenes does not always blend with the warp and woof of the story. like miss edgeworth, miss ferrier had a moral to work out. she treats society as a satirist, and lays bare its heartlessness, and the unhappiness of its members who to escape ennui are led hither and thither by the caprice of the moment. while she may present one side of the picture, one hesitates to accept lady juliana, mrs. st. clair, or lady elizabeth as common types of a london drawing-room. her plots as well as her characters suffer from this conscious attempt to teach the happiness that must follow the practice of the christian virtues. in _marriage_ there are two complete stories. lady juliana is the heroine of the first part; her two daughters, who are born in the first half, supplant their mother as heroines of the second half. the plot of _destiny_ is not much better. the denouement is tame, and the characters lack consistency. _the inheritance_ has the strongest plot of the three; but mrs. st. clair and her secret interviews with the monstrosity lewiston, who, by the way, has the honour to be an american, throw an air of unreality over a story in many respects intensely real. in this story, as in so many old novels, the nurse's daughter had been brought up as the rightful heiress. the scene in which she tells her betrothed lover, the heir of the estate, the story of her birth, which she had just learned, is said to have suggested to tennyson the beautiful ballad of _lady clare_. but when miss ferrier sees loom in imagination the sombre purple hills of the highlands, with the black tarns in the hollows half-hidden in mist, her genius awakes. if she had devoted herself to these people and this region, and ignored the fashionable life of the cities, she might have written a book worthy to be placed beside the best of miss edgeworth or miss mitford. at the time she wrote, the highland chief no longer summoned his clan about him at a blast from his bugle, but he had lost little of his old-time picturesqueness. the opening of _destiny_ describes the wealth of the chief of glenroy: "all the world knows that there is nothing on earth to be compared to a highland chief. he has his loch and his islands, his mountains and his castle, his piper and his tartan, his forests and his deer, his thousands of acres of untrodden heath, and his tens of thousands of black-faced sheep, and his bands of bonneted clansmen, with claymores and gaelic, and hot blood and dirks." but miss ferrier also depicted a more sordid type of highlander. christopher north in his _noctes ambrosianæ_ writes of her novels: "they are the works of a very clever woman, sir, and they have one feature of true and melancholy interest quite peculiar to themselves. it is in them alone that the ultimate breaking-down and debasement of the highland character has been depicted. sir walter scott had fixed the enamel of genius over the last fitful gleams of their half-savage chivalry, but a humbler and sadder scene--the age of lucre-banished clans,--of chieftains dwindled into imitation squires, and of chiefs content to barter the recollections of a thousand years for a few gaudy seasons of almacks and crockfords, the euthanasia of kilted aldermen and steamboat pibrochs, was reserved for miss ferrier." besides her descriptions of the highlands, miss ferrier has drawn several scotch characters that deserve to live. what a delightful group is described in _marriage_, consisting of the three misses douglas, known as "the girls," and their friend mrs. maclaughlan! miss jacky douglas, the senior of the trio, "was reckoned a woman of sense"; miss grizzy was distinguished by her good-nature and the entanglement of her thoughts; and it was said that miss nicky was "not wanting for sense either"; while their friend lady maclaughlan loved and tyrannised over all three of them. sir walter scott admired the character of miss becky duguid, a poor old maid, who "was expected to attend all accouchements, christenings, deaths, chestings, and burials, but she was seldom asked to a marriage, and never to any party of pleasure." joanna baillie thought the loud-spoken minister, m'dow, a true representative of a few of the scotch clergy whose only aim is preferment and good cheer. but none of her other characters can compare with the devoted mrs. molly macaulay, the friend of the chief of glenroy in _destiny_. when glenroy has an attack of palsy, she hurries to him, and when she is told that he has missed her, she exclaims with perfect self-forgetfulness: "deed, and i thought he would do that, for he has always been so kind to me,--and i thought sometimes when i was away, oh, thinks i to myself, i wonder what glenroy will do for somebody to be angry with,--for ben-bowie's grown so deaf, poor creature, it's not worth his while to be angry at him,--and you're so gentle that it would not do for him to be angry at you; but i'm sure he has a good right to be angry at me, considering how kind he has always been to me." christopher north said of molly macaulay, "no sinner of our gender could have adequately filled up the outline." george saintsbury, considering the permanent value of miss ferrier's work, wrote for the _fortnightly review_ in : "of the four requisites of the novelist, plot, character, description, and dialogue, she is only weak in the first. the lapse of an entire half-century and a complete change of manners have put her books to the hardest test they are ever likely to have to endure, and they come through it triumphantly." but, besides the excellences mentioned by mr. saintsbury, miss ferrier is master of humour and pathos. no story is sadder than that of ronald malcolm, the hero of _destiny_. he had been willed the castle of inch orran with its vast estates, but with the provision that he was to have no benefit from it until his twenty-sixth year. in case of his death the property was to go to his father, an upright but poor man. as ronald had many years to wait before he could enjoy his riches, he entered the navy. his ship was lost at sea and the news of his death reported in scotland. but ronald had been rescued from the sinking ship, and returned to his father's cottage. here he met a purblind old woman, who told him how his father, captain malcolm, had moved to the castle, and what good he was doing among his tenantry. she described the sorrow of the people at the death of ronald, but added: "och! it was god's providence to tak' the boy out of his worthy father's way; and noo a' thing 's as it should be, and he has gotten his ain, honest man; and long, long may he enjoy it!" and then she said thankfully, "the poor lad's death was a great blessing--och ay, 'deed was 't." the scene where ronald goes to the castle and looks in at the window upon the happy family group, consisting of his father and mother, brothers and sisters, resembles in many particulars the sad return of enoch arden. the close of the scene is as touching in the novel as in the poem: "yes, yes, they are happy, and i am forgotten!" sobs the lad, as he turns away. miss ferrier, however, seldom touches the pathetic; she is first of all a humourist. but there is a blending of the smiles and tears of human life in the delightful character of adam ramsay. engaged as a boy to lizzie lundie, he had gone forth into the world to make a fortune, but when he returned after many years he found that she had married in his absence, and soon afterwards had died. crabbed to all about him, he still cherished the remembrance of his early love, and was quickly moved by any appeal to her memory. the practical philosophy of the scottish peasantry is amusingly set forth in the scene where miss st. clair visits one of the cottages on lord rossville's estate. she found the goodman very ill, and everything about the room betokening extreme poverty. when she offered to send him milk and broth, and a carpet and chairs to make the room more comfortable, his wife interposed, "a suit o' gude bein comfortable dead claise, tammes, wad set ye better than aw the braw chyres an' carpets i' the toon." sometime afterward, when miss st. clair called to see how the invalid was, she found him in the press-bed, while the clothes were warming before the fire. his wife explained that she could not have him in the way, and if he were cold, it could not be helped, as the clothes had to be aired, and added, "an' i 'm thinkin' he 'll no be lang o' wantin' them noo." but notwithstanding her humour, miss ferrier was a stern moralist, whose attitude toward life had been influenced indirectly by the teachings of john knox. she sometimes seems to stand her characters in the stocks, and call upon the populace to view their sins or absurdities. she seldom throws the veil of charity over them. men as novelists are prone to exaggeration. women have represented life with greater truth both in its larger aspects and in details. miss ferrier carries this quality to an extreme. she tells not only the truth, but, with almost heartless honesty, reveals the whole of it, so that many of her men and women are repugnant to the reader while they amuse him. the best judges of scottish manners have borne witness to the exactness of her portraiture. she is, perhaps, an example of the artistic failure of over-realism. mary russell mitford like miss ferrier painted her scenes and her portraits from real life. but there is as wide a difference between their writings as between the rocky ledges of the grampian hills and the soft meadows bathed in the sunshine which stretch back of the cottages of our village. miss mitford's, indeed, was a sunny nature, not to be hardened nor embittered by a lifelong anxiety over poverty and debts. her father, dr. mitford, had spent nearly all his own fortune when he married miss mary russell, an heiress. besides being constantly involved in lawsuits, he was addicted to gambling, and soon squandered the fortune which his wife had brought him, besides twenty thousand pounds won in a lottery. he is said to have lost in speculations and at play about seventy thousand pounds, at that time a large fortune. the authoress was a little over thirty years of age when the poverty of the family forced them to leave bertram house, their home for many years, and remove to a little labourer's cottage about a mile away, on the principal street of a little village near reading, known as three mile cross. here the support of the family devolved upon the daughter, a burden made harder by the continual extravagance of the father, whom she devotedly loved. although she received large sums for her writings, it is with the greatest weariness that she writes to her friend miss barrett, afterwards mrs. browning, of the struggles that have been hers the greater part of her life, the ten or twelve hours of literary drudgery each day, often in spite of ill health, and her hope that she may always provide for her father his accustomed comforts. not only was she enabled to do this, but, through the help of friends, to pay, after his death, the one thousand pounds indebtedness, his only legacy to her. yet there is not a trace of this worry in the delightful series of papers called _our village_, which she began to contribute at this time to the _lady's magazine_. before this she had become known as a poet and a successful playwright, but had believed herself incapable of writing good prose. necessity revealed her fine power of description, and three mile cross furnished her with scenes and characters. _our village_ marked a new style in fiction. the year it was commenced, she wrote to a friend: "with regard to novels, i should like to see one undertaken without any plot at all. i do not mean that it should have no story; but i should like some writer of luxuriant fancy to begin with a certain set of characters--one family, for instance--without any preconceived design farther than one or two incidents or dialogues, which would naturally suggest fresh matter, and so proceed in this way, throwing in incidents and characters profusely, but avoiding all stage tricks and strong situations, till some death or marriage should afford a natural conclusion to the book." miss mitford followed this plan as far as her great love of nature would permit. for when she found her daily cares too great to be borne in the little eight-by-eight living-room, she escaped to the woods and fields. she loved the poets who wrote of nature, and next to miss austen, whom she placed far above any other novelist, she delighted in the novels of charlotte smith, and in her own pages there is the same true feeling for nature. _our village_ follows in a few particulars gilbert white's _history of selborne_. as he described the beauties of selborne through the varying seasons of the year, she describes her walks about three mile cross, first when the meadows are covered with hoar frost, then when the air is perfumed with violets, and later when the harvest field is yellow with ripened corn. all the lanes, the favourite banks, the shady recesses are described with delicate and loving touch. how her own joyous, optimistic nature speaks in this record of a morning walk in a backward spring: "cold bright weather. all within doors, sunny and chilly; all without, windy and dusty, it is quite tantalising to see that brilliant sun careering through so beautiful a sky, and to feel little more warmth from his presence than one does from that of his fair but cold sister, the moon. even the sky, beautiful as it is, has the look of that one sometimes sees in a very bright moonlight night--deeply, intensely blue, with white fleecy clouds driven vigorously along by a strong breeze, now veiling and now exposing the dazzling luminary around whom they sail. a beautiful sky! and, in spite of its coldness, a beautiful world!" but how naturally we meet the people of the village and become interested in them. there is harriet, the belle of the village, "a flirt passive," who made the tarts and puddings in the author's kitchen; joel brent, her lover, a carter by calling, but, by virtue of his personal accomplishments, the village beau. there is the publican, the carpenter, the washerwoman; little lizzie, the spoilt child, and all the other boys and girls of the village. it is very natural to-day to meet these poor people in novels; at that time the poor people of ireland and scotland had begun to creep into fiction, but it was as unusual in england as a novel without a plot. even to-day miss mitford's attitude toward these people is not common. it seems never to have occurred to the author, and certainly does not to her readers, that these men dressed in overalls and these women in print dresses with sleeves rolled to the elbow were not the finest ladies and gentlemen of the land. she greets them all with a playful humour which reminds one of the genial smile of elia. c. h. herford in _the age of wordsworth_ wrote of _our village_: "no such intimate and sympathetic portrayal of village life had been given before, and perhaps it needed a woman's sympathetic eye for little things to show the way. of the professional story-teller on the alert for a sensation there is as little as of the professional novelist on the watch for a lesson." _belford regis_, a series of country and town sketches, was written soon after the completion of _our village_. here again is the happy blending of nature and humanity; the same fusion of truth and fiction. as belford regis is "our market town," there is a wider range of characters, as different classes are represented; and a more intimate view, since the same people appear in more than one story. stephen lane, the butcher, and his wife are often met with. he is so fat that "when he walks, he overfills the pavement, and is more difficult to pass than a link of full-dressed misses or a chain of becloaked dandies." of mrs. lane she writes: "butcher's wife and butcher's daughter though she were, yet was she a graceful and gracious woman, one of nature's gentlewomen in look and in thought." there was miss savage, "who was called a sensible woman because she had a gruff voice and vinegar aspect"; and miss steele, who was called literary, because forty years ago she made a grand poetical collection. miss mitford even does justice to mrs. hollis, the fruiterer and the village gossip; "there she sits, a tall, square, upright figure, surmounted by a pleasant, comely face, eyes as black as a sloe, cheeks as rounds as an apple, and a complexion as ruddy as a peach, as fine a specimen of a healthy, hearty english tradeswoman, the feminine of john bull, as one would desire to see on a summer's day.... as a gossip she was incomparable. she knew everybody and everything; had always the freshest intelligence, and the newest news; her reports like her plums had the bloom on them, and she would as much have scorned to palm upon you an old piece of scandal as to send you strawberries that had been two days gathered." a reviewer in the _athenæum_ thus criticises the book: "if (to be hypercritical) the pictures they contain be a trifle too sunny and too cheerful to be real--if they show more generosity and refinement and self-sacrifice existing among the middle classes than does exist,--too much of the meek beauty, too little of the squalidity of humble life,--we love them none the less, and their authoress all the more." in _belford regis_ we miss the fields, the brooks, the flowers, and the sky, which made the charm of _our village_. in some respects it is a more ambitious book, but it has not the perennial charm of _our village_. miss mitford's favourite author, as we have seen, was jane austen. she had the same regard for her that miss austen felt for fanny burney. the two authors have many points of resemblance. both have the same clear vision, and sunny nature; the same repugnance to all that is sensational, or coarse, or low; the same dislike of strong pathos or broad humour; and miss mitford has approached more closely than any other writer to the elegance of diction and purity of style of miss austen. they have another point in common, they both show excellent taste in their writings. this quality of good taste is due to native delicacy and refinement, a sensitive withdrawal from what is ugly, and a quick feeling for true proportion; the very things which give to a woman her superior tact, which ruskin has called "the touch sense." in the novel it is pre-eminently a feminine characteristic. few men have it in a marked degree. it adds all the charm we feel in the presence of a refined woman to the novels of miss edgeworth, miss austen, and miss mitford. but, while miss mitford and miss austen have many points of resemblance, they have many points of difference. miss austen liked the society of men and women, and during her younger days was fond of dinner-parties and balls. miss mitford preferred the woods and fields, liked the society of her dogs, and wrote to a friend before she was twenty that she would never go to another dance if she could help it. miss austen selects a small group of gentry, and by the intertwining of their lives forms a beautiful plot; miss mitford rambles through the village and the country walks of three mile cross, and as she meets the butcher, the publican, the boys at cricket, she gleans some story of interest, and brings back to us, as it were, a basket in which have been thrown in careless profusion violets and anemones, cowslips and daisies, and all the other flowers of the field. * * * * * mrs. anna maria hall, a country-woman of miss edgeworth, wrote of her first novel: "_my sketches of irish character_, my first dear book, was inspired by a desire to describe my native place, as miss mitford had done in _our village_, and this made me an author." most of these sketches were drawn from the county of wexford, her native place, whose inhabitants, she says in the preface, are descendants of the anglo-norman settlers of the reign of henry the second, and speak a language unknown in other districts of ireland. the book is a series of well-told stories of the poor people, whom we should have imagined to be pure celt, if the author had not said they resembled the english. there is the tender pathos, the quick humour, the joke which often answers an argument, the guidance of the heart rather than the head; but she has dwelt upon one characteristic but lightly touched upon by miss edgeworth and lady morgan, the poetic feeling of the celt, the imagery that so often adorns their common speech. the old irish wife says to the bride who speaks disrespectfully of the fairies: "hush, avourneen! sure they have the use of the may-dew before it falls, and the colour of the lilies and the roses before it's folded in the tender buds; and can steal the notes out of the birds' throats while they sleep." _the irish peasantry_, and _lights and shadows of irish life_, won mrs. hall the ill-will rather than the love of her countrymen. she had lived for a long time in england, and upon returning to her native land was impressed by the lack of forethought which kept the country poor. their early marriages, their indifference to time, their frequent visits to the public house, their hospitality to strangers even when they themselves were in extreme poverty and debt--all made so deep an impression upon her mind that she attempted to teach the irish worldly wisdom. but the lesson was distasteful to the people and probably useless, as the characteristics which she would change were the very essence of the irish nature, the traits which made him a celt, not a saxon. in these books, the wooings, weddings, and funerals are portrayed, and there is a little glimpse of fairy lore. _midsummer eve, a fairy tale of love_, grew out of the fairy legends of ireland. it is said that a child whose father has died before its birth is placed by nature under the peculiar guardianship of the fairies; and, if born on midsummer eve, it becomes their rightful property; they take it to their own homes and leave in its place one of their changelings. the heroine of the story is a child of that nature, over whose birth the fairies of air, earth, and water preside. but at the will of nightstar, queen of the fairies of the air, she is left with her mother, but adopted and watched over by the fairies as their own. their great gift to her is that of loving and being loved. the human element is not well blended with the fairy element. the entire setting should have been rural, for in the city of london, particularly in the exhibition of the royal academy, where part of the story is placed, it is not easy to keep the tranquil twilight atmosphere, which fairies love. the book is like a song in which the bass and soprano are written in different keys. but when we are back in ireland, and the fairies again appear and disappear, it is charming. the old woodcutter, randy, who sees and talks with the fairies, is a delightful creature, and gives to the story much of its beauty. mrs. hall's novels have but little literary value, but she has brought to light irish characteristics and irish traditions which were overlooked by her predecessors, and for that reason they deserve to live. chapter xii lady caroline lamb. mrs. shelley it is impossible to comprehend the byronic craze which swept cool-headed england off her feet during the regency. _childe harold_ was the fashion, and many a hero of romance, even down to the time of _pendennis_, aped his fashions. disraeli and bulwer were among his disciples. bulwer's early novels, _falkland_ and _pelham_, were influenced by him; and _vivian grey_ and _venetia_ might have been the offspring of byron's prose brain, so completely was disraeli under his influence at the time. the poorest of the novels of this class, but the one which gives the most intimate picture of byron, is _glenarvon_, by lady caroline lamb. its hero is byron. the plot follows the outlines of her own life, and all the characters were counterparts of living people whom she knew. calantha, the heroine, representing lady caroline, is married to lord avondale, or william lamb, better known as lord melbourne, at one time premier of england. lord and lady avondale are very happy, until glenarvon, "the spirit of evil," appears and dazzles calantha. twice she is about to elope with him, but the thought of her husband and children keeps her back. they part, and for a time tender _billets-doux_ pass between them, until calantha receives a cruel letter from glenarvon, in which he bids her leave him in peace. other well-known people appeared in the book. lord holland was the great nabob, lady holland was the princess of madagascar, and samuel rogers was the yellow hyena or the pale poet. the novel had also a moral purpose; it was intended to show the danger of a life devoted to pleasure and fashion. of course the book made a sensation. lady caroline lamb, the daughter of earl bessborough, the granddaughter of earl spencer, related to nearly all the great houses of england, had all her life followed every impulse of a too susceptible imagination. her infatuation for lord byron had long been a theme for gossip throughout london. she invited him constantly to her home; went to assemblies in his carriage; and, if he were invited to parties to which she was not, walked the streets to meet him; she confided to every chance acquaintance that she was dying of love for him. yet, as one reads of this affair, one suspects that this devotion was nothing more than the infatuation of a high-strung nature for the hero of a romance. in writing to a friend about her husband, she says, "he was privy to my affair with lord byron and laughed at it." on her death-bed she said of her husband, "but remember, the only noble fellow i ever met with was william lamb." a month after her death, lord melbourne wrote a sketch of her life for the _literary gazette_. in this he said: "her character it is difficult to analyse, because, owing to the extreme susceptibility of her imagination, and the unhesitating and rapid manner in which she followed its impulses, her conduct was one perpetual kaleidoscope of changes.... to the poor she was invariably charitable--she was more: in spite of her ordinary thoughtlessness of self, for them she had consideration as well as generosity, and delicacy no less than relief. for her friends she had a ready and active love; for her enemies no hatred: never perhaps was there a human being who had less malevolence; as all her errors hurt only herself, so against herself only were levelled her accusation and reproach." how far byron was in earnest in this tragicomedy is more difficult to determine. in one letter to her he writes: "i was and am yours, freely and entirely, to obey, to honour, to love, and fly with you, where, when, and how yourself might and may determine." that byron was piqued when he read the book, his letter to moore proves: "by the way, i suppose you have seen _glenarvon_. it seems to me if the authoress had written the truth--the whole truth--the romance would not only have been more romantic, but more entertaining. as for the likeness, the picture can't be good; i did not sit long enough." it was not pleasing to lord byron's vanity to appear in her book as the spirit of evil, beside her husband, a high-minded gentleman, ready to sacrifice for his friends everything "but his honour and integrity." notwithstanding the humorous elements in the connection of lord byron and lady caroline lamb, the story is pathetic. his poetic personality attracted her as the light does the poor moth. disraeli caricatured her in the character of mrs. felix lorraine in _vivian grey_, and introduced her into _venetia_ under the title of lady monteagle, where he made much of her love for the poet cadurcis, otherwise lord byron. lady caroline lamb wrote two other novels, but they are of no value. in her third, _ada reis_, considered her best, she introduced bulwer as the good spirit. the little poem written by lady caroline lamb on the day fixed for her departure from brocket hall, after it had been decided that she was to live in retirement away from her husband and son, shows tenderness and poetic feeling: they dance--they sing--they bless the day, i weep the while--and well i may: husband, nor child, to greet me come, without a friend--without a home: i sit beneath my favourite tree, sing then, my little birds, to me, in music, love, and liberty. at the time that the british public was smiling graciously, even if a little humorously, upon lady caroline lamb, and was lionising lord byron, it spurned from its presence with the greatest disdain percy and mary shelley. even after the death of shelley, when mary returned to london with herself and son to support, it received her as the prodigal daughter for whom the crumbs from the rich man's table must suffice. mary shelley had inherited from her mother the world's frown. mary wollstonecraft godwin had been, the greater part of her life, at variance with society. she was the author, as has been said, of the _vindication of the rights of woman_, and had for a long time been an opponent of marriage, chiefly because the civil laws pertaining to it deprived both husband and wife of their proper liberty. her bitter experience with imlay had, however, so modified her views on this latter subject that she became the wife of william godwin a short time before the birth of their daughter mary, who in after years became mrs. shelley. although her mother died at her birth, mary godwin was deeply imbued with her theories of life. she had read her books, and had often heard her father express the same views concerning the bondage of marriage and its uselessness. her elopement with shelley while his wife harriet was still living gains a certain sanction from the fact that she plighted her troth to him at her mother's grave. after the sad death of harriet, however, shelley and mary godwin conceded to the world's opinion, and were legally married. but the anger of society was not appeased, and, even after both had become famous, it continued to ignore the poet shelley and his gifted wife. at the age of nineteen mrs. shelley was led to write her first novel. mr. and mrs. shelley and byron were spending the summer of in the mountains of switzerland. continuous rain kept them in-doors, where they passed the time in reading ghost stories. at the suggestion of byron, each one agreed to write a blood-curdling tale. it is one of the strange freaks of invention that this young girl succeeded where shelley and byron failed. byron wrote a fragment of a story which was printed with _mazeppa_. shelley also began a story, but when he had reduced his characters to a most pitiable condition, he wearied of them and could devise no way to bring the tale to a fitting conclusion. after listening to a conversation between the two poets upon the possibilities of science discovering the secrets of life, the story known as _frankenstein, or the modern prometheus_ shaped itself in mary's mind. _frankenstein_ is one of those novels that defy the critic. everyone recognises that the letters written by captain walton to his sister in which he tells of his meeting with frankenstein, and repeats to her the story he has just heard from his guest, makes an awkward introduction to the real narrative. yet all this part about captain walton and his crew was added at the suggestion of shelley after the rest of the story had been written. but the narrative of frankenstein is so powerful, so real, that, once read, it can never be forgotten. mrs. shelley wrote in the introduction of the edition of that, before writing it, she was trying to think of a story, "one that would speak to the mysterious fears of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror--one to make the reader dread to look round, to curdle the blood and quicken the beatings of the heart." that she has done this the experience of every reader will prove. but the story has a greater hold on the imagination than this alone would give it. the monster created by frankenstein is closely related to our own human nature. "my heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy," he says, "and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change without torture, such as you cannot even imagine." there is a wonderful blending of good and evil in this demon, and, while the magnitude of his crimes makes us shudder, his wrongs and his loneliness awaken our pity. "the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. yet even that enemy of god and man had friends and associates in his desolation; i am quite alone," the monster complains to his creator. who can forget the scene where he watches frankenstein at work making for him the companion that he had promised? perhaps sadder than the story of the monster is that of frankenstein, who, led by a desire to widen human knowledge, finds that the fulfilment of his lofty ambition has brought only a curse to mankind. in , mary shelley published a second novel, _valperga_, so named from a castle and small independent territory near lucca. castruccio castracani, whose life machiavelli has told, is the hero of the story. the greatest soldier and satirist of his times, the man of the novel is considered inferior to the man of history. mrs. shelley had read broadly before beginning the book, and she has described minutely the customs of the age about which she is writing. shelley pronounced it "a living and moving picture of an age almost forgotten." the interest centres in the two heroines, euthanasia, countess of valperga, and beatrice, prophetess of ferrara. strong, intellectual, and passionate, not until the time of george eliot did women of this type become prominent in fiction. euthanasia, a guelph and a florentine, with a soul "adapted for the reception of all good," was betrothed to the youth castruccio, whom she at that time loved. later, when his character deteriorated under the influence of selfish ambition, she ceased to love him, and said, "he cast off humanity, honesty, honourable feeling, all that i prize." castruccio belonged to the ghibelines, so that the story of their love is intertwined with the struggle between these two parties in italy. but more beautiful than the intellectual character of euthanasia, is the spiritual one of beatrice, the adopted daughter of the bishop of ferrara, who is regarded with feelings of reverence by her countrymen, because of her prophetic powers. pure and deeply religious, she accepted all the suggestions of her mind as a message from god. when castruccio came to ferrara and was entertained by the bishop as the prince and liberator of his country, she believed that together they could accomplish much for her beloved country: "she prayed to the virgin to inspire her; and, again giving herself up to reverie, she wove a subtle web, whose materials she believed heavenly, but which were indeed stolen from the glowing wings of love." no wonder she believed the dictates of her own heart, she whose words the superstition of the age had so often declared miraculous. she was barely seventeen and she loved for the first time. how pathetic is her disillusionment when castruccio bade her farewell for a season, as he was about to leave ferrara. she had believed that the holy spirit had brought castruccio to her that by the union of his manly qualities and her divine attributes some great work might be fulfilled. but as he left her, he spoke only of earthly happiness: "it was her heart, her whole soul she had given; her understanding, her prophetic powers, all the little universe that with her ardent spirit she grasped and possessed, she had surrendered, fully, and without reserve; but, alas! the most worthless part alone had been accepted, and the rest cast as dust upon the winds." afterwards, when she wandered forth a beggar, and was rescued by euthanasia, she exclaimed to her: "you either worship a useless shadow, or a fiend in the clothing of a god." the daughter of mary wollstonecraft could fully sympathise with beatrice. in the grief, almost madness, with which beatrice realises her self-deception, there are traces of frankenstein. perhaps no problem plucked from the tree of good and evil was so ever-present to mary shelley as why misery so often follows an obedience to the highest dictates of the soul. both her father and mother had experienced this; and she and shelley had tasted of the same bitter fruit. in the analysis of beatrice's emotions mrs. shelley shows herself akin to charlotte brontë. three years after the death of shelley, she published _the last man_. it relates to england in the year when, the king having abdicated his throne, england had become a republic. soon after this, however a pestilence fell upon the people, which drove them upon the continent, where they travelled southward, until only one man remained. the plot is clumsy; the characters are abstractions. but the feelings of the author, written in clear letters on every page, are a valuable addition to the history of the poet shelley and his wife. besides her fresh sorrow for her husband, byron had died only the year before. her mind was brooding on the days the three had spent together. her grief was too recent to be shaken from her mind or lost sight of in her imaginative work. shelley, and the scenes she had looked on with him, the conversations between him and his friends, creep in on every page. lionel verney, the last man, is the supposed narrator of the story. he thus describes adrian, the son of the king: "a tall, slim, fair boy, with a physiognomy expressive of the excess of sensibility and refinement, stood before me; the morning sunbeams tinged with gold his silken hair, and spread light and glory over his beaming countenance ... he seemed like an inspired musician, who struck, with unerring skill, the 'lyre of mind,' and produced thence divinest harmony.... his slight frame was over informed by the soul that dwelt within.... he was gay as a lark carrolling from its skiey tower.... the young and inexperienced did not understand the lofty severity of his moral views, and disliked him as a being different from themselves." shelley, of course, was the original of this picture. lord byron suggested the character of lord raymond: "the earth was spread out as a highway for him; the heavens built up as a canopy for him." "every trait spoke predominate self-will; his smile was pleasing, though disdain too often curled his lips--lips which to female eyes were the very throne of beauty and love.... thus full of contradictions, unbending yet haughty, gentle yet fierce, tender and again neglectful, he by some strange art found easy entrance to the admiration and affection of women; now caressing and now tyrannising over them according to his mood, but in every change a despot." a large part of the three volumes is taken up with a characterisation of adrian and lord raymond, the latter of whom falls when fighting for the greeks. how impossible it was for her to rid her mind of her own sorrow is shown at the end of the third volume, where adrian is drowned, and lionel verney is left alone. he thus says of his friend: "all i had possessed of this world's goods, of happiness, knowledge, or virtue--i owed to him. he had, in his person, his intellect, and rare qualities, given a glory to my life, which without him it had never known. beyond all other beings he had taught me that goodness, pure and simple, can be an attribute of man." mrs. shelley made the great mistake of writing this novel in the first person. _the last man_, who is telling the story, although he has the name of lionel, is most assuredly of the female sex. the friendship between him and adrian is not the friendship of man for man, but rather the love of man and woman. mrs. shelley's next novel, _lodore_, written in , thirteen years after the death of her husband, had a better outlined plot and more definite characters. but again it echoes the past. lord byron's unhappy married relations and shelley's troubles with harriet are blended in the story, lord byron furnishing the character in some respects of lord lodore, while his wife, cornelia santerre, resembles both harriet and lady byron. lady santerre, the mother of cornelia, augments the trouble between lord and lady lodore, and, contrary to the evident intentions of the writer, the reader's sympathies are largely with cornelia and lady santerre. when lodore wishes cornelia to go to america to save him from disgrace, lady santerre objects to her daughter's accompanying him: "he will soon grow tired of playing the tragic hero on a stage surrounded by no spectators; he will discover the folly of his conduct; he will return, and plead for forgiveness, and feel that he is too fortunate in a wife who has preserved her own conduct free from censure and remark while he has made himself a laughing-stock to all." these words strangely bring to mind lord byron as having evoked them. again lady lodore's letter to her husband at the time of his departure to america reminds one of lady byron: "if heaven have blessings for the coldly egotistical, the unfeeling despot, may those blessings be yours; but do not dare to interfere with emotions too pure, too disinterested for you ever to understand. give me my child, and fear neither my interference nor resentment." lady lodore's character changes in the book, and becomes more like that of harriet shelley. as mrs. shelley wrote, fragments of the past evidently came into her mind and influenced her pen, and her original conception of the characters was forgotten. clorinda, the beautiful, eloquent, and passionate neapolitan, was drawn from emilia viviani, who had suggested to shelley his poem _epipsychidion_, while both horatio saville, who had "no thought but for the nobler creations of the soul, and the discernment of the sublime laws of god and nature," and his cousin villiers, also an enthusiastic worshipper of nature, possessed many of shelley's qualities. besides two other novels of no value, _perkin warbeck_ and _falkner_, mrs. shelley wrote numerous short stories for the annuals, at that time so much in vogue. in , these were collected and edited with an appreciative criticism by sir richard garnett. many of them have the intensity and sustained interest of frankenstein. after the death of her husband, grief and trouble dimmed mrs. shelley's imagination. but the pale student frankenstein, the monster he created, and the beautiful priestess, beatrice, three strong conceptions, testify to the genius of mary shelley. chapter xiii mrs. gore. mrs. bray during the second decade of the nineteenth century, while scott was writing some of the most powerful of the waverley novels, a host of new writers sprang into popular notice. john galt, william harrison ainsworth, and g. p. r. james began their endless series of historical romances, while in , bulwer lytton and benjamin disraeli introduced to the reading public, as the representatives of fashionable society, _falkland_ and _vivian grey_. the decade was prolific also in novels by women. jane austen had died in , but maria edgeworth, lady morgan, the porters, amelia opie, miss ferrier, mrs. shelley and miss mitford were still writing; during this period, mrs. s. c. hall began her work in imitation of miss mitford, while mrs. gore and mrs. bray took up the goose-quill, piled reams of paper on their desks, and began their literary careers. about a score of years before thackeray tickled english society with pictures of its own snobbery, mrs. gore, a young woman, wife of an officer in the life guards, saw through the many affectations of the polite world, and in a series of novels, pointed out its ludicrous pretences with lively wit. mrs. gore has suffered, however, from the multiplicity of her writings. during the years between , when she wrote her first novel, _theresa marchmont_, and , when, quite blind, she retired from the world of letters, she published two hundred volumes of novels, plays, and poems. her plots are often hastily constructed, her men and women dimly outlined, but she is never dull. no writer since congreve has so many sparkling lines. she has been likened to horace, and if we compare her wit with that of thackeray, who by the way ridiculed her in his _novels by eminent hands_, her humour has qualities of old falernian, beside which his too frequently has the bitter flavour of old english beer. the englishman is inclined to take his wit, like his sports, too seriously, and to mingle with it a little of the spice of envy. mrs. gore has none of this, however, and skims along the surface of fashionable life with a grace and ease and humour extremely diverting. her writings are so voluminous that one can only make excerpts at random. one of the liveliest is _cecil, or the adventures of a coxcomb_, a humorous satire on _vivian grey_. "the arch-coxcomb of his coxcombical time" had become a coxcomb at the age of six months, when he first saw himself in the mirror, from which time his nurse stopped his crying by tossing him in front of a looking-glass. his curls made him so attractive that at six years of age he was admitted to his mother's boudoir, from which his red-headed brother was excluded, and he superseded the spaniel in her ladyship's carriage. with the loss of his curls went the loss of favour. he did not prosper at school, and was rusticated after a year's residence at oxford. here he formed an acquaintance which helped him much in the world of coxcombry. though this man was not well born, he was an admitted leader among gentlemen. cecil soon discovered that his high social position was due entirely to his impertinence, and he made this wise observation: "impudence is the quality of a footman; impertinence of his master. impudence is a thing to be rebutted with brute force; impertinence requires wit for the putting down." so he matched his wit with this man's impertinence, and they became sworn friends. when cecil went to london, he found that "people had supped full of horrors, during the revolution, and were now devoted to elegiac measures. my languid smile and hazel eyes were the very thing to settle the business of the devoted beings left for execution." of course all the women fell desperately in love with him. "i had always a predisposition to woman-slaughter, with extenuating circumstances, as well as a stirring consciousness of the exterminating power," he explains to us. like childe harold and vivian grey, this coxcomb soon became weary of london, and travelled through europe in an indolent way, for after all it was his chief pleasure "to lie in an airy french bed, showered over with blue convolvulus," and read tender billets from the ladies. this book was an excellent antidote to the byronic fever, then at its height. in her _sketches of english character_, mrs. gore describes different men who were in her time to be met with in the social life of london. the dining-out man thus speaks for himself: "ill-natured people fancy that the life of a dining-out man is a life of corn, wine, and oil; that all he has to do is to eat, drink and be merry. i only know that, had i been aware in the onset of life, of all i should have to go through in my vocation, i would have chosen some easier calling. i would have studied law, physic, or divinity." in the sketches of _the clubman_, she assigns john bull's dislike of ladies' society as the reason for the many clubs in the english metropolis: "while admitting woman to be a divinity, he chooses to conceal his idol in the holy of holies of domestic life. duly to enjoy the society of mrs. bull, he chooses a smoking tureen, and cod's head and shoulders to intervene between them, and their olive branches to be around their table.... for john adores woman in the singular, and hates her in the plural; john loves, but does not like. woman is the object of his passion, rarely of his regard. there is nothing in the gaiety of heart or sprightliness of intellect of the weaker sex which he considers an addition to society. to him women are an interruption to business and pleasure." mrs. gore could also unveil hypocrisy. in her novel _preferment, or my uncle the earl_, she thus describes a worthy ornament of the church: "the dean of darbington glided along his golden railroad--'mild as moonbeams'--soft as a swansdown muff--insinuating as a silken eared spaniel. his conciliating arguments were whispered in a tone suitable to the sick chamber of a nervous hypochondriac, and his strain of argument resembled its potations of thin, weak, well-sweetened barley water. while dr. macnab succeeded with _his_ congregation by kicking and bullying them along the path of grace, dr. nicewig held out his finger with a coaxing air and gentle chirrup, like a bird-fancier decoying a canary." a critic in the _westminster review_ in thus writes of her: "mrs. gore has a perfectly feminine knowledge of all the weaknesses and absurdities of an ordinary man of fashion, following the routine of london life in the season. she unmasks his selfishness with admirable acuteness; she exposes his unromantic egotism, with delightful sauciness. her portraits of women are also executed with great spirit; but not with the same truth. in transferring men to her canvas, she has relied upon the faculty of observation, usually fine and vigilant in a woman; but when portraying her own sex, the authoress has perhaps looked within; and the study of the internal operations of the human machine is a far more complex affair, and requires far more extensive experience, and also different faculties, from those necessary to acquire a perfect knowledge of the appearances on the surface of humanity." notwithstanding mrs. gore touches so lightly on the surface of life, certain definite sociological and moral principles underlie her work. she is as democratic as charlotte smith, mrs. inchbald, miss mitford, or even william godwin. she asserts again and again that men of inferior birth with the same opportunities of education may be as intellectual and refined as the sons of a "hundred earls." those members of the aristocracy who fail to recognise the true worth of intelligent men of plebeian origin are made very ridiculous. in her novel _pin money_, published in , how very funny is lady derenzy's speech when she learns that a soap manufacturer is being fêted in fashionable society! lady derenzy, by the way, is the social law-giver to her little coterie: "it is now some years," said she, "since the independence of america, and the influence exerted in this country by the return of a large body of enlightened men, habituated to the demoralising spectacle of an equalisation of rank, was supposed to exert a pernicious influence on the minds of the secondary and inferior classes of great britain. at that critical moment i whispered to my husband, 'derenzy! be true to yourself, and the world will be true to you. let the aristocracy of great britain unite in support of the order; and it will maintain its ground against the universe!' lord derenzy took my advice, and the country was saved. "again, when the assemblage of the states general of france,--the fatal tocsin of the revolution,--spread consternation and horror throughout the higher ranks of every european country, and the very name of the guillotine operated like a spell on the british peerage, i whispered to my husband, 'derenzy! be true to yourself, and the world will be true to you. let the aristocracy of great britain unite in support of the order; and it will maintain its ground against the universe!' again lord derenzy took my advice, and again the country was saved." mrs. gore has so cleverly mingled the so-called self-made men and men of inherited rank in her books that one cannot distinguish between them. in _the soldier of lyons_, one of her early novels, which furnished bulwer with the plot of his play _the lady of lyons_, the hero, a peasant by birth and a soldier of the republic, enters into a marriage contract with the widow of a french marquis, in order to save her from the guillotine. this lady of high rank learns to respect her husband, and becomes the suitor for his love. in _the heir of selwood_, a former field marshal of napoleon, a peasant, devotes his energies to improving the condition of the poor on the estate he had won by his services to his country, and at his death his tenants erected a column to his memory, bearing the inscription: "most dear to god, to the king, and to the people." mrs. gore constantly asserts that the only distinctions between men are based upon character and ability. she says of one of her characters, a poet: "his footing in society is no longer dependent upon the caprice of a drawing-room. it is the security of that intellectual power which forces the world to bend the knee. the poor, dreamy boy, self-taught, self-aided, had risen into power. he wields a pen. and the pen in our age weighs heavier in the social scale than a sword of a norman baron." mrs. gore lived at a time when the introduction of machinery and the establishment of large factories was producing a new type of man: men like burtonshaw in _the hamiltons_: "a practical, matter-of-fact individual, with plenty of money and plenty of intellect; the sort of human power-loom one would back to work wonders against a dawdling old spinning-jenny like lord tottenham." a critic in the _westminster review_ wrote in as follows: "the wealthy merchant or money-dealer is represented, perhaps for the first time in fiction, as a man of true dignity, self-respect, education, and thorough integrity, agreeable in manners, refined in tastes, and content with, if not proud of, his position in society." mrs. gore was called by her contemporaries the novelist of the new era. she was also interested in the great ethical questions of life. she did not write of the love of youthful heroes and more youthful heroines. she often traced the consequences of sin on character and destiny. in _the heir of selwood_, she is as stern a moralist in tracing the effects of vice as george eliot. _the banker's wife_, the scene of which is laid among the merchants of london, is a serious study of the sorrows of a life devoted to outward show. the picture of the banker among his guests, whose wealth, unknown to them, he has squandered, reminds one of the days before the final overthrow of dombey and son. mrs. gore was a woman of genius. with the stern principles of the puritan, and feelings as republican as the mountain-born swiss, she was never controversial. she saw the absurdities of certain hollow pretensions of society, but her good-humoured raillery offended no one. if her two hundred volumes could be weeded of their verbiage by some devotee of literature, and reduced to ten or fifteen, they would be not only entertaining reading, but would throw strong lights upon the _élite_ of london in the days when hair-oils, pomades, and strong perfumes were the distinguishing marks of the quality. * * * * * mrs. gore owed her place in english letters to native wit and ability; mrs. bray owed hers to hard study and painstaking endeavour. she was one of the few women who followed the style of writing brought to perfection by sir walter scott. mrs. bray became imbued with the historic spirit early in life. her first husband was charles stothard, the author of _monumental effigies of great britain_, with whom she travelled through brittany, normandy and flanders. while he made careful drawings of the ruins of castles and abbeys, she read froissart's _chronicles_, visited the places which he has described, and traced out among the people any surviving customs which he has recorded. two novels were the result of these studies. _de foix, or sketches of the manners and customs of the fourteenth century_, is a story of gaston phoebus, count de foix, whose court froissart visited, and of whom he wrote: "to speak briefly and truly, the count de foix was perfect in person and in mind; and no contemporary prince could be compared with him for sense, honour, or liberality." _the white hoods_, a name by which the citizens of ghent were denominated, is laid in the netherlands, and tells of the conflict between the court and the citizens of ghent, under philip von artaveld, during the reign of charles the fifth of france and the early kingship of charles the sixth. as in all her novels, the accuracy for which she strove in the most minute details retards the action of the plot, but adds to the historical value of these romances. for the tragic romance of _the talba, or moor of portugal_, mrs. bray, as she had not visited the spanish peninsula, depended upon her reading. the plot was suggested to her by a picture of ines de castro in the royal academy. it represented the gruesome coronation of the corpse of ines de castro, six years after her death. thus did her husband, don pedro, show honour to his wife, who had been put to death while he, then a prince, was serving in the army of portugal. the whole story is a fitting theme for tragedy, and was at one time dramatised by mary mitford. in order to give her mind the proper elevation for the impassioned scenes of this novel, it was mrs. bray's custom to read a chapter of isaiah or job each day before beginning to write. after the death of her first husband, mrs. bray married the vicar of tavistock, and for thirty-five years lived in the vicarage of that town. here she became interested in the legends of devon and cornwall, and wrote five novels founded upon the history of tradition of those counties. _henry de pomeroy_ opens at the abbey of tavistock, one of the oldest abbeys in england, during the reign of richard coeur-de-leon. the scene of _fitz of fitz-ford_ is also laid at tavistock, but during the reign of queen elizabeth. another story of the reign of the virgin queen was _warleigh, or the fatal oak: a legend of devon_. _courtenay of walreddon: a romance of the west_ takes place in the reign of charles the first, about the commencement of the civil war. a gypsy girl, by name cinderella small, is introduced into the story, and has been highly praised. the character, as well as some of the stories told of her, was drawn from life. but the most famous of these novels is _trelawny of trelawne; or the prophecy: a legend of cornwall_, a story of the rebellion of monmouth. like most of the romances upon english themes, the private history of the family furnishes the romance, the historical happenings being used only for the setting: the usual method of scott. the hero of this novel is sir jonathan trelawny, one of the seven bishops who were committed to the tower by james the second. when he was arrested by the king's command, the cornish men rose one and all, and marched as far as exeter, in their way to extort his liberation. trelawny is a popular hero of cornwall, as the following lines testify: a good sword and a trusty hand! a merry heart and true! king james's men shall understand what cornish lads can do! and have they fixed the where and when? and shall trelawny die? here's twenty thousand cornish men will know the reason why! out spake their captain brave and bold, a merry wight was he-- "if london tower were michael's hold, we'll set trelawny free!" we'll cross the tamar, land to land, the severn is no stay, all side to side, and hand to hand, and who shall say us nay? and when we come to london wall, a pleasant sight to view, come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, to better men than you! trelawny he's in keep and hold-- trelawny he may die, but here's twenty thousand cornish bold will know the reason why! like scott, mrs. bray went about with notebook in hand, and noted the features of the landscape, the details of a ruin, or the furniture or armour of the period of which she was writing. it is this painstaking work, together with the fact that she had access to places and books that were then denied to the ordinary reader, and chose subjects and places not before treated in fiction, that gives permanent value to her writings. she also had the proper feeling for the past, and dignity and elevation of style. sometimes an entire page of her romances might be attributed to the pen of the "mighty wizard." perhaps the highest compliment that can be paid her as an artist is that she resembles scott when he is nodding. chapter xiv julia pardoe. mrs. trollope. harriet martineau somewhere between the second and third decades of the nineteenth century, the modern novel was born. the romances of the twenties are, for the most part, old-fashioned in tone, and speak of an earlier age; but in the thirties, the modern novel, with its exact reproduction of places, customs, and speech, and strong local flavour, was full-grown. dickens, under the name of boz, was contributing his sketches to _the old monthly magazine_ and the _evening chronicle_. thackeray was beginning to contribute articles to _fraser's magazine_, established in . annuals and monthlies sprang up in the night, and paid large sums for long and short stories. the thirst for them was unquenchable. many women were supporting themselves by writing tales which did not live beyond the year of their publication. mrs. marsh was writing stories of fashionable life varied by historical romances. mrs. crowe wrote stories of fashionable life varied by supernatural romances and tales of adventure. in _the story of lilly dawson_, published in , the heroine was captured and brought up by smugglers, and the gradual development of her character was traced; thus giving to the story a psychological interest. lady blessington earned two thousand pounds a year for twenty years by novels and short stories of fashionable life. lady blessington had a european reputation as a court beauty and a brilliant and witty conversationalist. this with the coronet must have helped to sell her books. they do not contain even a sentence that holds the attention. a friend said of her, "her genius lay in her tongue; her pen paralysed it." more enduring work in fiction was done by julia pardoe, mrs. trollope, and harriet martineau. * * * * * the novels of julia pardoe, like those of mrs. bray, owe their value, not to their intrinsic merit, but to the comparatively unknown places to which she introduces her readers. she accompanied her father, major pardoe, to constantinople, where they were entertained by natives of high position, to whom they had letters of introduction, and miss pardoe was the guest of their wives in the harem. her knowledge of the mode of life and habits of thought of turkish women is considered second only to that of mary wortley montagu. the material for her story _the romance of the harem_ was obtained during her visits to these turkish ladies. in this she has caught the languid, heavily perfumed atmosphere of the orient. besides the main plot, stories of adventure and love are related which beguiled the slowly passing hours of the inmates of the seraglio. some of them might have been told by schehezerhade, if she had wished to add to her entertainment of _the thousand and one nights_. after miss pardoe's return to england, she wrote a series of fashionable novels, inferior to many of those of mrs. gore, and better than the best of those by lady blessington. _confessions of a pretty woman_, _the jealous wife_, and _the rival beauties_ were the most popular of these, although they have long since been forgotten. in , miss pardoe published a collection of stories under the title _flies in amber_. the title, she explains in the preface, was suggested by a belief of the orientals that amber comes from the sea, and attracts about it all insects, which find in it both a prison and a posthumous existence. some of the stories of this collection were gathered in her travels. _an adventure in bithynia_, _the magyar and the moslem, or an hungarian legend_, and the _yèrè-batan-seraï_, which means swallowed-up palace, the great subterranean ruin of constantinople, have the interest which always attaches to tales gathered by travellers in unfrequented places. * * * * * mrs. frances trollope, the mother of the more famous author anthony trollope, like miss pardoe, found material for stories in unfamiliar places. mrs. trollope had the nature of the pioneer. with her family, she sought our western lands of the mississippi valley, where the virgin forest had resounded to the axe of the first settler but a short time before. she wrote the first book of any note describing the manners of the americans; the first strong novel calling attention to the evils of slavery in our southern states; and the first one describing graphically the white slavery in the cotton-mills of lancashire; and she is, perhaps, the only writer who began a long literary career at the age of fifty-two. on the fourth of november, , mrs. trollope with her three children sailed from london, and, after about seven weeks on the sea, arrived on christmas day at the mouth of the mississippi. after a brief visit in new orleans, this party of english travellers sailed up the river to memphis, where, remote from the comforts of civilisation, they abode for a time under the direction of mrs. wright, an english lecturer who had come to america for the avowed purpose of proving the perfect equality of the black and white races. but mrs. trollope and her family soon tired of life in the wilderness, and sought cincinnati, at that time a small city of wooden houses, not over thirty years of age. after two years' residence in cincinnati, she went by stage to baltimore, visited philadelphia and new york, and returned to england, after a sojourn of three and a half years in this country. during her residence in the united states, she made copious notes of what she saw and heard. these she published the year after her return to england, under the title _domestic manners of the americans_. at once the pens of all the critics were let loose upon the author. her american critics declared that she knew nothing about them or their country; and their english friends refused to believe that the people of america had such shocking bad manners. mrs. trollope reported truthfully what she saw and heard. but a frontier city is made up of people gathered from the four corners of the earth: each family is a law unto itself; so that the speeches mrs. trollope carefully set down, and the customs she depicted, were often peculiarities of individuals rather than of a community. but she has left a vivid picture of american life in the twenties, less exaggerated than the picture charles dickens gave of it in the forties. mrs. trollope's attitude is no more hostile than his, but he is more entertaining. he held us up to ridicule and laughed at us; she seriously pointed out our errors in the hope that we might amend. she is slightly inconsistent at times, for, while asserting the equality of whites and blacks, she as bitterly resented the equality of white master and white servant. her purpose in writing this book was to warn her own countrymen of the evils which must follow a government of the many. although she never takes the broad view, but always the narrow and partial one, her book gives a good picture of the everyday life and habits of thought of the next generation to that which had fought and won the american revolution. the white heat of republican fervour, so obnoxious to a european, welded the nation together as one people, and filled their hearts with a religious reverence for the constitution. she meant them as a reproach, but we read these words with pride: "i never heard from anyone a single disparaging word against their government." mrs. trollope has been described by her friends as a refined woman of charming personality. but as soon as she began to write, she donned her armour and proclaimed her hostility either to her hero or to the larger part of the characters of the book. this method is dangerous to art. even the genius of thackeray is lessened by his lack of sympathy. in mrs. trollope published her first novel, _the refugee in america_. it is the story of an english lord who has fled to america to escape english justice. he and his friends have settled in rochester, new york. it was written for the sole purpose of describing the manners of the people of our eastern cities. the author's attitude toward them is well illustrated by a conversation between caroline, the young english girl, and her american _protégée_, emily. after a dinner in washington, caroline exclaims to her friend: "'oh, my own emily, you must not live and die where such things be.' "emily sighed as she answered, 'i am born to it, miss gordon.' "'but hardly bred to it. we have caught you young, and we have spoiled you for ever as an american lady.'" three years later mrs. trollope published her strongest novel, _the life and adventures of jonathan jefferson whitlaw_. this is a powerful picture of early life on the mississippi; it was the first novel since mrs. behn's _oroonoko_ which called attention to the evils of african slavery. it is marred, however, by want of sympathy with the community she is describing. mr. jonathan whitlaw senior has "squat in the bush," an expression to which mrs. trollope objects, but which brings to mind at once the log cabin in the forest clearing, and the muscular, uncouth pioneer. jonathan furnishes firewood to the mississippi steamers, and by this means gains sufficient wealth to carry out his life's ambition: to set up a store in natchez, and to own "niggers." but the life of a pioneer has made jonathan as cunning as a fox. this cunning his son jonathan, the hero of the story, has inherited to the full. as a slave-owner he is as grasping and cruel as legree, whom mrs. stowe immortalised some years later. his character, though drawn with strength and vigour, is inconsistent. he is a miser, yet he is a gambler and a spendthrift, qualities not often found together. he is not a true representative of the son of a pioneer. clio whitlaw, the aunt of the hero, belongs more truly to her environment. one suspects the english family at cincinnati had received neighbourly kindnesses from women like her. with her physical strength and great courage she is kind and neighbourly to all who need her help. the sad story of edward bligh, the young kentuckian who preached the gospel to the slaves, the victim of lynch law, a word dreaded even then, is as thrilling as parts of _uncle tom's cabin_. besides _jonathan jefferson whitlaw_, mrs. trollope created two other characters that will cause her name to live as long as those of william harrison ainsworth or g. p. r. james. the coarse scheming widow barnaby is the heroine of three novels, _widow barnaby_, _the widow married_, and _the widow wedded, or the barnabys in america_. in the last book mrs. trollope somewhat humorously pays off her scores against her american critics, who had dubbed her a cockney, unfamiliar with good society in either england or america. the widow barnaby, who has come to new orleans with her husband after his little gambling ways have made residence in london unpleasant, decides to earn some money by writing a book on america. she describes the americans, not as they are, but as they think they are. she listens to all their boasts about themselves and country, and puts it faithfully in her book. of course they like it and she becomes the literary lion of america. anthony trollope, in his book _an autobiography_, said of his mother's books on america: "her volumes were very bitter; but they were very clever, and they saved the family from ruin." she is also given the credit of having improved the manners of american society. whenever a "gentleman" at his club put his feet on the table, or indulged in any liberty of which she would not have approved, others cried, "trollope! trollope! trollope!" the _vicar of wrexhill_, the scene of which is laid in england, is an attack on the evangelical clergy in the episcopal church. the vicar is no truer to the great body of evangelical preachers than jonathan jefferson whitlaw is true to the great body of slave-owners. there is the same exaggeration to prove a theory. evangelical preaching is harmful, is the theorem, and a man is selected to prove it who in any walk of life would be a hypocrite and libertine. the book has many interesting situations. the vicar's proposal to the rich widow, one of his parishioners, is clever: "let me henceforth be as the shield and buckler that shall guard thee; so that thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day." and he promises, if she will marry him, to lead her "sinful children into the life everlasting." no other book has shown, as this does, the powerful effect upon sensitive natures of this kind of preaching. one feels that the followers of the reverend vicar were under the influence of hypnotic suggestion, and that their awakening from this spell was like the awakening from a trance. mrs. trollope was actuated by humanitarian motives. this was not as usual then as since dickens popularised the humanitarian novel. only three years after he wrote _sketches by boz_, mrs. trollope wrote _the life and adventures of michael armstrong_, the story of a boy employed in the mills of lancashire. negro slavery in the south, even as mrs. trollope saw it, was a happy state of existence compared with child slavery in the mills of ashleigh and deep valley, lancashire, where the children were driven to work by the lash in the morning, and were crippled by the "billy roller," the name of the stick by which they were beaten for inattention to their work during the day. if the truth of these horrors were not attested by other writers of this time, one would doubt the possibility of their existence in the same land and at the same time in which wordsworth was writing of the beauties of his own childhood, where the river derwent mingled its murmurs with his nurse's song. mrs. trollope assailed injustice with a powerful pen. woman's moral nature is truer and more sensitive than man's. even if her sympathies cloud her judgment, it is better than that her judgment should reason away her sympathies. neither has woman in her philanthropy contented herself with broad principles which would help all and therefore reach none. the dusky slave in the cotton-fields, the pale-faced child in the cotton-mills, have alike touched the hearts of women, who by their pens have been able to awaken the conscience of a nation. the horror of child labour wrung from mrs. browning the heart-felt poem, _the cry of the children_. the four strong novels proclaiming the tyranny of the whites over the blacks, _oronooko_, _jonathan jefferson whitlaw_, _uncle tom's cabin_, and _the hour and the man_, were written by women. * * * * * the name of harriet martineau was a familiar one in every household during the early years of queen victoria's reign. like mrs. trollope she was a woman of fearless honesty. but harriet martineau was never the _raconteur_, she was first the educator. she wrote story after story to teach lessons in political and social science. her method of work, as set forth in her autobiography, was peculiar, and the result is not uninteresting. in her _political economy tales_, she selected certain principles which she wished to set forth, and embodied each principle in a character. the operations of these principles furnished the plot of the story. besides the illustrations of the principles by the characters, the laws were discussed in conversation, and thus the lesson was taught. in the story _brooke and brooke farm_, she made use of an expression which ruskin almost paraphrased: "the whole nation, the whole world, is obliged to him who makes corn grow where it never grew before; and yet more to him who makes two ears ripen where only one ripened before." in the tale _a manchester strike_, factory life and the problems that face the working men are set forth, the aim being to show that work and wages depend upon the great laws of supply and demand. miss martineau wrote two novels. _deerbrook_, in , was modelled on _our village_. the village doctor, mr. hope, is the central figure. firm in his convictions, he loses the favour of the leading families, and through their influence he is deprived of his practice. a fever, however, sweeps over the place and his former enemies beg, not in vain, for his skilful services. a double love story runs through the book. mrs. rowland, a scheming woman, is the most cleverly drawn of the characters, and was evidently suggested by some of miss edgeworth's fashionable ladies. harriet martineau also visited america, but some years later than mrs. trollope, when the slavery agitation was at its height. as she had written upon the evils of slavery before she left england, she was invited to attend a meeting of the abolitionists in boston. she accepted this invitation, and expressed there her abhorrence of slavery. after this she received letters from some of the citizens of the pro-slavery states, threatening her life if she entered their domain. this naturally threw her entirely with the abolition party, and she wrote many articles to help their cause. miss martineau's second novel, _the hour and the man_, grew out of her sympathy and belief in the coloured race. toussaint de l'ouverture, the devoted slave, soldier, liberator, and martyr, is the hero. every scene in which this wonderful black figures is vividly written. many of the minor incidents are but slightly sketched, and many of the minor characters elude the reader's grasp. how far this book is a truthful portrayal of the negro cannot be judged until the "race problem" is surveyed with unprejudiced eyes. then and not until then will its place in literature be assigned. she gives the same characterisation of this hero of st. domingo as does wendell phillips in his wonderful speech of which the following is the peroration: "but fifty years hence, when truth gets a hearing, the muse of history will put phocian for the greek, brutus for the roman, hampden for england, fayette for france, choose washington as the bright, consummate flower of our earlier civilisation, then, dipping her pen in the sunlight, will write in the clear blue, above them all, the name of the soldier, the statesman, the martyr, toussaint l'ouverture." _the hour and the man_ was published in , and was warmly received by the abolitionists. william lloyd garrison, after reading it, wrote the following sonnet to the author: england! i grant that thou dost justly boast of splendid geniuses beyond compare; men great and gallant,--women good and fair,-- skilled in all arts, and filling every post of learning, science, fame,--a mighty host! poets divine, and benefactors rare,-- statesmen,--philosophers,--and they who dare boldly to explore heaven's vast and boundless coast, to one alone i dedicate this rhyme, whose virtues with a starry lustre glow, whose heart is large, whose spirit is sublime, the friend of liberty, of wrong the foe: long be inscribed upon the roll of time the name, the worth, the works of harriet martineau. miss martineau wrote on a variety of subjects, and generally held a view contrary to the accepted one. she wrote upon mesmerism, positivism, atheism, which she professed, and after each book warriors armed with pens sprang up to assail the author. but she had many friends, even among those who were most bitter against her doctrines. one wrote of her, "there is the fine, honest, solid, north-country element in her." r. brimley johnson in _english prose_, edited by craik in , said of her writings: "her gift to literature was for her own generation. she is the exponent of the infant century in many branches of thought:--its eager and sanguine philanthropy, its awakening interest in history and science, its rigid and prosaic philosophy. but her genuine humanity and real moral earnestness give a value to her more personal utterances, which do not lose their charm with the lapse of time." harriet martineau's name and personality will be remembered in history after her books have been forgotten. chapter xv the brontës during the middle of the nineteenth century, english fiction largely depicted manners and customs of different classes and different parts of england. while dickens, thackeray, disraeli, and mrs. gaskell were writing realistic novels, romantic fiction found noble exponents in the brontë sisters. the quiet life lived by the brontës in the vicarage on the edge of the village of haworth in the west riding of yorkshire seems prosaic to the casual observer, but it had many weird elements of romanticism. the purple moors stretching away behind the grey stone vicarage, the grey sky, and the sun always half-frowning, and never sporting with nature here as it does over the mountains in westmoreland, make thought earnest and deep, and suggest the mystery which surrounds human life. it is a serious country, that of the wharf valley; the people are a serious people, silent and observant. the brontës were a direct outcome of this country and people, only in them their severity and silence were kindled into life by a celtic imagination. what a group of people lived within those grey stone walls! as the vicar and his four motherless children gathered about their simple board, while they engaged in conversation with each other or with the curate, what scenes would have been enacted in that quiet room if the fancies teeming in each childish brain could have been suddenly endowed with life! how could even a dull curate, with an undercurrent of addition and subtraction running in his brain, based upon his meagre salary and economical expenditures, have been insensible to the thought with which the very atmosphere must have been surcharged? the brother, patrick branwell, found his audience in the public house, and delighted it with his wit and conversation. the sisters, after their household tasks were done, wrote their stories and often read them to each other. but fate had chosen her darkest hues in which to weave the warp and woof of their lives. the wild dissipations and wilder talk of their brother branwell clouded the imaginations of his sisters, and in a short time death was a constant presence in their midst. in september, , branwell died at the age of thirty; in less than three months, emily died at the age of twenty-nine; and in five-months, anne died at the age of twenty-seven; and charlotte, the eldest, was left alone with her father. during the remaining six years of her life, her compensation for her loss of companionship was her writing. not long after the death of her sisters, mr. nicholls proposed to her; was refused; proposed again and was accepted; then came the separation caused by mr. brontë's hostility to the marriage; then the marriage in the church under whose pavement so many members of her family were buried, grim attendants of her wedding; then the nine short months of married life; then the death of the last of the brontë sisters at the age of thirty-nine. mr. brontë outlived her only six years, but he was the last of his family. six children had been born to patrick brontë, not one survived him. forty years had eliminated a family which yet lives through the imaginative powers of the three daughters who reached years of maturity. of the three sisters, the least is known of emily, and her one novel, _wuthering heights_, reveals nothing of herself. not one of the characters thought or felt as did the quiet, retiring author. yet so great was her dramatic power that her brother branwell was credited with the book, as it was deemed impossible for a woman to have conceived the character of heathcliff. and yet this arch-fiend of literature was created by the daughter of a country vicar, whose only journeys from home had been to schools, either as pupil or governess. charlotte brontë has thrown but little light upon her sister's character. she says that she loved animals and the moors, but was cold toward people and repelled any attempt to win her confidence. the author of _jane eyre_ seems neither to have understood emily's nature nor her genius. yet we are told that emily was constantly seen with her arms around the gentle anne, and that they were inseparable companions. if anne brontë could have lived longer, she would have thrown much light upon the character of the author of _wuthering heights_. but now, as we read of her brief life and her one novel, she seems to belong to the great dramatists rather than to the novelists, to the poets who live apart from the world and commune only with the people of their own creating. _wuthering heights_ stands alone in the history of prose fiction. it belongs to the wild region of romanticism, but it imitates no book, and has never been copied. no incident, no character, no description, can be traced to the influence of any other book, but the atmosphere is that of the west riding of yorkshire. charlotte brontë thus speaks of it in a letter to a friend: "_wuthering heights_ was hewn in a wild workshop, with simple tools, out of homely materials. the statuary found a granite block on a solitary moor; gazing thereon, he saw how from the crag might be elicited a head, savage, swart, sinister: a form moulded with at least one element of grandeur--power. he wrought with a rude chisel, and from no model but the vision of his meditations. with time and labour, the crag took human shape, and there it stands, colossal, dark and frowning, half statue, half rock, in the former sense, terrible and goblin-like; in the latter, almost beautiful, for its colouring is of mellow grey, and moorland moss clothes it, and heath, with its blooming bells and balmy fragrance, grows faithfully close to the giant's foot." all of this is true, but it gives only the general outlines, nothing of the inner meaning. in all literature, there is not so repulsive a villain as heathcliff, the offspring of the gipsies. insensible to kindness, but resentful of wrong; hard, scheming, indomitable in resolution; quick to put off the avenging of an injury until he can make his revenge serve his purpose; the personification of strength and power; he is yet capable of a love stronger than his hate. heathcliff is so repulsive that he does not attract, and drawn with such skill that, as has been said, he has not been imitated. but the strong, dark picture of heathcliff makes us forget that catharine is the centre of the story. the night that mr. lockwood spends at wuthering heights he reads her books, and her spirit appears to him crying for entrance at the window, and complaining that she has wandered on the moors for twenty years. while living, she represents a human soul balanced between heaven and hell, loved by both the powers of darkness and of light. but in her earliest years, she had loved heathcliff; their thoughts, their affections were intertwined, and they were welded, as it were, into one soul, not at first by love, but by their common hatred of hindley earnshaw. when catharine meets edgar linton, her finer nature asserts itself. she loves him as a being from another world; he gives her the first glimpse of real goodness, kindness, and gentleness. she catches through him a gleam of paradise. but she knows how transient this is, and says to her old nurse, nelly dean: "i've no more business to marry edgar linton than i have to be in heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought heathcliff so low, i shouldn't have thought of it. it would degrade me to marry heathcliff now; and that, not because he's handsome, no, nelly, but because he's more myself than i am. whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire." but catharine is married to edgar, and for three years her better nature triumphs. heathcliff is away; edgar linton loves her truly, and their home is happy. catharine alone knows that that house is not her true place of abode. she alone knows that edgar has not touched her inner nature. she knows that her real self, the self that must abide through the centuries, is indissolubly linked with another's. and when heathcliff returns, the intensity of her joy, her almost unearthly delight, she neither can nor attempts to conceal. not once is she deceived as to his true nature. she knows the depth of his depravity, and thus warns the girl who has fallen in love with him: "he's not a rough diamond--a pearl-containing oyster of a rustic;--he's a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. i never say to him, let this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to harm them,--i say, let them alone, because i should hate them to be wronged: and he'd crush you, like a sparrow's egg, isabella, if he found you a troublesome charge." but catharine's nature is akin to his, and it is with almost brutal delight that she helps forward this marriage, when she finds the girl does not trust her word. then comes the strife between edgar and heathcliff for the soul, so it seems, of catharine. there is no jealousy on edgar's part. the book never stoops to anything so earthly. edgar loathes heathcliff and cannot understand catharine's affection for her early playmate. although she never for a moment hesitates in her allegiance to heathcliff, it is this strife that causes her death. the strife between good and evil wears her out. even after her death, her soul cannot leave this earth. it is still joined to heathcliff's. it resembles here the story of paola and francesca. catharine is waiting for him and his only delight is in her haunting presence. heathcliff cannot be accused of keeping catharine from paradise. in life she would not let him from her presence, and she clings to him now. it is the story of _undine_ reversed. undine gained a soul through a mortal's love. and we feel toward the close that catharine, selfish and passionate as she was, is yet heathcliff's better spirit. catharine while living had prevented heathcliff from killing her brother. although he loved catharine better than himself, and would have made any sacrifice at her request, he feels no more tenderness for her offspring than for his own. but the spirit of catharine lived in her child and nephew, and when they looked at him with her eyes, he had no pleasure in his revenge upon the son of hindley nor on the daughter of edgar linton. in the tenderness that once or twice comes over heathcliff as he looks at hareton earnshaw, there is a ray of promise that he may be redeemed. and in the final outcome of the story, one can but hope that catharine's restless spirit, as it watches and waits for heathcliff, is striving to bring some blessing upon her house. the awakening of a better nature in hareton, through his love for catharine's daughter, is a pretty, tender idyl. the book is like a greek tragedy in this, that at the close the atmosphere has been purged; the sun once more shines through the windows of wuthering heights; hatred is dead, and love reigns supreme. _wuthering heights_ is a novel not of externals, not of character, but of something deeper, more vital. the love of catharine and heathcliff has no physical basis; it is the union of souls evil, but not material. it is the sex of spirit, not of body, that adds its might to the resistless force that unites these two. notwithstanding the external pictures are so distinct that a painter could transfer them to his canvas, the book is a soul-tragedy. _wuthering heights_ cannot be classed among the so-called popular novels. it has appealed to the poets rather than to the readers of fiction. it has received the warmest praise from the poet swinburne. in _the athenæum_ of june , , he thus eulogises it: "now in _wuthering heights_ this one thing needful ['logical and moral certitude'] is as perfectly and triumphantly attained as in _king lear_ or _the duchess of malfi_, in _the bride of lammermoor_ or _notre-dame de paris_. from the first we breathe the fresh dark air of tragic passion and presage; and to the last the changing wind and flying sunlight are in keeping with the stormy promise of the dawn. there is no monotony, there is no repetition, but there is no discord. this is the first and last necessity, the foundation of all labour and the crown of all success, for a poem worthy of the name; and this it is that distinguishes the hand of emily from the hand of charlotte brontë. all the works of the elder sister are rich in poetic spirit, poetic feeling, and poetic detail; but the younger sister's work is essentially and definitely a poem in the fullest and most positive sense of the term." at the close of this essay he writes: "it may be true that not many will ever take it to their hearts; it is certain that those who do like it will like nothing very much better in the whole world of poetry or prose." all that we know of emily brontë's nature is consistent, such as we would expect of the author of _wuthering heights_. the first stanza of her last poem, written but a short time before her death, reveals her strength of will and faith: no coward soul is mine, no trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: i see heaven's glories shine, and faith shines equal, arming me from fear. these lines evoked the following tribute from matthew arnold: ----she (how shall i sing her?) whose soul knew no fellow for might, passion, vehemence, grief, daring, since byron died, that world-famed son of fire--she, who sank baffled, unknown, self-consumed; whose too bold dying song stirr'd, like a clarion-blast, my soul. the great books of prose fiction have been for the most part the work of mature years. the lyric poets burst into rhapsody at the dawn of life; but the powers of the novelist have ripened more slowly. the novelists have done better work after thirty-five than at an earlier age but few of them have written a classic at the age of twenty-eight, as did emily brontë. * * * * * anne brontë's fame has been both augmented and dimmed by the greater genius of her two sisters. she is remembered principally as one of the brontës, so that her books have been oftener reprinted and more extensively read than their actual merit would warrant. in comparison with the greater genius of charlotte and emily, her writings have been declared void of interest, and without any ray of the brilliancy which distinguishes their books. this latter statement is not true. anne brontë did not have their imaginative power, but she reproduced what she had seen and learned of life with conscientious devotion to truth. _wuthering heights_ and _agnes grey_, anne brontë's first book, were published together in three volumes so as to meet the popular demand that novels, like the graces, should appear in threes. it is a photographic representation of the life of a governess in england during the forties. agnes's courage in determining to augment the family income by seeking a position as governess; the high hopes with which she enters upon her first position; her conscientious resolve to do her full christian duty to the spoiled children of the bloomfields; her dismissal and sad return home; her second position in the family of mr. murray, a country squire; the two daughters, one determined to make a fine match for herself, the other a perfect hoyden without a thought beyond the horses and dogs; the disregard of the truth in both; mr. hatfield, the minister, who cared only for the county families among his parishioners; miss murray's marriage for position and the unhappiness that followed it--form a series of photographs, which only a sensitive, responsive nature could have produced. the contrast between the gentle, refined governess, and the coarse natures upon whom she is dependent, is well shown, although there is no attempt on the part of the author to assert any superiority of one over the other. we have many books in which the shrinking governess is described from the point of view of the family or one of their guests, but here the governess of an english fox-hunting squire has spoken for herself; she has described her trials and the constant self-sacrifice which is demanded of her without bitterness, and in a kindly spirit withal, and for that reason the book is a valuable addition to the history of the life and manners of the century. _the tenant of wildfell hall_, her second novel, was a peculiar book to have shaped itself in the brain of the gentle youngest daughter of the vicar of haworth. but anne brontë had seen phases of life which must have sorely wounded her pure spirit. she had been governess at thorp green, where her brother branwell was tutor, and where he formed that unfortunate attachment for the wife of his employer, which, with the help of liquor and opium, deranged his mind. anne wrote in her diary at this time, "i have had some very unpleasant and undreamt-of experience of human nature." as we picture anne brontë, with her light brown hair, violet-blue eyes, shaded by pencilled eyebrows, and transparent complexion, she seems a spirit of goodness and purity made to behold daily a depth of evil in the nature of one dear to her, which fills her with wonderment and horror. mr. huntingdon of wildfell hall was drawn from personal observation of her brother. she wrote with minuteness, because she believed it her duty to hold up his life as a warning to others. the gradual change in mr. huntingdon from the happy confident lover to the ruined debauchee is well traced; the story of his infatuation for the wife of his friend, so reckless that he attempted no concealment, is realistic in the extreme. but what a change in the novel! a hundred years before, huntingdon would have made a fine hero of romance, but here he is disgraced to the position of chief villain, and the reader feels for him only pity and loathing. probably a man's pen would have touched his errors more lightly, but anne brontë painted him as he appeared to her. the author attributes such a character as huntingdon's to false education, and makes her heroine say: "as for my son--if i thought he would grow up to be what you call a man of the world,--one that has 'seen life,' and glories in his experience, even though he should so far profit by it as to sober down, at length, into a useful and respected member of society--i would rather that he died to-morrow--rather a thousand times." notwithstanding its defects--and it is full of them judged from the stand-point of art--_wildfell hall_ is a book of promise. in the descriptions of the hall, the mystery that surrounds its mistress, the rumours of her unknown lover, the heathclad hills and the desolate fields, there are romantic elements that remind one of _wuthering heights_. the book is more faulty than _agnes grey_, but the writer had a deeper vision of life with its weaknesses and its depths of human passion. if years had mellowed that "undreamt-of experience" of thorp green, anne brontë with her truthful observation and sympathetic insight into character might have written a classic. the material out of which _wildfell hall_ was wrought, under a more mature mind, with a better grasp of the whole and a better regard for proportion, would have made a novel worthy of a place beside _jane eyre_. * * * * * that english fiction has produced sweeter and more varied fruit by being grafted with the novels of women no one who gives the matter a serious thought can for a moment doubt. one distinctive phase of woman's mind made its way but slowly in the english novel. women are by nature introspective. they read character and are quick to grasp the motives and passions that underlie action. the french women have again and again embodied this view of human nature in their novels, which are essentially of the inner life. _the princess of clèves_ by madame de lafayette, written in , is the first book in which all the conflicts are those of the emotions; here the great triumph is that which a woman wins over her own heart. madame de tencin in _mémoires du comte de comminges_ represents her hero and heroine under the influence of two great passions, religion and love. madame de souza, madame cottin, madame de genlis, madame de staël, and george sand wrote novels of the inner life. the princess of clèves with noble dignity controls her emotion and at last conquers it. the pages of george sand thrill with unbridled passion. the english women, however, are more repressed by nature than the french, and the english novel of the inner life advanced but slowly. the emotions of the long-forgotten sidney biddulph are minutely told. _a simple story_ by mrs. inchbald is a psychological novel. amelia opie, mary brunton, and mrs. shelley wrote novels of the inner life. but _jane eyre_ is the first english novel which in sustained intensity of emotion can compare with the novels of madame de staël or george sand. the style partakes of the high-wrought character of the heroine, and the reader is whirled along in the vortex of feeling until he too partakes of every varied mood of the characters, and closes the book fevered and exhausted. it is one of the ironies of fate that charlotte brontë with her strong pro-anglican prejudices should belong to the school of these french women. but there is the same difference between their writings that there is between the french temperament and the english. even in the wildest moments of jane eyre her passion is rather like the river wharf when it has overflowed its banks; while theirs is like the mountain torrent that bears all down before it. much of the passion that charlotte brontë describes is pure imagination. she wrote freely to her friends about herself and the people whom she knew. the three rejected suitors caused her only a little amusement. her love for mr. nicholls, whom she afterwards married, was little warmer than respect. we could as easily weave a romance out of jane austen's remark that the poet crabbe was a man whom she could marry as to make a love story out of charlotte's relations to monseiur héger, who figures as the hero in three of her books. here she is greater than the french women writers: they knew by experience what they wrote; she by innate genius. perhaps no novelist ever had more meagre materials out of which to make four novels than had charlotte brontë: her sisters, monsieur and madame héger, the curates, and herself; a small village in yorkshire, two boarding schools, two positions as governess, and a short time spent in a school in brussels. compare this range with the material that scott, dickens, or thackeray had--then judge how much of the elixir of genius was given to each. the early pages of _jane eyre_, the first novel which charlotte brontë published, describe lowood institution, a place modelled upon cowan's bridge school. the two teachers, the kind miss temple and the cruel miss scatcherd, were drawn from two instructors there at the time the brontës attended it. helen burns, so untidy but so meek in spirit, was maria brontë, the eldest sister, who died at the age of eleven, probably as a result of the poor food and harsh treatment of the school. with what calm she replies to jane, when she would sympathise with her for an unjust punishment: "i am, as miss scatcherd said, slatternly; i seldom put, and never keep, things in order; i am careless; i forget rules; i read when i should learn my lessons; i have no method; and sometimes i say, like you, i cannot bear to be subjected to systematic arrangements. this is all very provoking to miss scatcherd, who is naturally neat, punctual, and particular." helen burns, with her calm submission, and jane eyre, with her rebellious spirit, are finely contrasted. jane's passionate resentment of the punishments which miss scatcherd inflicted on helen was genuine. charlotte was nine years old when she left cowan's bridge school, but her suppressed anger at the punishments which her sister maria had received there flashed out years afterwards in _jane eyre_. charlotte brontë was writing _jane eyre_ at the same time that emily and anne were writing _wuthering heights_ and _agnes grey_. as they read from their manuscripts, charlotte objected to beauty as a requisite of a heroine, and said, "i will show you a heroine as plain and as small as myself, who shall be as interesting as any of yours." so arose the conception of jane eyre. if the slight, shy, yorkshire governess, without beauty or charm of manner, had appeared before the imagination of any novelist either male or female, at that time, and asked to be admitted into the house of fiction, she would have been refused entrance as cruelly as hannah shut the door in the face of jane eyre, when she came to her dripping with the rain, cold and weak from two nights' exposure on the moor, and asking for charity. but charlotte brontë, with a woman's sympathetic eye made doubly penetrating and loving by genius, chose this outcast from romance as a heroine, a woman without beauty or charm, and boldly proclaimed that moral beauty was superior to physical beauty, and that the attraction of one soul for another lay quite beyond the pale of external form. jane eyre is not, however, charlotte brontë, as has been so often asserted. she would not have gone back to comfort mr. rochester, after she had once left the hall. one suspects that he was drawn from reading, since the author hardly trusted her knowledge of worldly men to draw a fitting lover for jane. mr. rochester is very much the same type of man as mr. b., whom pamela married, and the independent jane addresses him as "my master," an expression constantly on the lips of pamela. yet rochester leaves a permanent impression on the mind, for he represents a strong man at war with destiny. he conceals his marriage because of his determination to conquer fate. it is pointed out by critics to-day that he is quite an impossible character, that he is, in fact, a woman's hero. it is well to remember, however, that the author of _jane eyre_ was believed at first to have been a man, as it was thought impossible for a man like rochester to have been conceived in a woman's brain, and not until mrs. gaskell's life of the brontës was published was charlotte's character as a modest woman established. but men have repudiated mr. rochester, and so we must accept their judgment. the heroine of her next novel, _shirley_, was suggested by emily brontë. only shirley was not emily. shirley could not have conceived even the dim outlines of _wuthering heights_, but she had many of the strong qualities of emily, and these, mingled with the softer stuff of her own nature, make her contradictory but charming, and louis moore, an agreeable tutor whom emily brontë would have quite despised, naturally falls in love with his wayward pupil, as they pore over books in the school-room. shirley is contrasted with caroline helstone, of whom mrs. humphry ward says: "for delicacy, poetry, divination, charm, caroline stands supreme among the women of miss brontë's gallery." even if other admirers of miss brontë deny her this eminence, she certainly possesses all the qualities, rare among heroines, which mrs. ward has attributed to her. in many of the conversations between shirley and caroline, there are reminders of what passed between the brontë sisters in their own home. the relative excellence of men and women novelists always interested them. shirley evidently expressed charlotte's own views in the following words: "if men could see us as we really are, they would be a little amazed; but the cleverest, the acutest men are often under an illusion about women. they do not read them in a true light; they misapprehend them, both for good and evil: their good woman is a queer thing, half doll, half angel; their bad woman almost always a fiend. then to hear them fall into ecstasies with each other's creations, worshipping the heroine of such a poem--novel--drama, thinking it fine,--divine! fine and divine it may be, but often quite artificial--false as the rose in my best bonnet there. if i spoke all i think on this point, if i gave my real opinion of some first-rate female characters in first-rate works, where should i be? dead under a cairn of avenging stones in half-an-hour." "after all," says caroline, "authors' heroines are almost as good as authoresses' heroes." "not at all," shirley replies. "women read men more truly than men read women. i'll prove that in a magazine article some day when i've time; only it will never be inserted; it will be 'declined with thanks,' and left for me at the publisher's." the greater part of the men in _shirley_ were drawn from life, and are as true to their sex as were the heroines of dickens, thackeray, or disraeli, who were then writing. as for the curates, they are perfect. no man's hand could have executed their portraits so skilfully. they have no more real use in the story than they seem to have had in their respective parishes. but this daughter of a country vicar, who knew nothing of the london cockney, who was then enlivening the books of dickens, seized upon the funniest people she knew, the curates, and they have been immortalised. there is often in charlotte brontë's novels a separation of plot and character, as if they formed themselves independently in her mind. this is especially true of _shirley_. at that time the attention of england was directed toward the manufacturing towns of lancashire and yorkshire. mrs. trollope and harriet martineau had written upon conditions of life there. in _sybil_ disraeli considered broadly the underlying causes of the misery of the operatives. mrs. gaskell wrote _mary barton_, a story of manchester life, the same year that charlotte brontë was writing _shirley_. the plot of the last named is laid in the early years of the nineteenth century, and turns upon the opposition of the workmen to the introduction of machinery. but the plot and characters are constantly getting in each other's way and tripping each other up. though the book is full of defects, one cannot judge it harshly. when she began the funny description of the curates' tea-drinking, her brother and sisters were with her. before it was finished, she and her father were left alone. but at this time the public demanded melodrama. fires, drownings, and death-beds were popular methods of untying hard knots and of playing upon the emotions of the reader. she, like mrs. gaskell, constantly resorts to outside circumstances to help put things to rights when they are drifting in the wrong direction, circumstances which jane austen would not have admitted in a book of hers. before charlotte brontë wrote _jane eyre_ or _shirley_, she had finished _the professor_, and offered it to different publishers, but it was rejected by all. finally she herself lost faith in it, and transformed it into the beautiful story of _villette_, where the school of madame and monseiur héger in brussels is made immortal. in the plot of _villette_, as in the plot of _jane eyre_ and of _shirley_, many extraneous events happen which are either unexpected or unnecessary. like _jane eyre_, _villette_ is steeped in the romantic spirit, but the hard light of reason again dispels the illusion. in the management of the supernatural charlotte is far inferior to emily. the explanation of the nun in _villette_ is even childish. it is the mistake made by mrs. radcliffe, by nearly all writers of the age of reason. they give a ray, as it were, a whisper from the mysterious world which surrounds that which is manifest to our everyday senses. be it the fourth dimension, or what not, we catch for a moment a message from this other world, which, even indistinct, still tells us that this visible world is not all, that there is something beyond. then, with hard common-sense, they deny their own message, and, so doing, deny to us the world of mystery, and leave us only the material world in which to believe. not so emily brontë. not so scott or shakespeare. we may believe in hamlet's ghost or not; we may believe or not in the white lady of avenel; we may believe or not that catharine's soul hovered near heathcliff. but we are still left with a belief in the life after death, and still believe in something beyond experience, and still grope to find those things in heaven and earth of which philosophy does not dream. but the characters, not the plot, remain in the mind, after reading _villette_. madame beck, whose prototype was madame héger, is as clever as cardinal wolsey or cardinal richelieu; but she uses all her diplomatic skill in the management of a lady's school, which, under her ever watchful eye, with the aid of duplicate keys to the trunks and drawers of the teachers and pupils, runs without friction of any kind. lucy snowe, the english teacher in _villette_, is far more pleasing than jane eyre; she is not so passionate, but her view of life is deeper and broader, and consequently kinder. and there is paul emanuel. who would have believed the rejected professor would have grown into that scholar of middle age? he is so distinctly the foreigner in showing every emotion under which he is labouring. how pathetic and how lovable he is on the day of his fête when he thinks that the english governess has forgotten him, and has not brought even a flower to make the day happier for him! so fretful in little things, so heroic in large things, with so many faults which every pupil can see, but with so many virtues, frank even about his little deceptions, he is a lovable man. but many of miss brontë's readers do not find paul emanuel as delightful as paulina, the womanly little girl who grows into the childlike woman. she is as sensitive as the mimosa plant to the people about her. every event of her childhood, all the people she cared for then, remained indelibly imprinted on her mind, so that, with her, friendship and love are strong and abiding. notwithstanding their many defects, charlotte brontë's novels have left a permanent impression upon english fiction and have won an acknowledged place among english classics. she first made a minute analysis of the varying emotions of men and women, and noted the strange, unaccountable attractions and repulsions which everybody has experienced. paulina, a girl of six, is happy at the feet of graham, a boy of sixteen, although he is unconscious of her presence. and so instance after instance can be given of affinities and antipathies which lie beyond human reason. she, like her sister emily, though with less clear vision, was searching for the hidden sources of human feeling and human action. charlotte brontë wrote to a friend: "i always through my whole life liked to penetrate to the real truth; i like seeking the goddess in her temple, and handling the veil, and daring the dread glance." her truthfulness in painting emotion, which to her own generation seemed most daring, even coarse, has given an abiding quality to her work. and besides she created paulina and paul emanuel. chapter xvi mrs. gaskell ever since eve gave adam of the forbidden fruit, "and he did eat," the relative position of the sexes has rankled in the heart of man. the sons of adam proclaim loudly that they were given dominion over the earth and all that the earth contained; but they have been ever ready to follow blindly the beckoning finger of some fair daughter of eve. perhaps it is a consciousness of this domination of the weaker sex that has led man to proclaim in such loud tones his mastery over woman, having some doubts of its being recognised by her unless asserted in bold language. at a time when the novels of women received as warm a welcome from the public and as large checks from the publishers as those of men, a writer whose sex need not be given thus discussed their relative merits: "what is woman, regarded as a literary worker? simply an inferior animal, educated as an inferior animal. and what is man? he is a superior being, educated by a superior being. so how can they ever be equal in that particular line?" granted the premises, there can be but one conclusion. the perfect assurance with which men have asserted their own sufficiency in all lines of art would be amusing if it had not been so disastrous in distorting and warping at least three of them: music, the drama, and prose fiction. as slow as the growth of spirituality, has been the recognition of woman's mental and moral power. it seems almost incredible that not many years ago only male voices were heard in places of amusement. deep, rich, full, and sonorous, no one disputes the beauty of the male chorus; but modern opera would be impossible without the soprano and alto voices, and madame patti, madame sembrich, and madame lehman have proved that in natural gifts and in the technique of art women are not inferior to their brethren. by the same slow process women have won recognition on the stage. even in shakespeare's time men saw no reason why women should acquire the histrionic art. imagine juliet played by a boy! yet essex, leicester, southampton, in the boxes, the groundlings in the pit, and ben jonson sitting as critic of all, were well satisfied with it, for they were used to it, just as men have accepted the heroines of their own novels, though every woman they meet is a refutation of their truth. it only needed a woman in a woman's part to open the eyes of the audience to all they had missed before. not until the restoration, did any woman appear on the english stage. the following lines given in the prologue written for the revival of _othello_, in which the part of desdemona was acted for the first time by a woman, show how quick critics were to see the folly of the old custom: for to speak truth, men act, that are between forty and fifty, wenches of fifteen, with bone so large, and nerve so uncompliant, when you call desdemona, enter giant. as we cannot conceive of the english stage without such women as mrs. siddons, charlotte cushman, and ellen terry, so we cannot conceive of the english novel without such writers as maria edgeworth, jane austen, mary mitford, the brontës, elizabeth gaskell, and george eliot, each one of whom carried some phase of the novel to so high a point that she has stood pre-eminent in her own particular line. too often we confuse art with its subject-matter. if it requires as much skill to give interest to the everyday occurrences of the home as to the thrilling adventures abroad; to depict the life of women as the life of men; to reveal the joys and sorrows of a woman's heart as the exultations and griefs of man's; then these women deserve a place equal to that held by richardson, fielding, scott, dickens, and thackeray. their art, as their subject-matter, is different. with the exception of george eliot, they have not virility with its strength and power, but they have femininity, no less strong and powerful, a quality possessed by scott, but by no other of these masculine writers, with the possible exception of dickens, and in him it is a femininity, which tends to run to sentimentalism, a different characteristic. * * * * * elizabeth gaskell, one of the most feminine of writers, is so well known as the author of _cranford_, that delightful village whose only gentleman dies early in the story, that many of its readers do not know that its author was better known by her contemporaries through her humanitarian novels; in which she discussed the great problems that face the poor. mrs. gaskell, whose maiden name was stevenson, was born in chelsea in . she spent the greater part of her childhood and girlhood at the home of her mother's family, knutsford in cheshire, the place she afterward made famous under the name of cranford. in , she married the reverend william gaskell, minister of the unitarian chapel in manchester, and that city became her home. she took an active interest in all the affairs of the city, and constantly visited the poor. her husband's father, besides being the professor of english history and literature in manchester new college, a unitarian institution, was a manufacturer; thus mrs. gaskell had the opportunity of hearing both sides of the controversy which was then waging between labour and capital. in the early forties, there was much suffering among the "mill-hands"; many were dying of starvation, and consequently there were many strikes and uprisings. these conditions led to her writing her first novel, _mary barton_. the book was written during the years - , although it was not published until . the nucleus of it, mrs. gaskell wrote to a friend, was john barton. since she herself was constantly wondering at the inequalities of fortune, which permitted some to starve, while others had abundance, how must it affect an ignorant man, himself on the verge of starvation, and filled with pity for the sufferings of his friends? driven almost insane by the condition of society, and hoping to remedy it, he commits a crime, which preys so upon his conscience that it finally wears out his own life. mrs. gaskell in this, her first novel, has left an undying picture of that section of smoky manchester where the mill-workers live: its narrow lanes; small but not uncomfortable cottages, well supplied with furniture in days when work was plentiful, but destitute even of a fire when it was scarce; the undersized men and women, with irregular features, pale blue eyes, sallow complexions, but with an intelligence rendered quick and sharp by their life among the machinery, and by their hard struggle for existence. the life of the poor had often furnished a theme for the poets, but it was the life of shepherds and milkmaids, above whom the blue sky arched, and whose labours were brightened by the songs of the birds, and the colours and sweet odours of fruit and flowers. but mrs. gaskell described the life of the poor in a town where factory smoke obscured the light of the sun, and where the weariness of labour was rendered more intense by the clanging factory bell, and the constant whirr of machinery ringing in their ears. it is a gloomy picture, but no gloomier than the reality. disraeli in _sybil_ discussed the questions of labour and capital in their relations to the history of england, with a broad intellectual grasp of the sociological causes which produced these conditions. he wrote in the interests of two classes, the crown and the people, with the hope that england might again have a free monarchy and a prosperous people. it is a well illustrated treatise on government, but the principles advocated or discussed always overshadow the characters. he had no such intimate knowledge of the lives of the poor as had mrs. gaskell. she conducts us to the homes of john barton, george wilson, and job legh, shows the simplicity of their lives, and their sense of the injustice under which they are suffering, and their helpfulness to each other in times of need. how simple and true is the friendship that binds mary barton, the dressmaker's apprentice; margaret, the blind singer; and alice wilson, the aged laundress, whose mind is constantly dwelling on the green fields and running brooks of her childhood's home. these women possess the strength of character of the early teutonic women. they are reticent, not given to the exchange of confidences, but ready to help a friend with all they have in the hour of need. when margaret thinks that the bartons are in want of money, she says to mary, "remember, if you're sore pressed for money, we shall take it very unkind if you do not let us know." but she does not question her. later when her great trouble comes to mary barton, which she must bear alone, when she must free a lover from the charge of murder without incriminating her father, she shows presence of mind, clearness of vision, and both moral and physical courage. jem wilson, the hero of the story, is as strong as mary barton, the heroine. although dickens was writing of the poor, he always found some means to educate his heroes, and generally placed them among gentlemen. jem wilson's education was received in the factory, and the little rise he made above his fellows was due to his better understanding of machinery. he was a working man, proud of his skill, and of his good name for honesty and sobriety. the plot of _mary barton_ is highly melodramatic, and its technique is open to criticism. it should not be read, however, for the story, but for the many home scenes in which we come into close sympathy with the men and women of manchester. there is no novel in which we feel more strongly the heart-beats of humanity. it leaves the impression, not of art, but of life. mrs. gaskell turned again to the struggles between labour and capital for the plot of her novel _north and south_. between this story and _mary barton_ she had written _cranford_ and _ruth_, but her mind seemed to revert, as it were, from the peaceful village life to the stirring mill-towns of lancashire. the great contrast between life in the counties of england presided over by the landed gentry, and that in the counties where the manufacturers formed the aristocracy, suggested this book. it was published in , seven years after _mary barton_. the plot of _north and south_ is better proportioned than is that of _mary barton_. there are fewer characters, better contrasted. it is a brighter picture, with more humour, but it does not leave so strong an impression on the mind as does the earlier work. both, however, are more accurate than _hard times_, a book with which dickens himself was highly dissatisfied. he knew little of the life in the manufacturing districts, but, in a spirit of indignation at the poverty brought on by grasping manufacturers, he caricatured the entire class in the persons of mr. gradgrind and mr. bounderby. when these men are compared with the manufacturers as represented in _north and south_, mrs. gaskell's more intimate knowledge of them is at once apparent. mrs. gaskell had been accused of taking sides with the working men, and representing their point of view in _mary barton_. in _north and south_, the hero, mr. thornton, is a rich manufacturer, a fine type of the self-made man, but standing squarely on his right to do what he pleases in his own factory. "he looks like a person who would enjoy battling with every adverse thing he could meet with--enemies, winds, or circumstances," was margaret hale's comment when she first met him. "he's worth fighting wi', is john thornton," said one of the leaders of the strike. for although the condition of affairs in the mill-towns had much improved since john barton went to london as a delegate from his starving townsmen, and was refused a hearing by parliament, a large part of the book is concerned with the story of a strike, which in its outcome brought starvation to many of the men, and bankruptcy to some of the masters, the acknowledged victors. higgins, one of the leaders of the working men, is a true lancashire man, and like thornton, the leader of the masters, has many traits of character as truly american as english. his sturdy independence is well shown in margaret's first interview with him. the daughter of a vicar in the south of england, she had been accustomed to call upon the poor in her father's parish. learning that higgins's daughter, bessy, is ill she expresses her desire to call upon her. "i'm none so fond of having stranger folk in my house," higgins informs her, but he finally relents and says, "yo may come if yo like." but besides the conflict between the manufacturers and their employees, with which much of the book is concerned, there is the sharp contrast between the hales, born and bred in the south of england, and the mill-owners in whose society they are placed. mr. hale, indecisive, inactive, in whom thought is more powerful than reality, is as helpless as a child among these men of action, and utterly unable to cope with the problems they are facing. margaret, the refined daughter of a poor clergyman, is contrasted with the proud mrs. thornton, the mother of a wealthy manufacturer, who would make money, not birth, the basis of social distinctions. but margaret is even better contrasted with the poor factory girl, bessy higgins, who turns to her for help and sympathy. there is hardly a story of mrs. gaskell's which is not adorned by the friendship of the heroine for some other woman in the book. in both these novels, she taught that the only solution of the great problem of capital and labour was a recognition of the fact that their interests were identical, and that friendly intercourse was the only means of breaking down the barrier that divided them. mrs. gaskell was so versatile, she touched upon so many problems of human life, that it is almost impossible to summarise her work. _ruth_ considers the question of the girl who has been betrayed. ruth is as pure as tess of the d'urbervilles, and like her is a victim of circumstances. a stranger who has taken her under her protection reports that ruth is a widow, and ruth passively acquiesces in the deception, hoping that her son may never know the disgrace of his birth. but the truth comes to light, involving in temporary disgrace ruth and her son, and the household of mr. benson, the dissenting minister whose home had been her place of refuge. but mrs. gaskell is always optimistic. by her good deeds, ruth wins the love and honour of the entire community. this novel was loudly assailed. it was claimed that mrs. gaskell had condoned immorality, and it was considered dangerous teaching that good deeds were an atonement for such a sin. but if _ruth_ found detractors, it also found warm admirers, who recognised the broader teachings of the story. mrs. jameson wrote to mrs. gaskell: "i hope i do understand your aim--you have lifted up your voice against 'that demoralising laxity of principle,' which i regard as the ulcer lying round the roots of society; and you have done it wisely and well, with a mingled courage and delicacy which excite at once my gratitude and my admiration." the scene of _sylvia's lovers_ is laid in whitby, at a time when the press-gang was kidnapping men for the british navy. it is a story of the loves, jealousies, and sorrows of sailors, shopkeepers, and small farmers, among whom sylvia moves as the central figure. du maurier, who illustrated the second edition of this novel, was so charmed with the heroine that he named his daughter sylvia for her. this story, like _ruth_, has much of the sentimentalism so fashionable in the middle of the nineteenth century. the leading canon of criticism at that time was the power with which a writer could move the emotions of the reader, and the novelist was expected either to convulse his readers with laughter or dissolve them into tears. there are many funny scenes in _sylvia's lovers_, but the key-note is pathos. like many novels of dickens, there are death-bed scenes introduced only for the luxury of weeping over sorrows that are not real, and there are melodramatic situations as in her other books. parts of this novel suggested to tennyson the poem of _enoch arden_. but, however powerful may be the novels dealing with the questions that daily confront the poor, there is a perennial charm in the society of people who dwell amid rural scenes. mrs. gaskell has written several short stories of the pastoral type. such a story is _cousin phillis_. it is a beautiful idyl and reminds one of the old pastorals in which ladies and gentlemen played at shepherds and shepherdesses. cousin phillis cooks, irons, reads dante, helps the haymakers, falls in love, and mends a broken heart, and is brave, true, and unselfish. her father is what one would expect from such a daughter. he cultivates his small farm, finds rest from his labours in reading, and neglects none of the many duties which belong to him as the dissenting minister of a small village. _cranford_ and _wives and daughters_ have this in common, that the scene of both is laid in the village of knutsford. the former is a rambling story of events in two or three households, and of the social affairs in which all the village is concerned. it is without doubt the favourite of mrs. gaskell's novels. _wives and daughters_ was mrs. gaskell's last story, and was left unfinished at her death. it shows a great artistic advance over her earlier work. the plot is more natural; it has not so many sharp contrasts, which george eliot criticised in mrs. gaskell's stories. the characters are also more subtle. molly, the daughter of the village doctor, is an unselfish, thoughtful girl, but with none of that unreal goodness which dickens sometimes gave to his heroines. when she receives her first invitation to a child's party, and her father is wondering whether or not she can go, her speech is characteristic of her nature: "please, papa,--i do wish to go--but i don't care about it." molly feels very keenly, and longs for things with all the strength of an ardent nature, but she always subordinates herself and her wishes to others. in the character of cynthia, mrs. gaskell makes a plea for the heartless coquette. cynthia is beautiful, she likes to please those in whose company she finds herself, but quickly forgets the absent. it is not her fault that young men's hearts are brittle, for it is as natural for her to smile, and be gay and forget, as it is for molly to love, be silent, and remember. so it is cynthia who has the lovers, while molly is neglected. clare, cynthia's mother, is more selfish than her daughter, but she has learned the art of seeming to please others while thinking only of pleasing herself. she is as crafty as becky sharp, but softer, more feline, and more subtle; a much commoner type in real life than thackeray's diplomatic heroine. mr. a. w. ward, in the biographical introduction to the knutsford edition of her novels, says of her later work: "when mrs. gaskell had become conscious that if true to herself, to her own ways of looking at men and things, to the sympathies and hopes with which life inspired her, she had but to put pen to paper, she found what it has been usual to call her later manner--the manner of which _cranford_ offered the first adequate illustration, and of which _cousin phillis_ and _wives and daughters_ represent the consummation." the same critic compares the later work of mrs. gaskell with the later work of george sand and finds that "in their large-heartedness" they are similar. he also gives george sand's tribute to her english contemporary. "mrs. gaskell," she said, "has done what neither i nor other female writers in france can accomplish: she has written novels which excite the deepest interest in men of the world, and yet which every girl will be the better for reading." it is not often that a novelist finds another writer to take up and enlarge her work as did mrs. gaskell. her novels contain the germ of much of george eliot's earlier writings. _the moorland cottage_ suggested many parts of _the mill on the floss_. edward and maggie brown--the former important, consequential and dictatorial, the latter self-forgetful, eager to help others, and by her very eagerness prone to blunders--were developed by george eliot into the characters of tom and maggie tulliver. the weak and fretful mothers in the two books are much alike, while the love story and the catastrophe have the same general outline. they both drew largely from the working people of the north or of the midlands, and both constantly introduced dissenters. silas marner belongs to the manufacturing north, and the people of lantern yard are of the same class as those of manchester and milton. felix holt and adam bede belong to the same type as jem wilson and mr. thornton, while esther lyon is not unlike margaret hale. both often presented life from the point of view of the poor. both were interested in the development of character, and in the changes which it underwent for good or evil under the influence of outward circumstances. but george eliot had greater intellectual power than mrs. gaskell. she had the broader view and the deeper insight. mrs. gaskell could never have conceived the plots nor the characters of _romola_ nor _middlemarch_. she constantly introduced extraneous matter to shape her plots according to her will, while with george eliot the fate of character is as hard and unyielding as was the fate of predestination in the sermons of the old calvinistic divines. mrs. gaskell, like dickens, introduced death-bed scenes merely to play upon the emotions. george eliot was never guilty of this defect; with her, character is a fatalism that is inexorable. but mrs. gaskell had a more hopeful view of life than had george eliot. the unitarians believe in man and have faith in the clemency of god. this makes them a cheerful people. however dark the picture that mrs. gaskell paints, we have faith that conditions will soon be better, and at the close of the book we see the dawn of a brighter day. george eliot had taken the suggestions of mrs. gaskell and amplified them with many details that the woman of lesser genius had omitted. but to each was given her special gift. if george eliot's characters stand out as more distinct personalities, they are drawn with less sympathy. george eliot's men and women are often hard and sharp in outline; mrs. gaskell's, no matter how poor or ignorant, are softened and refined. it was this quality that made it possible for her to write that inimitable comedy of manners, _cranford_. her other novels with their deep pathos, strong passion, and dramatic situations must be read to show the breadth of her powers, but _cranford_ will always give its author a unique place in literature. imagine the material that furnished the groundwork of this story put into the hands of any novelist from richardson to henry james. it seems almost like sacrilege to think what even jane austen might have said of these dear elderly ladies. as for thackeray, their little devices to keep up appearances would have seemed to him instances of feminine deceit, and he might have put even miss jenkyns with her admiration of dr. johnson into his _book of snobs_. what tears dickens would have drawn from our eyes over the love story of miss matty and mr. holbrook. how george eliot would have mourned over the shallowness of their lives. henry james would have squinted at them and their surroundings through his eye-glass until he had discovered every faded spot on the carpet or skilful darn in the curtain. miss mitford would have appreciated these ladies and loved them as did mrs. gaskell, only she would have been so interested in the flowers and birds and clouds that she would have forgotten all about the cranford parties, and would probably have ignored the presence in their midst of the honourable mrs. jamieson, the sister-in-law of an earl. so we must conclude that only mrs. gaskell could make immortal this village of femininity, where to be a man was considered almost vulgar, but into which she has introduced one of the most chivalrous gentlemen in the person of captain browne, and one of the most faithful of lovers in the person of mr. holbrook, while no book has a more lovable heroine than fluttering, indecisive miss matty, over whose fifty odd years the sorrows of her youth have cast their lengthening shadows. _mary barton_ is a work of genius. only a woman of high ideals could have drawn the character of margaret hale, an earlier marcella, or molly gibson, or mr. thornton, or mr. holman. only a woman of deep insight could have created a woman like ruth: a book which in its problem and its deep earnestness reminds one of _aurora leigh_. but her readers will always love mrs. gaskell for the sake of the gentle ladies of _cranford_. conclusion mrs. gaskell died on the twelfth of november, . of the novelists who have been considered in this book only three survived her, mrs. bray, mrs. s. c. hall, and harriet martineau, but they added little to prose fiction after that date. during the third quarter of the nineteenth century, however, the number of books written by women continued to increase each year. julia kavanagh was the author of several novels, the first of which _the three paths_, was published in ; all her stories were written with high moral aim and delicacy of feeling. _uncle tom's cabin_, by harriet beecher stowe, published in , is probably the most powerful novel ever written to plead the cause of oppressed humanity. dinah maria muloch craik kept up the interest in the domestic novel; her most popular book, _john halifax, gentleman_, has lost none of its charm for young women, even if it does not meet the requirements of a classic. mrs. henry wood is still remembered as the author of the melodramatic _east lynne_, but her best stories are the _johnny ludlow papers_, which deal with character alone; her popularity is attested by the fact that more than a million copies of her books have been issued. charlotte yonge's forgotten novels were classed among the _church stories_, because they contain so much piety and devotion. of a different type was miss de la ramée, who wrote under the name of ouidà; she had fine gifts of word-painting, but a fondness for the questionable in conduct. miss braddon, the author of _lady audley's secret_, excelled in complicated plots. mrs. oliphant has been a most versatile writer, and followed almost every style of prose fiction; her domestic stories are generally considered her best. anne thackeray, better known as mrs. ritchie, the daughter of the great novelist, has written several novels, all of which have a delightfully feminine touch. miss rhoda broughton has entertained the reading public by love stories which hold the attention until the marriage takes place. but all these women fade into insignificance beside george eliot, whose first story, _the sad fortunes of the rev. amos barton_, appeared in _blackwood's magazine_ in , and whose last novel, _daniel deronda_, was published nearly twenty years later, in . it seems strange that any reader of her books should have thought them the product of a man's brain, as was at first believed. for, notwithstanding her power in developing a plot, her breadth of view, and her mental grasp, her genius is essentially feminine. she excelled in analysis of character, in attention to details, in ethical teaching, and in artistic truthfulness, the qualities in which women have been pre-eminent. only a woman's pen could have drawn such characters as dinah morris, maggie tulliver, and dorothea casaubon, or could have followed the minute and subtle influences under which the plot of _middlemarch_ is shaped. george eliot has left a larger portrait gallery of women than any other novelist. not only has she drawn different grades of society, but, what is perhaps a more difficult task, she has drawn the different grades of spiritual greatness and moral littleness. she brought the psychological novel to a degree of perfection which has never been surpassed. mrs. oliphant has thus written of george eliot's place in literature: "another question which has been constantly put to this age, and which is pushed with greater zeal every day, as to the position of women in literature and the height which it is in their power to attain, was solved by this remarkable woman, in a way most flattering to all who were and are fighting the question of equality between the two halves of mankind; for here was visibly a woman who was to be kept out by no barriers, who sat down quietly from the beginning of her career in the highest place, and, if she did not absolutely excel all her contemporaries in the revelation of the human mind and the creation of new human beings, at least was second to none in those distinguishing characteristics of genius." we are too near the nineteenth century to decide as to the relative positions of its great novelists. at one time george eliot was placed at the head of all writers of fiction, with dickens and thackeray as rivals for the second place. but she was dethroned by thackeray, and there are signs that the final kingship will be given to charles dickens, unless scott receives it instead. fashions in novels change at least every fifty years. exciting plots and situations, strong emotional scenes, sharp contrasts, are not demanded by present readers, who also turn away with disgust from the saintly heroine and the irreclaimable villain. of the many volumes of fiction written in the eighteenth century only two are in general circulation to-day, _robinson crusoe_ and _the vicar of wakefield_. but all those once popular novels, even if their very names are now forgotten, have done their work in shaping the thought and morals of their own and succeeding generations. index _abbott, the_, _absentee, the_, , - , _ada reis_, _adam bede_, , , addison, joseph, , _adeline mowbray, or the mother and daughter_, - _adventures of an atom_, _afflicted parent, the, or the undutiful child punished_, _age of wordsworth, the_, _agnes grey_, - , , ainsworth, william harrison, , alderson, miss, _see_ opie, amelia _amorous friars, or the intrigues of a convent_, _amos barton_, _amours of prince tarquin and miranda_, _antiquary, the_, , _arabian nights_, , arblay, madame d', _see_ burney, frances _arblay, madame d', essay on_, - , , - arden, enoch, arnold, matthew, _artless tales_, _athenæum, the_, , _aurora leigh_, austen, jane, , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , baillie, joanna, , balzac, honoré de, _banker's wife, the_, barbauld, mrs. anna letitia, barrett, miss, _see_ browning, elizabeth _barring out, the_, _bas bleu_, , _beauty put to its shifts, or the young virgin's rambles_, behn, aphra, , - _belford regis_, - _belinda_, , _beside the bonny brier bush_, _betsy thoughtless, miss, the history of_, - , , _bithynia, an adventure in_, _blackwood's magazine_, , blake, william, _blazing world, description of a new world called the_, - blessington, lady, , blind harry the minstrel, , bonheur, rosa, _book of snobs, the_, boswell, james, bousset, braddon, mary elizabeth, bray, ann eliza, , - , , _bride of lammermoor, the_, brontë, anne, , , - brontë, charlotte, , , , , , , , - brontë, emily, , - , , , , , brontës, the, - , _brooke and brooke farm_, broughton, rhoda, browning, elizabeth barrett, , , , brunton, alexander, brunton, mary, , , - , _bubbled knights, or successful contrivances_, bulwer, edward, lord lytton, , , burke, edmund, , , burney, charles, burney, frances, , - , , , , , byron, lord (george gordon), , - , - , _caleb williams_, _camilla, or a picture of youth_, - , , _canterbury tales, the_, - _caroline evelyn, the history of_, carter, elizabeth, _castle of otranto, the_, _castle rackrent_, - , _castles of athlyn and dunbayne_, cavendish, margaret, _see_ newcastle, duchess of cavendish, william, _see_ newcastle, duke of _cecil, or the adventures of a coxcomb_, - _cecilia, or memoirs of an heiress_, - , , , , , _celestina_, _chap-books_, chapone, hester, chaucer, geoffrey, _cheap repository, the_, - _childe harold_, , clarendon, earl of (edward hyde), _clarissa harlowe_, , , , _clelia_, _clubman, the_, _coelebs in search of a wife_, - coleridge, ernest hartley, collier, jeremy, colman, george, , , _confessions of a pretty woman_, congreve, william, cooper, james fenimore, corneille, _cottagers of glenburnie, the_, cottin, sophie, madame de, _court gazette_, _courtenay of walreddon; a romance of the west_, _cousin phillis_, - , , crabbe, george, craik, dinah maria muloch, craik's _english prose_, _cranford_, , , , , - crewe, catherine, _cry of the children, the_, curtis, george william, _daniel deronda_, dante, alighieri, david copperfield, _david simple_, - _deerbrook_, defoe, daniel, _de foix, or sketches of the manners and customs of the fourteenth century_, _desmond_, - , _destiny_, , , , , - diana of the crossways, dickens, charles, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _discipline_, disraeli, benjamin, , , , , , dombey and son, _domestic manners of the americans_, - dryden, john, _duchess of malfi, the_, du maurier, _east lynne_, edgeworth, maria, , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , edgeworth, richard lovell, , , , , _eighteenth century, history of the_, elia, _see_ lamb, charles eliot, george, , , , , , , , - , - emma, - , - , , _emmeline_, _ennui_, , _enoch arden_, _epipsychidion_, _essay on irish bulls_, see _irish bulls, essay on_ _essay on madame d'arblay_, see _arblay, madame d', essay on_ _ethelinda_, evans, marian, _see_ eliot, george _evelina, or a young lady's entrance into the world_, , , - , , , , , , , evelyn, john, _evening chronicle_, _examiner_, _fair jilt, the_, _falkland_, , _falkner_, _fantom, mr.: or the history of the new-fashioned philosopher, and his man william_, , felix holt, _female education, strictures on the modern system of_, _female quixote, the_, - ferrier, susan edmonstone, - , , fielding, henry, , , , , , , , , , fielding, sarah, , , - _fits of fitz-ford_, _flies in amber_, _florence macarthy_, _fortnightly review_, fox, charles james, _frankenstein, or the modern prometheus_, - , _fraser's magazine_, froissart's _chronicles_, gait, john, garnett, sir richard, garrick, david, , , garrison, william lloyd, gaskell, elizabeth cleghorn, , , , , - genlis, stephanie felicite, comtesse de, , _gentleman's magazine, the_, gibbon, edward, _glenarvon_, - godwin, mary wollstonecraft, _see_ wollstonecraft, mary godwin, william, , , , , , goethe, johann wolfgang von, goldsmith, oliver, gore, catherine grace frances, - , gosse, edmund, _grand cyrus, the_, , , _gulliver's travels_, guy mannering, _hackney coachman, the_, hall, anna maria (mrs. s. c.), , , - , , hall, s. c., hamilton, elizabeth, - _hamiltons, the_, hamlet, _hard times_, hardy, thomas, , _harriet stuart, the life of_, harry, blind, the minstrel, _see_ blind harry the minstrel haywood, eliza, , - , _heir of selwood, the_, , helen, _henrietta_, _henry de pomeroy_, _henry esmond_, _heptameron_, the, herford, c. h., _hints towards forming the character of a young princess_, homer, , , horace, _hour and the man, the_, , - huet, bishop, pierre daniel, _humphry clinker_, , , _hungarian brothers_, _ibrahim_, , _ida, or the woman of athens_, _impetuous lover, the, or the guiltless parricide_, inchbald, elizabeth, , , - , , , , _inheritance, the_, , - , , , - _irish bulls, essay on_, - _irish peasantry, stories of the_, , _italian, the_, , , , , , , ivanhoe, jackson, helen hunt (h. h.), james, g. p. r., , james, henry, jameson, mrs. (anna), _jane eyre_, , , , , , , - , , _jealous wife, the_, jeffrey, francis, joan of arc, _john halifax, gentleman_, _johnny ludlow papers_, johnson, r. brimley, johnson, dr. samuel, , , , , , , , , , , , , , _jonathan jefferson whitlaw, the life and adventures of_, - , jonson, ben, _joseph andrews_, , , _journey to bath_, jules verne, _see_ verne, jules kauffman, angelica, kavanagh, julia, _king lear_, see _lear_ knox, john, _kruitzener, or the german's tale_, - _lady audley's secret_, _lady clare_, _lady of lyons, the_, _lady's magazine_, lafayette, madame de, , , , lamb, lady caroline, - lamb, charles, , , lamb, william (lord melbourne), , , , , _landlady's tale, the_, lang, andrew, lanier, sidney, _last man, the_, - _lazy lawrence_, , _lear, king_, lee, harriet, , - lee, sophia, , - , lennox, charlotte, , - _letters of the duchess of newcastle_, - _letters to young ladies_, lewis, matthew gregory, "library of old authors," russell smith, _life of the duke of newcastle_, see _newcastle, life of the duke of_ _lights and shadows of irish life_, - _lilly dawson, the story of_, _literary gazette_, _lodore_, - longueville, duchesse de, _lucius_, lytton, bulwer, _see_ bulwer, edward (lord lytton) macaulay, thomas babington, , , , machiavelli, niccolo, mackay, sheriff, _magyar, the, and the moslem_, _man and superman_, _manchester strike, a_, manley, mary, , - , _mansfield park_, , - , , marcella, margaret, queen of navarre, _marriage_, , , marsh, anne, martineau, harriet, , , - , , _mary barton_, , - , , , , masson, david, maturin, charles robert, _mazeppa_, mémoires du comte de comminges, _mémoires pour servir à l'histoire de la vertu_, _memoirs of a certain island adjacent to utopia_, _michael armstrong, the life and adventures of_, _middlemarch_, , _midsummer eve, a fairy tale of love_, - _mill on the floss_, the, , mitford, mary russell, , , , , - , , , , , , _monastery, the_, , _monk, the_, montagu, elizabeth, montagu, mary wortley, _monthly review_, _monumental effigies of great britain_, moore, thomas, _moorland cottage, the_, more, hannah, - , morgan, lady, , , _music, history of_, _mysteries of udolpho, the_, , , , , , , , , , _nature and art_, - _nature's pictures drawn by fancy's pencil_, _new atalantis_, - newcastle, duchess of, , - newcastle, duke of, , , , , , _newcastle, life of the duke of_, - _noctes ambrosianæ_, _nocturnal reverie_, north, christopher (john james wilson), , _north and south_, - , , _northanger abbey_, , - , _notre dame de paris_, "novelists' library," _novels by eminent hands_, _nun, the, or the perjured duty_, _o'briens, the, and the o'flahertys_, , - _o'donnel_, - _odyssey_, _old english baron, the_, , _old manor house, the_, - , , oliphant, mrs. margaret, , opie, mrs. amelia, , , - , , , _orange girl of st. giles's, the_, - ormond, - _oroonoko_, - , , _orphans, the_, _othello_, ouidà, _our village_, , - , , , owenson, sydney, _see_ morgan, lady _pamela_, , , , , , , , , , _paradise lost_, , pardoe, julia, - _pastor's fireside, the_, _patronage_, _pelham_, _pendennis_, _perkin warbeck, the fortunes of_, _persuasion_, , - , , , phillips, wendell, _pickwick papers_, _pilgrimages to english shrines_, _pin money_, - plato, _political economy tales_, - _polly honeycomb_, , pope, alexander, , , porter, anna maria, , - , porter, jane, , , , - , _preferment, or my uncle the earl_, prévost, abbé, _pride and prejudice_, , - , , , , , , , , , princess of clèves, the, , _professor, the_, _quarterly review_, , , radcliffe, ann, , - , , , rambouillet, marquise de, ramée, louise de la, _see_ ouidà ramsey, charlotte, _see_ lennox, charlotte _rape of the lock_, _rasselas_, _recess, the_, - reeve, clara, - _refugee in america, the_, richardson, samuel, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _rights of man_, _rights of woman, vindication of the_, see _vindication of the rights of woman_ ritchie, mrs., , _rival beauties, the_, _rivals, the_, , _rob roy_, _robinson crusoe_, , rogers, samuel, _romance of the forest, the_, , , , , _romance of the harem, the_, _romance of the west, a_, romeo and juliet, _romola_, rousseau, jean jacques, , ruskin, _ruth_, , - , , _st. ronan's well_, saintsbury, george, , sand, george, , , sappho, schlosser, scott, sir walter, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _scottish chiefs, the_, - scudèri, mlle. de, , , , , , , _seasons, the_, _secret intrigues of the count of caramania, the_, _selborne, the natural history and antiquities of_, _self-control_, - , _sense and sensibility_, - , , , sévigné, madame, de, shakespeare, william, , , , , , , , , _shakespeare, essay on the genius of_, shaw, bernard, shelley, mary, , - , shelley, percy bysshe, , , , , - _shepherd of salisbury plain, the_, , , sheridan, mrs. frances, , - sheridan, richard brinsley, , _shirley_, - _sicilian romance, the_, , , _sidney biddulph, the memoirs of miss_, - , _silas marner_, _simple story, a_, - , _simple susan_, - _simple tales_, _sir charles grandison_, , , _sir edward seaward's narrative_, - _sister, the_, _sketches by boz_, _sketches of english character_, - _sketches of irish character_, - smith, charlotte, , - , , , , , , smith russell, "library of old authors," _see_ "library of old authors" smollett, tobias, , , , , , _soldier of lyons, the, a tale of the tuileries_, sothern, thomas, , souza, madame de, _spectator papers_, , staël, madame de (anne louise necker), , steele, richard, , , sterne, laurence, , , , , _stories of the irish peasantry_, see _irish peasantry, stories of the_ stothard, charles, stowe, harriet beecher, , , swift, jonathan, , swinburne, charles algernon, _sybil_, , _sylvia's lovers_, - taine, _talba, the, or moor of portugal_, _tale of two cities_, _tales of fashionable life_, - _tales of my landlord, the_, _tales of real life_, _tales that never die_, _tatler, the_, , _tenant of wildfell hall, the_, - tencin, mme. de, tennyson, alfred, lord, , tess of the d'urbervilles, thackeray, anna isabella, _see_ ritchie, mrs. thackeray, william makepeace, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , _thaddeus of warsaw_, - _theresa marchmont_, _thomas the rhymer_, thrale, mrs. (mrs. piozzi), _three paths, the_, _tintern abbey_, tolstoi, count leo, , _tom jones_, , , , tourgenieff, _trelawny of trelawne; or the prophecy: a legend of cornwall_, trollope, anthony, , trollope, frances, , , - , , _udolpho, the mysteries of_, see _mysteries of udolpho, the_ _uncle tom's cabin_, , , _undine_, _valperga: or the life and adventures of castruccio, prince of lucca_, - _vanity fair_, , _venetia_, verne, jules, _vicar of wakefield, the_, , , _vicar of wrexhill, the_, _village politics: addressed to all mechanics, journeymen, and labourers in great britain. by will chip, a country carpenter_, - _villette_, - _vindication of the rights of woman_, , , vivian, , _vivian grey_, , , , voltaire, françois, wallace, walpole, horace, , _wanderer, the, or female difficulties_, , ward, a. w., ward, mrs. humphry, _warleigh, or the fatal oak; a legend of devon_, _waste not, want not_, _waverley_, , , , , , _waverley novels_, , , , welsh, charles, , _werner, or the inheritance_, _westminster review_, , white, gilbert, _white hoods, the_, _whole duty of man_, _widow barnaby_, _widow married, the_, _widow wedded, the, or the barnabys in america_, _wild irish girl, the_, _will chip, a country carpenter_, see _village politics_ _winchelsea, lady_, _window in thrums, the_, _windsor forest_, _wives and daughters_, - , , wollstonecraft, mary, , , , , , , wood, mrs. henry, wordsworth, william, , , , , _wuthering heights_, , , , , , , _wycherley, william_, _yèrè-batan-seraï_, yonge, charlotte mary, [photo, from the play, of shirley appealing to mr. ryder] "go to washington and save my father's life."--act iii. _frontispiece._ the lion and the mouse by charles klein a story _of_ american life novelized from the play by arthur hornblow "judges and senators have been bought for gold; love and esteem have never been sold."--pope * * * * * illustrated by stuart travis and scenes from the play * * * * * grosset & dunlap publishers--new york g.w. dillingham company _entered at stationers' hall, london_ issued august, contents chapter i chapter ii chapter iii chapter iv chapter v chapter vi chapter vii chapter viii chapter ix chapter x chapter xi chapter xii chapter xiii chapter xiv chapter xv chapter xvi _the lion and the mouse_ chapter i there was unwonted bustle in the usually sleepy and dignified new york offices of the southern and transcontinental railroad company in lower broadway. the supercilious, well-groomed clerks who, on ordinary days, are far too preoccupied with their own personal affairs to betray the slightest interest in anything not immediately concerning them, now condescended to bestir themselves and, gathered in little groups, conversed in subdued, eager tones. the slim, nervous fingers of half a dozen haughty stenographers, representing as many different types of business femininity, were busily rattling the keys of clicking typewriters, each of their owners intent on reducing with all possible despatch the mass of letters which lay piled up in front of her. through the heavy plate-glass swinging doors, leading to the elevators and thence to the street, came and went an army of messengers and telegraph boys, noisy and insolent. through the open windows the hoarse shouting of news-venders, the rushing of elevated trains, the clanging of street cars, with the occasional feverish dash of an ambulance--all these familiar noises of a great city had the far-away sound peculiar to top floors of the modern sky-scraper. the day was warm and sticky, as is not uncommon in early may, and the overcast sky and a distant rumbling of thunder promised rain before night. the big express elevators, running smoothly and swiftly, unloaded every few moments a number of prosperous-looking men who, chatting volubly and affably, made their way immediately through the outer offices towards another and larger inner office on the glass door of which was the legend "directors room. private." each comer gave a patronizing nod in recognition of the deferential salutation of the clerks. earlier arrivals had preceded them, and as they opened the door there issued from the directors room a confused murmur of voices, each different in pitch and tone, some deep and deliberate, others shrill and nervous, but all talking earnestly and with animation as men do when the subject under discussion is of common interest. now and again a voice was heard high above the others, denoting anger in the speaker, followed by the pleading accents of the peace-maker, who was arguing his irate colleague into calmness. at intervals the door opened to admit other arrivals, and through the crack was caught a glimpse of a dozen directors, some seated, some standing near a long table covered with green baize. it was the regular quarterly meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad company, but it was something more than mere routine that had called out a quorum of such strength and which made to-day's gathering one of extraordinary importance in the history of the road. that the business on hand was of the greatest significance was easily to be inferred from the concerned and anxious expression on the directors' faces and the eagerness of the employés as they plied each other with questions. "suppose the injunction is sustained?" asked a clerk in a whisper. "is not the road rich enough to bear the loss?" the man he addressed turned impatiently to the questioner: "that's all you know about railroading. don't you understand that this suit we have lost will be the entering wedge for hundreds of others. the very existence of the road may be at stake. and between you and me," he added in a lower key, "with judge rossmore on the bench we never stood much show. it's judge rossmore that scares 'em, not the injunction. they've found it easy to corrupt most of the supreme court judges, but judge rossmore is one too many for them. you could no more bribe him than you could have bribed abraham lincoln." "but the newspapers say that he, too, has been caught accepting $ , worth of stock for that decision he rendered in the great northwestern case." "lies! all those stories are lies," replied the other emphatically. then looking cautiously around to make sure no one overheard he added contemptuously, "the big interests fear him, and they're inventing these lies to try and injure him. they might as well try to blow up gibraltar. the fact is the public is seriously aroused this time and the railroads are in a panic." it was true. the railroad, which heretofore had considered itself superior to law, had found itself checked in its career of outlawry and oppression. the railroad, this modern octopus of steam and steel which stretches its greedy tentacles out over the land, had at last been brought to book. at first, when the country was in the earlier stages of its development, the railroad appeared in the guise of a public benefactor. it brought to the markets of the east the produce of the south and west. it opened up new and inaccessible territory and made oases of waste places. it brought to the city coal, lumber, food and other prime necessaries of life, taking back to the farmer and the woodsman in exchange, clothes and other manufactured goods. thus, little by little, the railroad wormed itself into the affections of the people and gradually became an indispensable part of the life it had itself created. tear up the railroad and life itself is extinguished. so when the railroad found it could not be dispensed with, it grew dissatisfied with the size of its earnings. legitimate profits were not enough. its directors cried out for bigger dividends, and from then on the railroad became a conscienceless tyrant, fawning on those it feared and crushing without mercy those who were defenceless. it raised its rates for hauling freight, discriminating against certain localities without reason or justice, and favouring other points where its own interests lay. by corrupting government officials and other unlawful methods it appropriated lands, and there was no escape from its exactions and brigandage. other roads were built, and for a brief period there was held out the hope of relief that invariably comes from honest competition. but the railroad either absorbed its rivals or pooled interests with them, and thereafter there were several masters instead of one. soon the railroads began to war among themselves, and in a mad scramble to secure business at any price they cut each other's rates and unlawfully entered into secret compacts with certain big shippers, permitting the latter to enjoy lower freight rates than their competitors. the smaller shippers were soon crushed out of existence in this way. competition was throttled and prices went up, making the railroad barons richer and the people poorer. that was the beginning of the giant trusts, the greatest evil american civilization has yet produced, and one which, unless checked, will inevitably drag this country into the throes of civil strife. from out this quagmire of corruption and rascality emerged the colossus, a man so stupendously rich and with such unlimited powers for evil that the world has never looked upon his like. the famous croesus, whose fortune was estimated at only eight millions in our money, was a pauper compared with john burkett ryder, whose holdings no man could count, but which were approximately estimated at a thousand millions of dollars. the railroads had created the trust, the ogre of corporate greed, of which ryder was the incarnation, and in time the trust became master of the railroads, which after all seemed but retributive justice. john burkett ryder, the richest man in the world--the man whose name had spread to the farthest corners of the earth because of his wealth, and whose money, instead of being a blessing, promised to become not only a curse to himself but a source of dire peril to all mankind--was a genius born of the railroad age. no other age could have brought him forth; his peculiar talents fitted exactly the conditions of his time. attracted early in life to the newly discovered oil fields of pennsylvania, he became a dealer in the raw product and later a refiner, acquiring with capital, laboriously saved, first one refinery, then another. the railroads were cutting each other's throats to secure the freight business of the oil men, and john burkett ryder saw his opportunity. he made secret overtures to the road, guaranteeing a vast amount of business if he could get exceptionally low rates, and the illegal compact was made. his competitors, undersold in the market, stood no chance, and one by one they were crushed out of existence. ryder called these manoeuvres "business"; the world called them brigandage. but the colossus prospered and slowly built up the foundations of the extraordinary fortune which is the talk and the wonder of the world to-day. master now of the oil situation, ryder succeeded in his ambition of organizing the empire trading company, the most powerful, the most secretive, and the most wealthy business institution the commercial world has yet known. yet with all this success john burkett ryder was still not content. he was now a rich man, richer by many millions that he had dreamed he could ever be, but still he was unsatisfied. he became money mad. he wanted to be richer still, to be the richest man in the world, the richest man the world had ever known. and the richer he got the stronger the idea grew upon him with all the force of a morbid obsession. he thought of money by day, he dreamt of it at night. no matter by what questionable device it was to be procured, more gold and more must flow into his already overflowing coffers. so each day, instead of spending the rest of his years in peace, in the enjoyment of the wealth he had accumulated, he went downtown like any twenty-dollar-a-week clerk to the tall building in lower broadway and, closeted with his associates, toiled and plotted to make more money. he acquired vast copper mines and secured control of this and that railroad. he had invested heavily in the southern and transcontinental road and was chairman of its board of directors. then he and his fellow-conspirators planned a great financial coup. the millions were not coming in fast enough. they must make a hundred millions at one stroke. they floated a great mining company to which the public was invited to subscribe. the scheme having the endorsement of the empire trading company no one suspected a snare, and such was the magic of john ryder's name that gold flowed in from every point of the compass. the stock sold away above par the day it was issued. men deemed themselves fortunate if they were even granted an allotment. what matter if, a few days later, the house of cards came tumbling down, and a dozen suicides were strewn along wall street, that sinister thoroughfare which, as a wit has said, has a graveyard at one end and the river at the other! had ryder any twinges of conscience? hardly. had he not made a cool twenty millions by the deal? yet this commercial pirate, this napoleon of finance, was not a wholly bad man. he had his redeeming qualities, like most bad men. his most pronounced weakness, and the one that had made him the most conspicuous man of his time, was an entire lack of moral principle. no honest or honourable man could have amassed such stupendous wealth. in other words, john ryder had not been equipped by nature with a conscience. he had no sense of right, or wrong, or justice where his own interests were concerned. he was the prince of egoists. on the other hand, he possessed qualities which, with some people, count as virtues. he was pious and regular in his attendance at church and, while he had done but little for charity, he was known to have encouraged the giving of alms by the members of his family, which consisted of a wife, whose timid voice was rarely heard, and a son jefferson, who was the destined successor to his gigantic estate. such was the man who was the real power behind the southern and transcontinental railroad. more than anyone else ryder had been aroused by the present legal action, not so much for the money interest at stake as that any one should dare to thwart his will. it had been a pet scheme of his, this purchase for a song, when the land was cheap, of some thousand acres along the line, and it is true that at the time of the purchase there had been some idea of laying the land out as a park. but real estate values had increased in astonishing fashion, the road could no longer afford to carry out the original scheme, and had attempted to dispose of the property for building purposes, including a right of way for a branch road. the news, made public in the newspapers, had raised a storm of protest. the people in the vicinity claimed that the railroad secured the land on the express condition of a park being laid out, and in order to make a legal test they had secured an injunction, which had been sustained by judge rossmore of the united states circuit court. these details were hastily told and re-told by one clerk to another as the babel of voices in the inner room grew louder, and more directors kept arriving from the ever-busy elevators. the meeting was called for three o'clock. another five minutes and the chairman would rap for order. a tall, strongly built man with white moustache and kindly smile emerged from the directors room and, addressing one of the clerks, asked: "has mr. ryder arrived yet?" the alacrity with which the employé hastened forward to reply would indicate that his interlocutor was a person of more than ordinary importance. "no, senator, not yet. we expect him any minute." then with a deferential smile he added: "mr. ryder usually arrives on the stroke, sir." the senator gave a nod of acquiescence and, turning on his heel, greeted with a grasp of the hand and affable smile his fellow-directors as they passed in by twos and threes. senator roberts was in the world of politics what his friend john burkett ryder was in the world of finance--a leader of men. he started life in wisconsin as an errand boy, was educated in the public schools, and later became clerk in a dry-goods store, finally going into business for his own account on a large scale. he was elected to the legislature, where his ability as an organizer soon gained the friendship of the men in power, and later was sent to congress, where he was quickly initiated in the game of corrupt politics. in he entered the united states senate. he soon became the acknowledged leader of a considerable majority of the republican senators, and from then on he was a figure to be reckoned with. a very ambitious man, with a great love of power and few scruples, it is little wonder that only the practical or dishonest side of politics appealed to him. he was in politics for all there was in it, and he saw in his lofty position only a splendid opportunity for easy graft. he did not hesitate to make such alliances with corporate interests seeking influence at washington as would enable him to accomplish this purpose, and in this way he had met and formed a strong friendship with john burkett ryder. each being a master in his own field was useful to the other. neither was troubled with qualms of conscience, so they never quarrelled. if the ryder interests needed anything in the senate, roberts and his followers were there to attend to it. just now the cohort was marshalled in defence of the railroads against the attacks of the new rebate bill. in fact, ryder managed to keep the senate busy all the time. when, on the other hand, the senators wanted anything--and they often did--ryder saw that they got it, lower rates for this one, a fat job for that one, not forgetting themselves. senator roberts was already a very rich man, and although the world often wondered where he got it, no one had the courage to ask him. but the republican leader was stirred with an ambition greater than that of controlling a majority in the senate. he had a daughter, a marriageable young woman who, at least in her father's opinion, would make a desirable wife for any man. his friend ryder had a son, and this son was the only heir to the greatest fortune ever amassed by one man, a fortune which, at its present rate of increase, by the time the father died and the young couple were ready to inherit, would probably amount to over _six billions of dollars_. could the human mind grasp the possibilities of such a colossal fortune? it staggered the imagination. its owner, or the man who controlled it, would be master of the world! was not this a prize any man might well set himself out to win? the senator was thinking of it now as he stood exchanging banal remarks with the men who accosted him. if he could only bring off that marriage he would be content. the ambition of his life would be attained. there was no difficulty as far as john ryder was concerned. he favoured the match and had often spoken of it. indeed, ryder desired it, for such an alliance would naturally further his business interests in every way. roberts knew that his daughter kate had more than a liking for ryder's handsome young son. moreover, kate was practical, like her father, and had sense enough to realize what it would mean to be the mistress of the ryder fortune. no, kate was all right, but there was young ryder to reckon with. it would take two in this case to make a bargain. jefferson ryder was, in truth, an entirely different man from his father. it was difficult to realize that both had sprung from the same stock. a college-bred boy with all the advantages his father's wealth could give him, he had inherited from the parent only those characteristics which would have made him successful even if born poor--activity, pluck, application, dogged obstinacy, alert mentality. to these qualities he added what his father sorely lacked--a high notion of honour, a keen sense of right and wrong. he had the honest man's contempt for meanness of any description, and he had little patience with the lax so-called business morals of the day. for him a dishonourable or dishonest action could have no apologist, and he could see no difference between the crime of the hungry wretch who stole a loaf of bread and the coal baron who systematically robbed both his employés and the public. in fact, had he been on the bench he would probably have acquitted the human derelict who, in despair, had appropriated the prime necessary of life, and sent the over-fed, conscienceless coal baron to jail. "do unto others as you would have others do unto you." this simple and fundamental axiom jefferson ryder had adopted early in life, and it had become his religion--the only one, in fact, that he had. he was never pious like his father, a fact much regretted by his mother, who could see nothing but eternal damnation in store for her son because he never went to church and professed no orthodox creed. she knew him to be a good lad, but to her simple mind a conduct of life based merely on a system of moral philosophy was the worst kind of paganism. there could, she argued, be no religion, and assuredly no salvation, outside the dogmatic teachings of the church. but otherwise jefferson was a model son and, with the exception of this bad habit of thinking for himself on religious matters, really gave her no anxiety. when jefferson left college, his father took him into the empire trading company with the idea of his eventually succeeding him as head of the concern, but the different views held by father and son on almost every subject soon led to stormy scenes that made the continuation of the arrangement impossible. senator roberts was well aware of these unfortunate independent tendencies in john ryder's son, and while he devoutly desired the consummation of jefferson's union with his daughter, he quite realized that the young man was a nut which was going to be exceedingly hard to crack. "hello, senator, you're always on time!" disturbed in his reflections, senator roberts looked up and saw the extended hand of a red-faced, corpulent man, one of the directors. he was no favourite with the senator, but the latter was too keen a man of the world to make enemies uselessly, so he condescended to place two fingers in the outstretched fat palm. "how are you, mr. grimsby? well, what are we going to do about this injunction? the case has gone against us. i knew judge rossmore's decision would be for the other side. public opinion is aroused. the press--" mr. grimsby's red face grew more apoplectic as he blurted out: "public opinion and the press be d----d. who cares for public opinion? what is public opinion, anyhow? this road can manage its own affairs or it can't. if it can't i for one quit railroading. the press! pshaw! it's all graft, i tell you. it's nothing but a strike! i never knew one of these virtuous outbursts that wasn't. first the newspapers bark ferociously to advertise themselves; then they crawl round and whine like a cur. and it usually costs something to fix matters." the senator smiled grimly. "no, no, grimsby--not this time. it's more serious than that. hitherto the road has been unusually lucky in its bench decisions--" the senator gave a covert glance round to see if any long ears were listening. then he added: "we can't expect always to get a favourable decision like that in the cartwright case, when franchise rights valued at nearly five millions were at stake. judge stollmann proved himself a true friend in that affair." grimsby made a wry grimace as he retorted: "yes, and it was worth it to him. a supreme court judge don't get a cheque for $ , every day. that represents two years' pay." "it might represent two years in jail if it were found out," said the senator with a forced laugh, grimsby saw an opportunity, and he could not resist the temptation. bluntly he said: "as far as jail's concerned, others might be getting their deserts there too." the senator looked keenly at grimsby from under his white eyebrows. then in a calm, decisive tone he replied: "it's no question of a cheque this time. the road could not buy judge rossmore with $ , . he is absolutely unapproachable in that way." the apoplectic face of mr. grimsby looked incredulous. it was hard for these men who plotted in the dark, and cheated the widow and the orphan for love of the dollar, to understand that there were in the world, breathing the same air as they, men who put honour, truth and justice above mere money-getting. with a slight tinge of sarcasm he asked: "is there any man in our public life who is unapproachable from some direction or other?" "yes, judge rossmore is such a man. he is one of the few men in american public life who takes his duties seriously. in the strictest sense of the term, he serves his country instead of serving himself. i am no friend of his, but i must do him that justice." he spoke sharply, in an irritated tone, as if resenting the insinuation of this vulgarian that every man in public life had his price. roberts knew that the charge was true as far as he and the men he consorted with were concerned, but sometimes the truth hurts. that was why he had for a moment seemed to champion judge rossmore, which, seeing that the judge himself was at that very moment under a cloud, was an absurd thing for him to do. he had known rossmore years before when the latter was a city magistrate in new york. that was before he, roberts, had become a political grafter and when the decent things in life still appealed to him. the two men, although having few interests in common, had seen a good deal of one another until roberts went to washington when their relations were completely severed. but he had always watched rossmore's career, and when he was made a judge of the supreme court at a comparatively early age he was sincerely glad. if anything could have convinced roberts that success can come in public life to a man who pursues it by honest methods it was the success of james rossmore. he could never help feeling that rossmore had been endowed by nature with certain qualities which had been denied to him, above all that ability to walk straight through life with skirts clean which he had found impossible himself. to-day judge rossmore was one of the most celebrated judges in the country. he was a brilliant jurist and a splendid after-dinner speaker. he was considered the most learned and able of all the members of the judiciary, and his decisions were noted as much for their fearlessness as for their wisdom. but what was far more, he enjoyed a reputation for absolute integrity. until now no breath of slander, no suspicion of corruption, had ever touched him. even his enemies acknowledged that. and that is why there was a panic to-day among the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad. this honest, upright man had been called upon in the course of his duty to decide matters of vital importance to the road, and the directors were ready to stampede because, in their hearts, they knew the weakness of their case and the strength of the judge. grimsby, unconvinced, returned to the charge. "what about these newspaper charges? did judge rossmore take a bribe from the great northwestern or didn't he? you ought to know." "i do know," answered the senator cautiously and somewhat curtly, "but until mr. ryder arrives i can say nothing. i believe he has been inquiring into the matter. he will tell us when he comes." the hands of the large clock in the outer room pointed to three. an active, dapper little man with glasses and with books under his arm passed hurriedly from another office into the directors room. "there goes mr. lane with the minutes. the meeting is called. where's mr. ryder?" there was a general move of the scattered groups of directors toward the committee room. the clock overhead began to strike. the last stroke had not quite died away when the big swinging doors from the street were thrown open and there entered a tall, thin man, gray-headed, and with a slight stoop, but keen eyed and alert. he was carefully dressed in a well-fitting frock coat, white waistcoat, black tie and silk hat. it was john burkett ryder, the colossus. chapter ii at fifty-six, john burkett ryder was surprisingly well preserved. with the exception of the slight stoop, already noted, and the rapidly thinning snow-white hair, his step was as light and elastic, and his brain as vigorous and alert, as in a man of forty. of old english stock, his physical make-up presented all those strongly marked characteristics of our race which, sprung from anglo-saxon ancestry, but modified by nearly years of different climate and customs, has gradually produced the distinct and true american type, as easily recognizable among the family of nations as any other of the earth's children. tall and distinguished-looking, ryder would have attracted attention anywhere. men who have accomplished much in life usually bear plainly upon their persons the indefinable stamp of achievement, whether of good or evil, which renders them conspicuous among their fellows. we turn after a man in the street and ask, who is he? and nine times out of ten the object of our curiosity is a man who has made his mark--a successful soldier, a famous sailor, a celebrated author, a distinguished lawyer, or even a notorious crook. there was certainly nothing in john ryder's outward appearance to justify lombroso's sensational description of him: "a social and physiological freak, a degenerate and a prodigy of turpitude who, in the pursuit of money, crushes with the insensibility of a steel machine everyone who stands in his way." on the contrary, ryder, outwardly at least, was a prepossessing-looking man. his head was well-shaped, and he had an intellectual brow, while power was expressed in every gesture of his hands and body. every inch of him suggested strength and resourcefulness. his face, when in good humour, frequently expanded in a pleasant smile, and he had even been known to laugh boisterously, usually at his own stories, which he rightly considered very droll, and of which he possessed a goodly stock. but in repose his face grew stern and forbidding, and when his prognathous jaw, indicative of will-power and bull-dog tenacity, snapped to with a click-like sound, those who heard it knew that squalls were coming. but it was john ryder's eyes that were regarded as the most reliable barometer of his mental condition. wonderful eyes they were, strangely eloquent and expressive, and their most singular feature was that they possessed the uncanny power of changing colour like a cat's. when their owner was at peace with the world, and had temporarily shaken off the cares of business, his eyes were of the most restful, beautiful blue, like the sky after sunrise on a spring morning, and looking into their serene depths it seemed absurd to think that this man could ever harm a fly. his face, while under the spell of this kindly mood, was so benevolent and gentle, so frank and honest that you felt there was nothing in the world--purse, honour, wife, child--that, if needs be, you would not entrust to his keeping. when this period of truce was ended, when the plutocrat was once more absorbed in controlling the political as well as the commercial machinery of the nation, then his eyes took on a snakish, greenish hue, and one could plainly read in them the cunning, the avariciousness, the meanness, the insatiable thirst for gain that had made this man the most unscrupulous money-getter of his time. but his eyes had still another colour, and when this last transformation took place those dependent on him, and even his friends, quaked with fear. for they were his eyes of anger. on these dreaded occasions his eyes grew black as darkest night and flashed fire as lightning rends the thundercloud. almost ungovernable fury was, indeed, the weakest spot in john ryder's armour, for in these moments of appalling wrath he was reckless of what he said or did, friendship, self-interest, prudence--all were sacrificed. such was the colossus on whom all eyes were turned as he entered. instantly the conversations stopped as by magic. the directors nudged each other and whispered. instinctively, ryder singled out his crony, senator roberts, who advanced with effusive gesture: "hello, senator!" "you're punctual as usual, mr. ryder. i never knew you to be late!" the great man chuckled, and the little men standing around, listening breathlessly, chuckled in respectful sympathy, and they elbowed and pushed one another in their efforts to attract ryder's notice, like so many cowardly hyenas not daring to approach the lordly wolf. senator roberts made a remark in a low tone to ryder, whereupon the latter laughed. the bystanders congratulated each other silently. the great man was pleased to be in a good humour. and as ryder turned with the senator to enter the directors room the light from the big windows fell full on his face, and they noticed that his eyes were of the softest blue. "no squalls to-day," whispered one. "wait and see," retorted a more experienced colleague. "those eyes are more fickle than the weather." outside the sky was darkening, and drops of rain were already falling. a flash of lightning presaged the coming storm. ryder passed on and into the directors room followed by senator roberts and the other directors, the procession being brought up by the dapper little secretary bearing the minutes. the long room with its narrow centre table covered with green baize was filled with directors scattered in little groups and all talking at once with excited gesture. at the sight of ryder the chattering stopped as if by common consent, and the only sound audible was of the shuffling of feet and the moving of chairs as the directors took their places around the long table. with a nod here and there ryder took his place in the chairman's seat and rapped for order. then at a sign from the chair the dapper little secretary began in a monotonous voice to read the minutes of the previous meeting. no one listened, a few directors yawned. others had their eyes riveted on ryder's face, trying to read there if he had devised some plan to offset the crushing blow of this adverse decision, which meant a serious loss to them all. he, the master mind, had served them in many a like crisis in the past. could he do so again? but john ryder gave no sign. his eyes, still of the same restful blue, were fixed on the ceiling watching a spider marching with diabolical intent on a wretched fly that had become entangled in its web. and as the secretary ambled monotonously on, ryder watched and watched until he saw the spider seize its helpless prey and devour it. fascinated by the spectacle, which doubtless suggested to him some analogy to his own methods, ryder sat motionless, his eyes fastened on the ceiling, until the sudden stopping of the secretary's reading aroused him and told him that the minutes were finished. quickly they were approved, and the chairman proceeded as rapidly as possible with the regular business routine. that disposed of, the meeting was ready for the chief business of the day. ryder then calmly proceeded to present the facts in the case. some years back the road had acquired as an investment some thousands of acres of land located in the outskirts of auburndale, on the line of their road. the land was bought cheap, and there had been some talk of laying part of it out as a public park. this promise had been made at the time in good faith, but it was no condition of the sale. if, afterwards, owing to the rise in the value of real estate, the road found it impossible to carry out the original idea, surely they were masters of their own property! the people of auburndale thought differently and, goaded on by the local newspapers, had begun action in the courts to restrain the road from diverting the land from its alleged original purpose. they had succeeded in getting the injunction, but the road had fought it tooth and nail, and finally carried it to the supreme court, where judge rossmore, after reserving his opinion, had finally sustained the injunction and decided against the railroad. that was the situation, and he would now like to hear from the members of the board. mr. grimsby rose. self-confident and noisily loquacious, as most men of his class are in simple conversation, he was plainly intimidated at speaking before such a crowd. he did not know where to look nor what to do with his hands, and he shuffled uneasily on his feet, while streams of nervous perspiration ran down his fat face, which he mopped repeatedly with a big coloured handkerchief. at last, taking courage, he began: "mr. chairman, for the past ten years this road has made bigger earnings in proportion to its carrying capacity than any other railroad in the united states. we have had fewer accidents, less injury to rolling stock, less litigation and bigger dividends. the road has been well managed and"--here he looked significantly in ryder's direction--"there has been a big brain behind the manager. we owe you that credit, mr. ryder!" cries of "hear! hear!" came from all round the table. ryder bowed coldly, and mr. grimsby continued: "but during the last year or two things have gone wrong. there has been a lot of litigation, most of which has gone against us, and it has cost a heap of money. it reduced the last quarterly dividend very considerably, and the new complication--this auburndale suit, which also has gone against us--is going to make a still bigger hole in our exchequer. gentlemen, i don't want to be a prophet of misfortune, but i'll tell you this--unless something is done to stop this hostility in the courts you and i stand to lose every cent we have invested in the road. this suit which we have just lost means a number of others. what i would ask our chairman is what has become of his former good relations with the supreme court, what has become of his influence, which never failed us. what are these rumours regarding judge rossmore? he is charged in the newspapers with having accepted a present from a road in whose favour he handed down a very valuable decision. how is it that our road cannot reach judge rossmore and make him presents?" the speaker sat down, flushed and breathless. the expression on every face showed that the anxiety was general. the directors glanced at ryder, but his face was expressionless as marble. apparently he took not the slightest interest in this matter which so agitated his colleagues. another director rose. he was a better speaker than mr. grimsby, but his voice had a hard, rasping quality that smote the ears unpleasantly. he said: "mr. chairman, none of us can deny what mr. grimsby has just put before us so vividly. we are threatened not with one, but with a hundred such suits, unless something is done either to placate the public or to render its attacks harmless. rightly or wrongly, the railroad is hated by the people, yet we are only what railroad conditions compel us to be. with the present fierce competition, no fine question of ethics can enter into our dealings as a business organization. with an irritated public and press on one side, and a hostile judiciary on the other, the outlook certainly is far from bright. but is the judiciary hostile? is it not true that we have been singularly free from litigation until recently, and that most of the decisions were favourable to the road? judge rossmore is the real danger. while he is on the bench the road is not safe. yet all efforts to reach him have failed and will fail. i do not take any stock in the newspaper stories regarding judge rossmore. they are preposterous. judge rossmore is too strong a man to be got rid of so easily." the speaker sat down and another rose, his arguments being merely a reiteration of those already heard. ryder did not listen to what was being said. why should he? was he not familiar with every possible phase of the game? better than these men who merely talked, he was planning how the railroad and all his other interests could get rid of this troublesome judge. it was true. he who controlled legislatures and dictated to supreme court judges had found himself powerless when each turn of the legal machinery had brought him face to face with judge rossmore. suit after suit had been decided against him and the interests he represented, and each time it was judge rossmore who had handed down the decision. so for years these two men had fought a silent but bitter duel in which principle on the one side and attempted corruption on the other were the gauge of battle. judge rossmore fought with the weapons which his oath and the law directed him to use, ryder with the only weapons he understood--bribery and trickery. and each time it had been rossmore who had emerged triumphant. despite every manoeuvre ryder's experience could suggest, notwithstanding every card that could be played to undermine his credit and reputation, judge rossmore stood higher in the country's confidence than when he was first appointed. so when ryder found he could not corrupt this honest judge with gold, he decided to destroy him with calumny. he realized that the sordid methods which had succeeded with other judges would never prevail with rossmore, so he plotted to take away from this man the one thing he cherished most--his honour. he would ruin him by defaming his character, and so skilfully would he accomplish his work that the judge himself would realize the hopelessness of resistance. no scruples embarrassed ryder in arriving at this determination. from his point of view he was fully justified. "business is business. he hurts my interests; therefore i remove him." so he argued, and he considered it no more wrong to wreck the happiness of this honourable man than he would to have shot a burglar in self-defence. so having thus tranquillized his conscience he had gone to work in his usually thorough manner, and his success had surpassed the most sanguine expectations. this is what he had done. like many of our public servants whose labours are compensated only in niggardly fashion by an inconsiderate country, judge rossmore was a man of but moderate means. his income as justice of the supreme court was $ , a year, but for a man in his position, having a certain appearance to keep up, it little more than kept the wolf from the door. he lived quietly but comfortably in new york city with his wife and his daughter shirley, an attractive young woman who had graduated from vassar and had shown a marked taste for literature. the daughter's education had cost a good deal of money, and this, together with life insurance and other incidentals of keeping house in new york, had about taken all he had. yet he had managed to save a little, and those years when he could put by a fifth of his salary the judge considered himself lucky. secretly, he was proud of his comparative poverty. at least the world could never ask him "where he got it." ryder was well acquainted with judge rossmore's private means. the two men had met at a dinner, and although ryder had tried to cultivate the acquaintance, he never received much encouragement. ryder's son jefferson, too, had met miss shirley rossmore and been much attracted to her, but the father having more ambitious plans for his heir quickly discouraged all attentions in that direction. he himself, however, continued to meet the judge casually, and one evening he contrived to broach the subject of profitable investments. the judge admitted that by careful hoarding and much stinting he had managed to save a few thousand dollars which he was anxious to invest in something good. quick as the keen-eyed vulture swoops down on its prey the wily financier seized the opportunity thus presented. and he took so much trouble in answering the judge's inexperienced questions, and generally made himself so agreeable, that the judge found himself regretting that he and ryder had, by force of circumstances, been opposed to each other in public life so long. ryder strongly recommended the purchase of alaskan mining stock, a new and booming enterprise which had lately become very active in the market. ryder said he had reasons to believe that the stock would soon advance, and now there was an opportunity to get it cheap. a few days after he had made the investment the judge was surprised to receive certificates of stock for double the amount he had paid for. at the same time he received a letter from the secretary of the company explaining that the additional stock was pool stock and not to be marketed at the present time. it was in the nature of a bonus to which he was entitled as one of the early shareholders. the letter was full of verbiage and technical details of which the judge understood nothing, but he thought it very liberal of the company, and putting the stock away in his safe soon forgot all about it. had he been a business man he would have scented peril. he would have realized that he had now in his possession $ , worth of stock for which he had not paid a cent, and furthermore had deposited it when a reorganization came. but the judge was sincerely grateful for ryder's apparently disinterested advice and wrote two letters to him, one in which he thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and another in which he asked him if he was sure the company was financially sound, as the investment he contemplated making represented all his savings. he added in the second letter that he had received stock for double the amount of his investment, and that being a perfect child in business transactions he had been unable to account for the extra $ , worth until the secretary of the company had written him assuring him that everything was in order. these letters ryder kept. from that time on the alaskan mining company underwent mysterious changes. new capitalists gained control and the name was altered to the great northwestern mining company. then it became involved in litigation, and one suit, the outcome of which meant millions to the company, was carried to the supreme court, where judge rossmore was sitting. the judge had by this time forgotten all about the company in which he owned stock. he did not even recall its name. he only knew vaguely that it was a mine and that it was situated in alaska. could he dream that the great northwestern mining company and the company to which he had entrusted his few thousands were one and the same? in deciding on the merits of the case presented to him right seemed to him to be plainly with the northwestern, and he rendered a decision to that effect. it was an important decision, involving a large sum, and for a day or two it was talked about. but as it was the opinion of the most learned and honest judge on the bench no one dreamed of questioning it. but very soon ugly paragraphs began to appear in the newspapers. one paper asked if it were true that judge rossmore owned stock in the great northwestern mining company which had recently benefited so signally by his decision. interviewed by a reporter, judge rossmore indignantly denied being interested in any way in the company. thereupon the same paper returned to the attack, stating that the judge must surely be mistaken as the records showed a sale of stock to him at the time the company was known as the alaskan mining company. when he read this the judge was overwhelmed. it was true then! they had not slandered him. it was he who had lied, but how innocently--how innocently! his daughter shirley, who was his greatest friend and comfort, was then in europe. she had gone to the continent to rest, after working for months on a novel which she had just published. his wife, entirely without experience in business matters and somewhat of an invalid, was helpless to advise him. but to his old and tried friend, ex-judge stott, judge rossmore explained the facts as they were. stott shook his head. "it's a conspiracy!" he cried. "and john b. ryder is behind it." rossmore refused to believe that any man could so deliberately try to encompass another's destruction, but when more newspaper stories came out he began to realize that stott was right and that his enemies had indeed dealt him a deadly blow. one newspaper boldly stated that judge rossmore was down on the mining company's books for $ , more stock than he had paid for, and it went on to ask if this were payment for the favourable decision just rendered. rossmore, helpless, child-like as he was in business matters, now fully realized the seriousness of his position. "my god! my god!" he cried, as he bowed his head down on his desk. and for a whole day he remained closeted in his library, no one venturing near him. as john ryder sat there sphinx-like at the head of the directors' table he reviewed all this in his mind. his own part in the work was now done and well done, and he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph. the speaker, to whom he had paid such scant attention, resumed his seat, and there followed a pause and an intense silence which was broken only by the pattering of the rain against the big windows. the directors turned expectantly to ryder, waiting for him to speak. what could the colossus do now to save the situation? cries of "the chair! the chair!" arose on every side. senator roberts leaned over to ryder and whispered something in his ear. [pencil illustration of the meeting] he had come to this meeting to-day to tell them of his triumph.--_page ._ with an acquiescent gesture, john ryder tapped the table with his gavel and rose to address his fellow directors. instantly the room was silent again as the tomb. one might have heard a pin drop, so intense was the attention. all eyes were fixed on the chairman. the air itself seemed charged with electricity, that needed but a spark to set it ablaze. speaking deliberately and dispassionately, the master dissembler began. they had all listened carefully, he said, to what had been stated by previous speakers. the situation no doubt was very critical, but they had weathered worse storms and he had every reason to hope they would outlive this storm. it was true that public opinion was greatly incensed against the railroads and, indeed, against all organized capital, and was seeking to injure them through the courts. for a time this agitation would hurt business and lessen the dividends, for it meant not only smaller annual earnings but that a lot of money must be spent in washington. the eyes of the listeners, who were hanging on every word, involuntarily turned in the direction of senator roberts, but the latter, at that moment busily engaged in rummaging among a lot of papers, seemed to have missed this significant allusion to the road's expenses in the district of columbia. ryder continued: in his experience such waves of reform were periodical and soon wear themselves out, when things go on just as they did before. much of the agitation, doubtless, was a strike for graft. they would have to go down in their pockets, he supposed, and then these yellow newspapers and these yellow magazines that were barking at their heels would let them go. but in regard to the particular case now at issue--this auburndale decision--there had been no way of preventing it. influence had been used, but to no effect. the thing to do now was to prevent any such disasters in future by removing the author of them. the directors bent eagerly forward. had ryder really got some plan up his sleeve after all? the faces around the table looked brighter, and the directors cleared their throats and settled themselves down in their chairs as audiences do in the theatre when the drama is reaching its climax. the board, continued ryder with icy calmness, had perhaps heard, and also seen in the newspapers, the stories regarding judge rossmore and his alleged connection with the great northwestern company. perhaps they had not believed these stories. it was only natural. he had not believed them himself. but he had taken the trouble to inquire into the matter very carefully, and he regretted to say that the stories were true. in fact, they were no longer denied by judge rossmore himself. the directors looked at each other in amazement. gasps of astonishment, incredulity, satisfaction were heard all over the room. the rumours were true, then? was it possible? incredible! investigation, ryder went on, had shown that judge rossmore was not only interested in the company in whose favour, as judge of the supreme court, he had rendered an important decision, but what was worse, he had accepted from that company a valuable gift--that is, $ , worth of stock--for which he had given absolutely nothing in return unless, as some claimed, the weight of his influence on the bench. these facts were very ugly and so unanswerable that judge rossmore did not attempt to answer them, and the important news which he, the chairman, had to announce to his fellow-directors that afternoon, was that judge rossmore's conduct would be made the subject of an inquiry by congress. this was the spark that was needed to ignite the electrically charged air. a wild cry of triumph went up from this band of jackals only too willing to fatten their bellies at the cost of another man's ruin, and one director, in his enthusiasm, rose excitedly from his chair and demanded a vote of thanks for john ryder. ryder coldly opposed the motion. no thanks were due to him, he said deprecatingly, nor did he think the occasion called for congratulations of any kind. it was surely a sad spectacle to see this honoured judge, this devoted father, this blameless citizen threatened with ruin and disgrace on account of one false step. let them rather sympathize with him and his family in their misfortune. he had little more to tell. the congressional inquiry would take place immediately, and in all probability a demand would be made upon the senate for judge rossmore's impeachment. it was, he added, almost unnecessary for him to remind the board that, in the event of impeachment, the adverse decision in the auburndale case would be annulled and the road would be entitled to a new trial. ryder sat down, and pandemonium broke loose, the delighted directors tumbling over each other in their eagerness to shake hands with the man who had saved them. ryder had given no hint that he had been a factor in the working up of this case against their common enemy, in fact he had appeared to sympathise with him, but the directors knew well that he and he alone had been the master mind which had brought about the happy result. on a motion to adjourn, the meeting broke up, and everyone began to troop towards the elevators. outside the rain was now coming down in torrents and the lights that everywhere dotted the great city only paled when every few moments a vivid flash of lightning rent the enveloping gloom. ryder and senator roberts went down in the elevator together. when they reached the street the senator inquired in a low tone: "do you think they really believed rossmore was influenced in his decision?" ryder glanced from the lowering clouds overhead to his electric brougham which awaited him at the curb and replied indifferently: "not they. they don't care. all they want to believe is that he is to be impeached. the man was dangerous and had to be removed--no matter by what means. he is our enemy--my enemy--and i never give quarter to my enemies!" as he spoke his prognathous jaw snapped to with a click-like sound, and in his eyes now coal-black were glints of fire. at the same instant there was a blinding flash, accompanied by a terrific crash, and the splinters of the flag-pole on the building opposite, which had been struck by a bolt, fell at their feet. "a good or a bad omen?" asked the senator with a nervous laugh. he was secretly afraid of lightning; but was ashamed to admit it. "a bad omen for judge rossmore!" rejoined ryder coolly, as he slammed to the door of the cab, and the two men drove rapidly off in the direction of fifth avenue. chapter iii of all the spots on this fair, broad earth where the jaded globe wanderer, surfeited with hackneyed sight-seeing, may sit in perfect peace and watch the world go by, there is none more fascinating nor one presenting a more brilliant panorama of cosmopolitan life than that famous corner on the paris boulevards, formed by the angle of the boulevard des capucines and the place de l'opéra. here, on the "terrace" of the café de la paix, with its white and gold façade and long french windows, and its innumerable little marble-topped tables and rattan chairs, one may sit for hours at the trifling expense of a few _sous_, undisturbed even by the tip-seeking _garçon_, and, if one happens to be a student of human nature, find keen enjoyment in observing the world-types, representing every race and nationality under the sun, that pass and re-pass in a steady, never ceasing, exhaustless stream. the crowd surges to and fro, past the little tables, occasionally toppling over a chair or two in the crush, moving up or down the great boulevards, one procession going to the right, in the direction of the church of the madeleine, the other to the left heading toward the historic bastille, both really going nowhere in particular, but ambling gently and good humouredly along enjoying the sights--and life! paris, queen of cities! light-hearted, joyous, radiant paris--the playground of the nations, the mecca of the pleasure-seekers, the city beautiful! paris--the siren, frankly immoral, always seductive, ever caressing! city of a thousand political convulsions, city of a million crimes--her streets have run with human blood, horrors unspeakable have stained her history, civil strife has scarred her monuments, the german conqueror insolently has bivouaced within her walls. yet, like a virgin undefiled, she shows no sign of storm and stress, she offers her dimpled cheek to the rising sun, and when fall the shadows of night and a billion electric bulbs flash in the siren's crown, her resplendent, matchless beauty dazzles the world! as the supreme reward of virtue, the good american is promised a visit to paris when he dies. those, however, of our sagacious fellow countrymen who can afford to make the trip, usually manage to see lutetia before crossing the river styx. most americans like paris--some like it so well that they have made it their permanent home--although it must be added that in their admiration they rarely include the frenchman. for that matter, we are not as a nation particularly fond of any foreigner, largely because we do not understand him, while the foreigner for his part is quite willing to return the compliment. he gives the yankee credit for commercial smartness, which has built up america's great material prosperity; but he has the utmost contempt for our acquaintance with art, and no profound respect for us as scientists. is it not indeed fortunate that every nation finds itself superior to its neighbour? if this were not so each would be jealous of the other, and would cry with envy like a spoiled child who cannot have the moon to play with. happily, therefore, for the harmony of the world, each nation cordially detests the other and the much exploited "brotherhood of man" is only a figure of speech. the englishman, confident that he is the last word of creation, despises the frenchman, who, in turn, laughs at the german, who shows open contempt for the italian, while the american, conscious of his superiority to the whole family of nations, secretly pities them all. the most serious fault which the american--whose one god is mammon and chief characteristic hustle--has to find with his french brother is that he enjoys life too much, is never in a hurry and, what to the yankee mind is hardly respectable, has a habit of playing dominoes during business hours. the frenchman retorts that his american brother, clever person though he be, has one or two things still to learn. he has, he declares, no philosophy of life. it is true that he has learned the trick of making money, but in the things which go to satisfy the soul he is still strangely lacking. he thinks he is enjoying life, when really he is ignorant of what life is. he admits it is not the american's fault, for he has never been taught how to enjoy life. one must be educated to that as everything else. all the american is taught is to be in a perpetual hurry and to make money no matter how. in this mad daily race for wealth, he bolts his food, not stopping to masticate it properly, and consequently suffers all his life from dyspepsia. so he rushes from the cradle to the grave, and what's the good, since he must one day die like all the rest? and what, asks the foreigner, has the american hustler accomplished that his slower-going continental brother has not done as well? are finer cities to be found in america than in europe, do americans paint more beautiful pictures, or write more learned or more entertaining books, has america made greater progress in science? is it not a fact that the greatest inventors and scientists of our time--marconi, who gave to the world wireless telegraphy, professor curie, who discovered radium, pasteur, who found a cure for rabies, santos-dumont, who has almost succeeded in navigating the air, professor röntgen who discovered the x-ray--are not all these immortals europeans? and those two greatest mechanical inventions of our day, the automobile and the submarine boat, were they not first introduced and perfected in france before we in america woke up to appreciate their use? is it, therefore, not possible to take life easily and still achieve? the logic of these arguments, set forth in _le soir_ in an article on the new world, appealed strongly to jefferson ryder as he sat in front of the café de la paix, sipping a sugared vermouth. it was five o'clock, the magic hour of the _apéritif_, when the glutton taxes his wits to deceive his stomach and work up an appetite for renewed gorging. the little tables were all occupied with the usual before-dinner crowd. there were a good many foreigners, mostly english and americans and a few frenchmen, obviously from the provinces, with only a sprinkling of real parisians. jefferson's acquaintance with the french language was none too profound, and he had to guess at half the words in the article, but he understood enough to follow the writer's arguments. yes, it was quite true, he thought, the american idea of life was all wrong. what was the sense of slaving all one's life, piling up a mass of money one cannot possibly spend, when there is only one life to live? how much saner the man who is content with enough and enjoys life while he is able to. these frenchmen, and indeed all the continental nations, had solved the problem. the gaiety of their cities, and this exuberant joy of life they communicated to all about them, were sufficient proofs of it. fascinated by the gay scene around him jefferson laid the newspaper aside. to the young american, fresh from prosaic money-mad new york, the city of pleasure presented indeed a novel and beautiful spectacle. how different, he mused, from his own city with its one fashionable thoroughfare--fifth avenue--monotonously lined for miles with hideous brownstone residences, and showing little real animation except during the saturday afternoon parade when the activities of the smart set, male and female, centred chiefly in such exciting diversions as going to huyler's for soda, taking tea at the waldorf, and trying to outdo each other in dress and show. new york certainly was a dull place with all its boasted cosmopolitanism. there was no denying that. destitute of any natural beauty, handicapped by its cramped geographical position between two rivers, made unsightly by gigantic sky-scrapers and that noisy monstrosity the elevated railroad, having no intellectual interests, no art interests, no interest in anything not immediately connected with dollars, it was a city to dwell in and make money in, but hardly a city to _live_ in. the millionaires were building white-marble palaces, taxing the ingenuity and the originality of the native architects, and thus to some extent relieving the general ugliness and drab commonplaceness, while the merchant princes had begun to invade the lower end of the avenue with handsome shops. but in spite of all this, in spite of its pretty girls--and jefferson insisted that in this one important particular new york had no peer--in spite of its comfortable theatres and its wicked tenderloin, and its rialto made so brilliant at night by thousands of elaborate electric signs, new york still had the subdued air of a provincial town, compared with the exuberant gaiety, the multiple attractions, the beauties, natural and artificial, of cosmopolitan paris. the boulevards were crowded, as usual at that hour, and the crush of both vehicles and pedestrians was so great as to permit of only a snail-like progress. the clumsy three-horse omnibuses--madeleine-bastille--crowded inside and out with passengers and with their neatly uniformed drivers and conductors, so different in appearance and manner from our own slovenly street-car rowdies, were endeavouring to breast a perfect sea of _fiacres_ which, like a swarm of mosquitoes, appeared to be trying to go in every direction at once, their drivers vociferating torrents of vituperous abuse on every man, woman or beast unfortunate enough to get in their way. as a dispenser of unspeakable profanity, the paris _cocher_ has no equal. he is unique, no one can approach him. he also enjoys the reputation of being the worst driver in the world. if there is any possible way in which he can run down a pedestrian or crash into another vehicle he will do it, probably for the only reason that it gives him another opportunity to display his choice stock of picturesque expletives. but it was a lively, good-natured crowd and the fashionably gowned women and the well-dressed men, the fakirs hoarsely crying their catch-penny devices, the noble boulevards lined as far as the eye could reach with trees in full foliage, the magnificent opera house with its gilded dome glistening in the warm sunshine of a june afternoon, the broad avenue directly opposite, leading in a splendid straight line to the famous palais royal, the almost dazzling whiteness of the houses and monuments, the remarkable cleanliness and excellent condition of the sidewalks and streets, the gaiety and richness of the shops and restaurants, the picturesque kiosks where they sold newspapers and flowers--all this made up a picture so utterly unlike anything he was familiar with at home that jefferson sat spellbound, delighted. yes, it was true, he thought, the foreigner had indeed learned the secret of enjoying life. there was assuredly something else in the world beyond mere money-getting. his father was a slave to it, but he would never be. he was resolved on that. yet, with all his ideas of emancipation and progress, jefferson was a thoroughly practical young man. he fully understood the value of money, and the possession of it was as sweet to him as to other men. only he would never soil his soul in acquiring it dishonourably. he was convinced that society as at present organized was all wrong and that the feudalism of the middle ages had simply given place to a worse form of slavery--capitalistic driven labour--which had resulted in the actual iniquitous conditions, the enriching of the rich and the impoverishment of the poor. he was familiar with the socialistic doctrines of the day and had taken a keen interest in this momentous question, this dream of a regenerated mankind. he had read karl marx and other socialistic writers, and while his essentially practical mind could hardly approve all their programme for reorganizing the state, some of which seemed to him utopian, extravagant and even undesirable, he realised that the socialistic movement was growing rapidly all over the world and the day was not far distant when in america, as to-day in germany and france, it would be a formidable factor to reckon with. but until the socialistic millennium arrived and society was reorganized, money, he admitted, would remain the lever of the world, the great stimulus to effort. money supplied not only the necessities of life but also its luxuries, everything the material desire craved for, and so long as money had this magic purchasing power, so long would men lie and cheat and rob and kill for its possession. was life worth living without money? could one travel and enjoy the glorious spectacles nature affords--the rolling ocean, the majestic mountains, the beautiful lakes, the noble rivers--without money? could the book-lover buy books, the art-lover purchase pictures? could one have fine houses to live in, or all sorts of modern conveniences to add to one's comfort, without money? the philosophers declared contentment to be happiness, arguing that the hod-carrier was likely to be happier in his hut than the millionaire in his palace; but was not that mere animal contentment, the happiness which knows no higher state, the ignorance of one whose eyes have never been raised to the heights? no, jefferson was no fool. he loved money for what pleasure, intellectual or physical, it could give him, but he would never allow money to dominate his life as his father had done. his father, he knew well, was not a happy man, neither happy himself nor respected by the world. he had toiled all his life to make his vast fortune and now he toiled to take care of it. the galley slave led a life of luxurious ease compared with john burkett ryder. baited by the yellow newspapers and magazines, investigated by state committees, dogged by process-servers, haunted by beggars, harassed by blackmailers, threatened by kidnappers, frustrated in his attempts to bestow charity by the cry "tainted money"--certainly the lot of the world's richest man was far from being an enviable one. that is why jefferson had resolved to strike out for himself. he had warded off the golden yoke which his father proposed to put on his shoulders, declining the lucrative position made for him in the empire trading company, and he had gone so far as to refuse also the private income his father offered to settle on him. he would earn his own living. a man who has his bread buttered for him seldom accomplishes anything he had said, and while his father had appeared to be angry at this open opposition to his will, he was secretly pleased at his son's grit. jefferson was thoroughly in earnest. if needs be, he would forego the great fortune that awaited him rather than be forced into questionable business methods against which his whole manhood revolted. jefferson ryder felt strongly about these matters, and gave them more thought than would be expected of most young men with his opportunities. in fact, he was unusually serious for his age. he was not yet thirty, but he had done a great deal of reading, and he took a keen interest in all the political and sociological questions of the hour. in personal appearance, he was the type of man that both men and women like--tall and athletic looking, with smooth face and clean-cut features. he had the steel-blue eyes and the fighting jaw of his father, and when he smiled he displayed two even rows of very white teeth. he was popular with men, being manly, frank and cordial in his relations with them, and women admired him greatly, although they were somewhat intimidated by his grave and serious manner. the truth was that he was rather diffident with women, largely owing to lack of experience with them. he had never felt the slightest inclination for business. he had the artistic temperament strongly developed, and his personal tastes had little in common with wall street and its feverish stock manipulating. when he was younger, he had dreamed of a literary or art career. at one time he had even thought of going on the stage. but it was to art that he turned finally. from an early age he had shown considerable skill as a draughtsman, and later a two years' course at the academy of design convinced him that this was his true vocation. he had begun by illustrating for the book publishers and for the magazines, meeting at first with the usual rebuffs and disappointments, but, refusing to be discouraged, he had kept on and soon the tide turned. his drawings began to be accepted. they appeared first in one magazine, then in another, until one day, to his great joy, he received an order from an important firm of publishers for six wash-drawings to be used in illustrating a famous novel. this was the beginning of his real success. his illustrations were talked about almost as much as the book, and from that time on everything was easy. he was in great demand by the publishers, and very soon the young artist, who had begun his career of independence on nothing a year so to speak, found himself in a handsomely appointed studio in bryant park, with more orders coming in than he could possibly fill, and enjoying an income of little less than $ , a year. the money was all the sweeter to jefferson in that he felt he had himself earned every cent of it. this summer he was giving himself a well-deserved vacation, and he had come to europe partly to see paris and the other art centres about which his fellow students at the academy raved, but principally--although this he did not acknowledge even to himself--to meet in paris a young woman in whom he was more than ordinarily interested--shirley rossmore, daughter of judge rossmore, of the united states supreme court, who had come abroad to recuperate after the labours on her new novel, "the american octopus," a book which was then the talk of two hemispheres. jefferson had read half a dozen reviews of it in as many american papers that afternoon at the _new york herald's_ reading room in the avenue de l'opéra, and he chuckled with glee as he thought how accurately this young woman had described his father. the book had been published under the pseudonym "shirley green," and he alone had been admitted into the secret of authorship. the critics all conceded that it was the book of the year, and that it portrayed with a pitiless pen the personality of the biggest figure in the commercial life of america. "although," wrote one reviewer, "the leading character in the book is given another name, there can be no doubt that the author intended to give to the world a vivid pen portrait of john burkett ryder. she has succeeded in presenting a remarkable character-study of the most remarkable man of his time." he was particularly pleased with the reviews, not only for miss rossmore's sake, but also because his own vanity was gratified. had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned? there had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this. jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods. he did not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man. jefferson had met shirley rossmore two years before at a meeting of the schiller society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to be discussed. he had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all the freak shows new york had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth. she was a writer, miss rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to the evening receptions of the schiller society. half apologetically she added that it was likely to be her last, for, frankly, she was bored to death. but she explained that she had to go to these affairs, as she found them useful in gathering material for literary use. she studied types and eccentric characters, and this seemed to her a capital hunting ground. jefferson, who, as a rule, was timid with girls and avoided them, found this girl quite unlike the others he had known. her quiet, forceful demeanour appealed to him strongly, and he lingered with her, chatting about his work, which had so many interests in common with her own, until refreshments were served, when the affair broke up. this first meeting had been followed by a call at the rossmore residence, and the acquaintance had kept up until jefferson, for the first time since he came to manhood, was surprised and somewhat alarmed at finding himself strangely and unduly interested in a person of the opposite sex. the young artist's courteous manner, his serious outlook on life, his high moral principles, so rarely met with nowadays in young men of his age and class, could hardly fail to appeal to shirley, whose ideals of men had been somewhat rudely shattered by those she had hitherto met. above all, she demanded in a man the refinement of the true gentleman, together with strength of character and personal courage. that jefferson ryder came up to this standard she was soon convinced. he was certainly a gentleman: his views on a hundred topics of the hour expressed in numerous conversations assured her as to his principles, while a glance at his powerful physique left no doubt possible as to his courage. she rightly guessed that this was no _poseur_ trying to make an impression and gain her confidence. there was an unmistakable ring of sincerity in all his words, and his struggle at home with his father, and his subsequent brave and successful fight for his own independence and self-respect, more than substantiated all her theories. and the more shirley let her mind dwell on jefferson ryder and his blue eyes and serious manner, the more conscious she became that the artist was encroaching more upon her thoughts and time than was good either for her work or for herself. so their casual acquaintance grew into a real friendship and comradeship. further than that shirley promised herself it should never go. not that jefferson had given her the slightest hint that he entertained the idea of making her his wife one day, only she was sophisticated enough to know the direction in which run the minds of men who are abnormally interested in one girl, and long before this shirley had made up her mind that she would never marry. firstly, she was devoted to her father and could not bear the thought of ever leaving him; secondly, she was fascinated by her literary work and she was practical enough to know that matrimony, with its visions of slippers and cradles, would be fatal to any ambition of that kind. she liked jefferson immensely--more, perhaps, than any man she had yet met--and she did not think any the less of him because of her resolve not to get entangled in the meshes of cupid. in any case he had not asked her to marry him--perhaps the idea was far from his thoughts. meantime, she could enjoy his friendship freely without fear of embarrassing entanglements. when, therefore, she first conceived the idea of portraying in the guise of fiction the personality of john burkett ryder, the colossus of finance whose vast and ever-increasing fortune was fast becoming a public nuisance, she naturally turned to jefferson for assistance. she wanted to write a book that would be talked about, and which at the same time would open the eyes of the public to this growing peril in their midst--this monster of insensate and unscrupulous greed who, by sheer weight of his ill-gotten gold, was corrupting legislators and judges and trying to enslave the nation. the book, she argued, would perform a public service in awakening all to the common danger. jefferson fully entered into her views and had furnished her with the information regarding his father that she deemed of value. the book had proven a success beyond their most sanguine expectations, and shirley had come to europe for a rest after the many weary months of work that it took to write it. the acquaintance of his son with the daughter of judge rossmore had not escaped the eagle eye of ryder, sr., and much to the financier's annoyance, and even consternation, he had ascertained that jefferson was a frequent caller at the rossmore home. he immediately jumped to the conclusion that this could mean only one thing, and fearing what he termed "the consequences of the insanity of immature minds," he had summoned jefferson peremptorily to his presence. he told his son that all idea of marriage in that quarter was out of the question for two reasons: one was that judge rossmore was his most bitter enemy, the other was that he had hoped to see his son, his destined successor, marry a woman of whom he, ryder, sr., could approve. he knew of such a woman, one who would make a far more desirable mate than miss rossmore. he alluded, of course, to kate roberts, the pretty daughter of his old friend, the senator. the family interests would benefit by this alliance, which was desirable from every point of view. jefferson had listened respectfully until his father had finished and then grimly remarked that only one point of view had been overlooked--his own. he did not care for miss roberts; he did not think she really cared for him. the marriage was out of the question. whereupon ryder, sr., had fumed and raged, declaring that jefferson was opposing his will as he always did, and ending with the threat that if his son married shirley rossmore without his consent he would disinherit him. jefferson was cogitating on these incidents of the last few months when suddenly a feminine voice which he quickly recognised called out in english: "hello! mr. ryder." he looked up and saw two ladies, one young, the other middle aged, smiling at him from an open _fiacre_ which had drawn up to the curb. jefferson jumped from his seat, upsetting his chair and startling two nervous frenchmen in his hurry, and hastened out, hat in hand. "why, miss rossmore, what are you doing out driving?" he asked. "you know you and mrs. blake promised to dine with me to-night. i was coming round to the hotel in a few moments." mrs. blake was a younger sister of shirley's mother. her husband had died a few years previously, leaving her a small income, and when she had heard of her niece's contemplated trip to europe she had decided to come to paris to meet her and incidentally to chaperone her. the two women were stopping at the grand hotel close by, while jefferson had found accommodations at the athénée. shirley explained. her aunt wanted to go to the dressmaker's, and she herself was most anxious to go to the luxembourg gardens to hear the music. would he take her? then they could meet mrs. blake at the hotel at seven o'clock and all go to dinner. was he willing? was he? jefferson's face fairly glowed. he ran back to his table on the _terrasse_ to settle for his vermouth, astonished the waiter by not stopping to notice the short change he gave him, and rushed back to the carriage. a dirty little italian girl, shrewd enough to note the young man's attention to the younger of the american women, wheedled up to the carriage and thrust a bunch of flowers in jefferson's face. "_achetez des fleurs, monsieur, pour la jolie dame?_" down went jefferson's hand in his pocket and, filling the child's hand with small silver, he flung the flowers in the carriage. then he turned inquiringly to shirley for instructions so he could direct the _cocher_. mrs. blake said she would get out here. her dressmaker was close by, in the rue auber, and she would walk back to the hotel to meet them at seven o'clock. jefferson assisted her to alight and escorted her as far as the _porte-cochère_ of the modiste's, a couple of doors away. when he returned to the carriage, shirley had already told the coachman where to go. he got in and the _fiacre_ started. "now," said shirley, "tell me what you have been doing with yourself all day." jefferson was busily arranging the faded carriage rug about shirley, spending more time in the task perhaps than was absolutely necessary, and she had to repeat the question. "doing?" he echoed with a smile, "i've been doing two things--waiting impatiently for seven o'clock and incidentally reading the notices of your book." chapter iv "tell me, what do the papers say?" settling herself comfortably back in the carriage, shirley questioned jefferson with eagerness, even anxiety. she had been impatiently awaiting the arrival of the newspapers from "home," for so much depended on this first effort. she knew her book had been praised in some quarters, and her publishers had written her that the sales were bigger every day, but she was curious to learn how it had been received by the reviewers. in truth, it had been no slight achievement for a young writer of her inexperience, a mere tyro in literature, to attract so much attention with her first book. the success almost threatened to turn her head, she had told her aunt laughingly, although she was sure it could never do that. she fully realized that it was the subject rather than the skill of the narrator that counted in the book's success, also the fact that it had come out at a timely moment, when the whole world was talking of the money peril. had not president roosevelt, in a recent sensational speech, declared that it might be necessary for the state to curb the colossal fortunes of america, and was not her hero, john burkett ryder, the richest of them all? any way they looked at it, the success of the book was most gratifying. while she was an attractive, aristocratic-looking girl, shirley rossmore had no serious claims to academic beauty. her features were irregular, and the firm and rather thin mouth lines disturbed the harmony indispensable to plastic beauty. yet there was in her face something far more appealing--soul and character. the face of the merely beautiful woman expresses nothing, promises nothing. it presents absolutely no key to the soul within, and often there is no soul within to have a key to. perfect in its outlines and coloring, it is a delight to gaze upon, just as is a flawless piece of sculpture, yet the delight is only fleeting. one soon grows satiated, no matter how beautiful the face may be, because it is always the same, expressionless and soulless. "beauty is only skin deep," said the philosopher, and no truer dictum was ever uttered. the merely beautiful woman, who possesses only beauty and nothing else, is kept so busy thinking of her looks, and is so anxious to observe the impression her beauty makes on others, that she has neither the time nor the inclination for matters of greater importance. sensible men, as a rule, do not lose their hearts to women whose only assets are their good looks. they enjoy a flirtation with them, but seldom care to make them their wives. the marrying man is shrewd enough to realize that domestic virtues will be more useful in his household economy than all the academic beauty ever chiselled out of block marble. shirley was not beautiful, but hers was a face that never failed to attract attention. it was a thoughtful and interesting face, with an intellectual brow and large, expressive eyes, the face of a woman who had both brain power and ideals, and yet who, at the same time, was in perfect sympathy with the world. she was fair in complexion, and her fine brown eyes, alternately reflective and alert, were shaded by long dark lashes. her eyebrows were delicately arched, and she had a good nose. she wore her hair well off the forehead, which was broader than in the average woman, suggesting good mentality. her mouth, however, was her strongest feature. it was well shaped, but there were firm lines about it that suggested unusual will power. yet it smiled readily, and when it did there was an agreeable vision of strong, healthy-looking teeth of dazzling whiteness. she was a little over medium height and slender in figure, and carried herself with that unmistakable air of well-bred independence that bespeaks birth and culture. she dressed stylishly, and while her gowns were of rich material, and of a cut suggesting expensive modistes, she was always so quietly attired and in such perfect taste, that after leaving her one could never recall what she had on. at the special request of shirley, who wanted to get a glimpse of the latin quarter, the driver took a course down the avenue de l'opéra, that magnificent thoroughfare which starts at the opéra and ends at the théâtre français, and which, like many others that go to the beautifying of the capital, the parisians owe to the much-despised napoleon iii. the cab, jefferson told her, would skirt the palais royal and follow the rue de rivoli until it came to the châtelet, when it would cross the seine and drive up the boulevard st. michel--the students' boulevard--until it reached the luxembourg gardens. like most of his kind, the _cocher_ knew less than nothing of the art of driving, and he ran a reckless, zig-zag flight, in and out, forcing his way through a confusing maze of vehicles of every description, pulling first to the right, then to the left, for no good purpose that was apparent, and averting only by the narrowest of margins half a dozen bad collisions. at times the _fiacre_ lurched in such alarming fashion that shirley was visibly perturbed, but when jefferson assured her that all paris cabs travelled in this crazy fashion and nothing ever happened, she was comforted. "tell me," he repeated, "what do the papers say about the book?" "say?" he echoed. "why, simply that you've written the biggest book of the year, that's all!" "really! oh, do tell me all they said!" she was fairly excited now, and in her enthusiasm she grasped jefferson's broad, sunburnt hand which was lying outside the carriage rug. he tried to appear unconscious of the contact, which made his every nerve tingle, as he proceeded to tell her the gist of the reviews he had read that afternoon. "isn't that splendid!" she exclaimed, when he had finished. then she added quickly: "i wonder if your father has seen it?" jefferson grinned. he had something on his conscience, and this was a good opportunity to get rid of it. he replied laconically: "he probably has read it by this time. i sent him a copy myself." the instant the words were out of his mouth he was sorry, for shirley's face had changed colour. "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus'?" she cried. "then he'll guess who wrote the book." "oh, no, he won't," rejoined jefferson calmly. "he has no idea who sent it to him. i mailed it anonymously." shirley breathed a sigh of relief. it was so important that her identity should remain a secret. as daughter of a supreme court judge she had to be most careful. she would not embarrass her father for anything in the world. but it was smart of jefferson to have sent ryder, sr., the book, so she smiled graciously on his son as she asked: "how do you know he got it? so many letters and packages are sent to him that he never sees himself." "oh, he saw your book all right," laughed jefferson. "i was around the house a good deal before sailing, and one day i caught him in the library reading it." they both laughed, feeling like mischievous children who had played a successful trick on the hokey-pokey man. jefferson noted his companion's pretty dimples and fine teeth, and he thought how attractive she was, and stronger and stronger grew the idea within him that this was the woman who was intended by nature to share his life. her slender hand still covered his broad, sunburnt one, and he fancied he felt a slight pressure. but he was mistaken. not the slightest sentiment entered into shirley's thoughts of jefferson. she regarded him only as a good comrade with whom she had secrets she confided in no one else. to that extent and to that extent alone he was privileged above other men. suddenly he asked her: "have you heard from home recently?" a soft light stole into the girl's face. home! ah, that was all she needed to make her cup of happiness full. intoxicated with this new sensation of a first literary success, full of the keen pleasure this visit to the beautiful city was giving her, bubbling over with the joy of life, happy in the almost daily companionship of the man she liked most in the world after her father, there was only one thing lacking--home! she had left new york only a month before, and she was homesick already. her father she missed most. she was fond of her mother, too, but the latter, being somewhat of a nervous invalid, had never been to her quite what her father had been. the playmate of her childhood, companion of her girlhood, her friend and adviser in womanhood, judge rossmore was to his daughter the ideal man and father. answering jefferson's question she said: "i had a letter from father last week. everything was going on at home as when i left. father says he misses me sadly, and that mother is ailing as usual." she smiled, and jefferson smiled too. they both knew by experience that nothing really serious ailed mrs. rossmore, who was a good deal of a hypochondriac, and always so filled with aches and pains that, on the few occasions when she really felt well, she was genuinely alarmed. the _fiacre_ by this time had emerged from the rue de rivoli and was rolling smoothly along the fine wooden pavement in front of the historic conciergerie prison where marie antoinette was confined before her execution. presently they recrossed the seine, and the cab, dodging the tram car rails, proceeded at a smart pace up the "boul' mich'," which is the familiar diminutive bestowed by the students upon that broad avenue which traverses the very heart of their beloved _quartier latin_. on the left frowned the scholastic walls of the learned sorbonne, in the distance towered the majestic dome of the panthéon where rousseau, voltaire and hugo lay buried. like most of the principal arteries of the french capital, the boulevard was generously lined with trees, now in full bloom, and the sidewalks fairly seethed with a picturesque throng in which mingled promiscuously frivolous students, dapper shop clerks, sober citizens, and frisky, flirtatious little _ouvrières_, these last being all hatless, as is characteristic of the workgirl class, but singularly attractive in their neat black dresses and dainty low-cut shoes. there was also much in evidence another type of female whose extravagance of costume and boldness of manner loudly proclaimed her ancient profession. on either side of the boulevard were shops and cafés, mostly cafés, with every now and then a _brasserie_, or beer hall. seated in front of these establishments, taking their ease as if beer sampling constituted the only real interest in their lives, were hundreds of students, reckless and dare-devil, and suggesting almost anything except serious study. they all wore frock coats and tall silk hats, and some of the latter were wonderful specimens of the hatter's art. a few of the more eccentric students had long hair down to their shoulders, and wore baggy peg-top trousers of extravagant cut, which hung in loose folds over their sharp-pointed boots. on their heads were queer plug hats with flat brims. shirley laughed outright and regretted that she did not have her kodak to take back to america some idea of their grotesque appearance, and she listened with amused interest as jefferson explained that these men were notorious _poseurs_, aping the dress and manners of the old-time student as he flourished in the days of randolph and mimi and the other immortal characters of murger's bohemia. nobody took them seriously except themselves, and for the most part they were bad rhymesters of decadent verse. shirley was astonished to see so many of them busily engaged smoking cigarettes and imbibing glasses of a pale-green beverage, which jefferson told her was absinthe. "when do they read?" she asked. "when do they attend lectures?" "oh," laughed jefferson, "only the old-fashioned students take their studies seriously. most of the men you see there are from the provinces, seeing paris for the first time, and having their fling. incidentally they are studying life. when they have sown their wild oats and learned all about life--provided they are still alive and have any money left--they will begin to study books. you would be surprised to know how many of these young men, who have been sent to the university at a cost of goodness knows what sacrifices, return to their native towns in a few months wrecked in body and mind, without having once set foot in a lecture room, and, in fact, having done nothing except inscribe their names on the rolls." shirley was glad she knew no such men, and if she ever married and had a son she would pray god to spare her that grief and humiliation. she herself knew something about the sacrifices parents make to secure a college education for their children. her father had sent her to vassar. she was a product of the much-sneered-at higher education for women, and all her life she would be grateful for the advantages given her. her liberal education had broadened her outlook on life and enabled her to accomplish the little she had. when she graduated her father had left her free to follow her own inclinations. she had little taste for social distractions, and still she could not remain idle. for a time she thought of teaching to occupy her mind, but she knew she lacked the necessary patience, and she could not endure the drudgery of it, so, having won honors at college in english composition, she determined to try her hand at literature. she wrote a number of essays and articles on a hundred different subjects which she sent to the magazines, but they all came back with politely worded excuses for their rejection. but shirley kept right on. she knew she wrote well; it must be that her subjects were not suitable. so she adopted new tactics, and persevered until one day came a letter of acceptance from the editor of one of the minor magazines. they would take the article offered--a sketch of college life--and as many more in similar vein as miss rossmore could write. this success had been followed by other acceptances and other commissions, until at the present time she was a well-known writer for the leading publications. her great ambition had been to write a book, and "the american octopus," published under an assumed name, was the result. the cab stopped suddenly in front of beautiful gilded gates. it was the luxembourg, and through the tall railings they caught a glimpse of well-kept lawns, splashing fountains and richly dressed children playing. from the distance came the stirring strains of a brass band. the coachman drove up to the curb and jefferson jumped down, assisting shirley to alight. in spite of shirley's protest jefferson insisted on paying. "_combien?_" he asked the _cocher_. the jehu, a surly, thick-set man with a red face and small, cunning eyes like a ferret, had already sized up his fares for two _sacré_ foreigners whom it would be flying in the face of providence not to cheat, so with unblushing effrontery he answered: "_dix francs, monsieur!_" and he held up ten fingers by way of illustration. jefferson was about to hand up a ten-franc piece when shirley indignantly interfered. she would not submit to such an imposition. there was a regular tariff and she would pay that and nothing more. so, in better french than was at jefferson's command, she exclaimed: "ten francs? _pourquoi dix francs?_ i took your cab by the hour. it is exactly two hours. that makes four francs." then to jefferson she added: "give him a franc for a _pourboire_--that makes five francs altogether." jefferson, obedient to her superior wisdom, held out a five-franc piece, but the driver shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. he saw that the moment had come to bluster so he descended from his box fully prepared to carry out his bluff. he started in to abuse the two americans whom in his ignorance he took for english. "ah, you _sale anglais_! you come to france to cheat the poor frenchman. you make me work all afternoon and then pay me nothing. not with this coco! i know my rights and i'll get them, too." all this was hurled at them in a patois french, almost unintelligible to shirley, and wholly so to jefferson. all he knew was that the fellow's attitude was becoming unbearably insolent and he stepped forward with a gleam in his eye that might have startled the man had he not been so busy shaking his fist at shirley. but she saw jefferson's movement and laid her hand on his arm. "no, no, mr. ryder--no scandal, please. look, people are beginning to come up! leave him to me. i know how to manage him." with this the daughter of a united states supreme court judge proceeded to lay down the law to the representative of the most lazy and irresponsible class of men ever let loose in the streets of a civilised community. speaking with an air of authority, she said: "now look here, my man, we have no time to bandy words here with you. i took your cab at . . it is now . . that makes two hours. the rate is two francs an hour, or four francs in all. we offer you five francs, and this includes a franc _pourboire_. if this settlement does not suit you we will get into your cab and you will drive us to the nearest police-station where the argument can be continued." the man's jaw dropped. he was obviously outclassed. these foreigners knew the law as well as he did. he had no desire to accept shirley's suggestion of a trip to the police-station, where he knew he would get little sympathy, so, grumbling and giving vent under his breath to a volley of strange oaths, he grabbed viciously at the five-franc piece jefferson held out and, mounting his box, drove off. proud of their victory, they entered the gardens, following the sweet-scented paths until they came to where the music was. the band of an infantry regiment was playing, and a large crowd had gathered. many people were sitting on the chairs provided for visitors for the modest fee of two sous; others were promenading round and round a great circle having the musicians in its centre. the dense foliage of the trees overhead afforded a perfect shelter from the hot rays of the sun, and the place was so inviting and interesting, so cool and so full of sweet perfumes and sounds, appealing to and satisfying the senses, that shirley wished they had more time to spend there. she was very fond of a good brass band, especially when heard in the open air. they were playing strauss's _blue danube_, and the familiar strains of the delightful waltz were so infectious that both were seized by a desire to get up and dance. there was constant amusement, too, watching the crowd, with its many original and curious types. there were serious college professors, with gold-rimmed spectacles, buxom _nounous_ in their uniform cloaks and long ribbon streamers, nicely dressed children romping merrily but not noisily, more queer-looking students in shabby frock coats, tight at the waist, trousers too short, and comical hats, stylishly dressed women displaying the latest fashions, brilliantly uniformed army officers strutting proudly, dangling their swords--an attractive and interesting crowd, so different, thought the two americans, from the cheap, evil-smelling, ill-mannered mob of aliens that invades their own central park the days when there is music, making it a nuisance instead of a pleasure. here everyone belonged apparently to the better class; the women and children were richly and fashionably dressed, the officers looked smart in their multi-coloured uniforms, and, no matter how one might laugh at the students, there was an atmosphere of good-breeding and refinement everywhere which shirley was not accustomed to see in public places at home. a sprinkling of workmen and people of the poorer class were to be seen here and there, but they were in the decided minority. shirley, herself a daughter of the revolution, was a staunch supporter of the immortal principles of democracy and of the equality of man before the law. but all other talk of equality was the greatest sophistry and charlatanism. there could be no real equality so long as some people were cultured and refined and others were uneducated and vulgar. shirley believed in an aristocracy of brains and soap. she insisted that no clean person, no matter how good a democrat, should be expected to sit close in public places to persons who were not on speaking terms with the bath-tub. in america this foolish theory of a democracy, which insists on throwing all classes, the clean and the unclean, promiscuously together, was positively revolting, making travelling in the public vehicles almost impossible, and it was not much better in the public parks. in france--also a republic--where they likewise paraded conspicuously the clap-trap "egalité, fraternité," they managed these things far better. the french lower classes knew their place. they did not ape the dress, nor frequent the resorts of those above them in the social scale. the distinction between the classes was plainly and properly marked, yet this was not antagonistic to the ideal of true democracy; it had not prevented the son of a peasant from becoming president of the french republic. each district in paris had its own amusement, its own theatres, its own parks. it was not a question of capital refusing to fraternize with labour, but the very natural desire of persons of refinement to mingle with clean people rather than to rub elbows with the great unwashed. "isn't it delightful here?" said shirley. "i could stay here forever, couldn't you?" "with you--yes," answered jefferson, with a significant smile. shirley tried to look angry. she strictly discouraged these conventional, sentimental speeches which constantly flung her sex in her face. "now, you know i don't like you to talk that way, mr. ryder. it's most undignified. please be sensible." quite subdued, jefferson relapsed into a sulky silence. presently he said: "i wish you wouldn't call me mr. ryder. i meant to ask you this before. you know very well that you've no great love for the name, and if you persist you'll end by including me in your hatred of the hero of your book." shirley looked at him with amused curiosity. "what do you mean?" she asked. "what do you want me to call you?" "oh, i don't know," he stammered, rather intimidated by this self-possessed young woman who looked him calmly through and through. "why not call me jefferson? mr. ryder is so formal." shirley laughed outright, a merry, unrestrained peal of honest laughter, which made the passers-by turn their heads and smile, too, commenting the while on the stylish appearance of the two americans whom they took for sweethearts. after all, reasoned shirley, he was right. they had been together now nearly every hour in the day for over a month. it was absurd to call him mr. ryder. so, addressing him with mock gravity, she said: "you're right, mr. ryder--i mean jefferson. you're quite right. you are jefferson from this time on, only remember"--here she shook her gloved finger at him warningly--"mind you behave yourself! no more such sentimental speeches as you made just now." jefferson beamed. he felt at least two inches taller, and at that moment he would not have changed places with any one in the world. to hide the embarrassment his gratification caused him he pulled out his watch and exclaimed: "why, it's a quarter past six. we shall have all we can do to get back to the hotel and dress for dinner." shirley rose at once, although loath to leave. "i had no idea it was so late," she said. "how the time flies!" then mockingly she added: "come, jefferson--be a good boy and find a cab." they passed out of the gardens by the gate facing the théâtre de l'odéon, where there was a long string of _fiacres_ for hire. they got into one and in fifteen minutes they were back at the grand hotel. at the office they told shirley that her aunt had already come in and gone to her room, so she hurried upstairs to dress for dinner while jefferson proceeded to the hotel de l'athénée on the same mission. he had still twenty-five minutes before dinner time, and he needed only ten minutes for a wash and to jump into his dress suit, so, instead of going directly to his hotel, he sat down at the café de la paix. he was thirsty, and calling for a vermouth _frappé_ he told the _garçon_ to bring him also the american papers. the crowd on the boulevard was denser than ever. the business offices and some of the shops were closing, and a vast army of employés, homeward bound, helped to swell the sea of humanity that pushed this way and that. but jefferson had no eyes for the crowd. he was thinking of shirley. what singular, mysterious power had this girl acquired over him? he, who had scoffed at the very idea of marriage only a few months before, now desired it ardently, anxiously! yes, that was what his life lacked--such a woman to be his companion and helpmate! he loved her--there was no doubt of that. his every thought, waking and sleeping, was of her, all his plans for the future included her. he would win her if any man could. but did she care for him? ah, that was the cruel, torturing uncertainty! she appeared cold and indifferent, but perhaps she was only trying him. certainly she did not seem to dislike him. the waiter returned with the vermouth and the newspapers. all he could find were the london _times_, which he pronounced t-e-e-m-s, and some issues of the _new york herald_. the papers were nearly a month old, but he did not care for that. jefferson idly turned over the pages of the _herald_. his thoughts were still running on shirley, and he was paying little attention to what he was reading. suddenly, however, his eyes rested on a headline which made him sit up with a start. it read as follows: judge rossmore impeached justice of the supreme court to be tried on bribery charges the despatch, which was dated washington two weeks back, went on to say that serious charges affecting the integrity of judge rossmore had been made the subject of congressional inquiry, and that the result of the inquiry was so grave that a demand for impeachment would be at once sent to the senate. it added that the charges grew out of the recent decision in the great northwestern mining company case, it being alleged that judge rossmore had accepted a large sum of money on condition of his handing down a decision favourable to the company. jefferson was thunderstruck. he read the despatch over again to make sure there was no mistake. no, it was very plain--judge rossmore of madison avenue. but how preposterous, what a calumny! the one judge on the bench at whom one could point and say with absolute conviction: "there goes an honest man!" and this judge was to be tried on a charge of bribery! what could be the meaning of it? something terrible must have happened since shirley's departure from home, that was certain. it meant her immediate return to the states and, of course, his own. he would see what could be done. he would make his father use his great influence. but how could he tell shirley? impossible, he could not! she would not believe him if he did. she would probably hear from home in some other way. they might cable. in any case he would say nothing yet. he paid for his vermouth and hurried away to his hotel to dress. it was just striking seven when he re-entered the courtyard of the grand hotel. shirley and mrs. blake were waiting for him. jefferson suggested having dinner at the café de paris, but shirley objected that as the weather was warm it would be more pleasant to dine in the open air, so they finally decided on the pavilion d'armonville where there was music and where they could have a little table to themselves in the garden. they drove up the stately champs elysées, past the monumental arc de triomphe, and from there down to the bois. all were singularly quiet. mrs. blake was worrying about her new gown, shirley was tired, and jefferson could not banish from his mind the terrible news he had just read. he avoided looking at shirley until the latter noticed it and thought she must have offended him in some way. she was more sorry than she would have him know, for, with all her apparent coldness, jefferson was rapidly becoming very indispensable to her happiness. they dined sumptuously and delightfully with all the luxury of surroundings and all the delights of cooking that the french culinary art can perfect. a single glass of champagne had put shirley in high spirits and she had tried hard to communicate some of her good humour to jefferson who, despite all her efforts, remained quiet and preoccupied. finally losing patience she asked him bluntly: "jefferson, what's the matter with you to-night? you've been sulky as a bear all evening." pleased to see she had not forgotten their compact of the afternoon in regard to his name, jefferson relaxed somewhat and said apologetically: "excuse me, i've been feeling a bit seedy lately. i think i need another sea voyage. that's the only time when i feel really first-class--when i'm on the water." the mention of the sea started shirley to talk about her future plans. she wasn't going back to america until september. she had arranged to make a stay of three weeks in london and then she would be free. some friends of hers from home, a man and his wife who owned a steam yacht, were arranging a trip to the mediterranean, including a run over to cairo. they had asked her and mrs. blake to go and she was sure they would ask jefferson, too. would he go? there was no way out of it. jefferson tried to work up some enthusiasm for this yachting trip, which he knew very well could never come off, and it cut him to the heart to see this poor girl joyously making all these preparations and plans, little dreaming of the domestic calamity which at that very moment was hanging over her head. [photo, from the play, of the ryder household as jefferson is introduced to miss green.] "father, i've changed my mind, i'm not going away."--act ii. it was nearly ten o'clock when they had finished. they sat a little longer listening to the gipsy music, weird and barbaric. very pointedly, shirley remarked: "i for one preferred the music this afternoon." "why?" inquired jefferson, ignoring the petulant note in her voice. "because you were more amiable!" she retorted rather crossly. this was their first misunderstanding, but jefferson said nothing. he could not tell her the thoughts and fears that had been haunting him all night. soon afterward they re-entered their cab and returned to the boulevards which were ablaze with light and gaiety. jefferson suggested going somewhere else, but mrs. blake was tired and shirley, now quite irritated at what she considered jefferson's unaccountable unsociability, declined somewhat abruptly. but she could never remain angry long, and when they said good-night she whispered demurely: "are you cross with me, jeff?" he turned his head away and she saw that his face was singularly drawn and grave. "cross--no. good-night. god bless you!" he said, hoarsely gulping down a lump that rose in his throat. then grasping her hand he hurried away. completely mystified, shirley and her companion turned to the office to get the key of their room. as the man handed it to shirley he passed her also a cablegram which had just come. she changed colour. she did not like telegrams. she always had a dread of them, for with her sudden news was usually bad news. could this, she thought, explain jefferson's strange behaviour? trembling, she tore open the envelope and read: _come home at once,_ _mother._ chapter v rolling, tumbling, splashing, foaming water as far as the eye could reach in every direction. a desolate waste, full of life, movement and colour, extending to the bleak horizon and like a vast ploughed field cut up into long and high liquid ridges, all scurrying in one direction in serried ranks and with incredible speed as if pursued by a fearful and unseen enemy. serenely yet boisterously, gracefully yet resistlessly, the endless waves passed on--some small, others monstrous, with fleecy white combs rushing down their green sides like toy niagaras and with a seething, boiling sound as when flame touches water. they went by in a stately, never ending procession, going nowhere, coming from nowhere, but full of dignity and importance, their breasts heaving with suppressed rage because there was nothing in their path that they might destroy. the dancing, leaping water reflected every shade and tint--now a rich green, then a deep blue and again a dirty gray as the sun hid for a moment behind a cloud, and as a gust of wind caught the top of the combers decapitating them at one mad rush, the spray was dashed high in the air, flashing out all the prismatic colours. here and yonder, the white caps rose, disappeared and came again, and the waves grew and then diminished in size. then others rose, towering, became larger, majestic, terrible; the milk-like comb rose proudly, soared a brief moment, then fell ignominiously, and the wave diminished passed on humiliated. over head, a few scattered cirrus clouds flitted lazily across the blue dome of heaven, while a dozen mother carey chickens screamed hoarsely as they circled in the air. the strong and steady western breeze bore on its powerful pinions the sweet and eternal music of the wind and sea. shirley stood at the rail under the bridge of the ocean greyhound that was carrying her back to america with all the speed of which her mighty engines were capable. all day and all night, half naked stokers, so grimed with oil and coal dust as to lose the slightest semblance to human beings, feverishly shovelled coal, throwing it rapidly and evenly over roaring furnaces kept at a fierce white heat. the vast boilers, shaken by the titanic forces generating in their cavern-like depths, sent streams of scalding, hissing steam through a thousand valves, cylinders and pistons, turning wheels and cranks as it distributed the tremendous power which was driving the steel monster through the seas at the prodigious speed of four hundred miles in the twenty-four hours. like a pulsating heart in some living thing, the mammoth engines throbbed and panted, and the great vessel groaned and creaked as she rose and fell to the heavy swell, and again lurched forward in obedience to each fresh propulsion from her fast spinning screws. out on deck, volumes of dense black smoke were pouring from four gigantic smoke stacks and spread out in the sky like some endless cinder path leading back over the course the ship had taken. they were four days out from port. two days more and they would sight sandy hook, and shirley would know the worst. she had caught the north german lloyd boat at cherbourg two days after receiving the cablegram from new york. mrs. blake had insisted on coming along in spite of her niece's protests. shirley argued that she had crossed alone when coming; she could go back the same way. besides, was not mr. ryder returning home on the same ship? he would be company and protection both. but mrs. blake was bent on making the voyage. she had not seen her sister for many years and, moreover, this sudden return to america had upset her own plans. she was a poor sailor, yet she loved the ocean and this was a good excuse for a long trip. shirley was too exhausted with worry to offer further resistance and by great good luck the two women had been able to secure at the last moment a cabin to themselves amidships. jefferson, less fortunate, was compelled, to his disgust, to share a stateroom with another passenger, a fat german brewer who was returning to cincinnati, and who snored so loud at night that even the thumping of the engines was completely drowned by his eccentric nasal sounds. the alarming summons home and the terrible shock she had experienced the following morning when jefferson showed her the newspaper article with its astounding and heart rending news about her father had almost prostrated shirley. the blow was all the greater for being so entirely unlooked for. that the story was true she could not doubt. her mother would not have cabled except under the gravest circumstances. what alarmed shirley still more was that she had no direct news of her father. for a moment her heart stood still--suppose the shock of this shameful accusation had killed him? her blood froze in her veins, she clenched her fists and dug her nails into her flesh as she thought of the dread possibility that she had looked upon him in life for the last time. she remembered his last kind words when he came to the steamer to see her off, and his kiss when he said good-bye and she had noticed a tear of which he appeared to be ashamed. the hot tears welled up in her own eyes and coursed unhindered down her cheeks. what could these preposterous and abominable charges mean? what was this lie they had invented to ruin her father? that he had enemies she well knew. what strong man had not? indeed, his proverbial honesty had made him feared by all evil-doers and on one occasion they had gone so far as to threaten his life. this new attack was more deadly than all--to sap and destroy his character, to deliberately fabricate lies and calumnies which had no foundation whatever. of course, the accusation was absurd, the senate would refuse to convict him, the entire press would espouse the cause of so worthy a public servant. certainly, everything would be done to clear his character. but what was being done? she could do nothing but wait and wait. the suspense and anxiety were awful. suddenly she heard a familiar step behind her, and jefferson joined her at the rail. the wind was due west and blowing half a gale, so where they were standing--one of the most exposed parts of the ship--it was difficult to keep one's feet, to say nothing of hearing anyone speak. there was a heavy sea running, and each approaching wave looked big enough to engulf the vessel, but as the mass of moving water reached the bow, the ship rose on it, light and graceful as a bird, shook off the flying spray as a cat shakes her fur after an unwelcome bath, and again drove forward as steady and with as little perceptible motion as a railway train. shirley was a fairly good sailor and this kind of weather did not bother her in the least, but when it got very rough she could not bear the rolling and pitching and then all she was good for was to lie still in her steamer chair with her eyes closed until the water was calmer and the pitching ceased. "it's pretty windy here, shirley," shouted jefferson, steadying himself against a stanchion. "don't you want to walk a little?" he had begun to call her by her first name quite naturally, as if it were a matter of course. indeed, their relations had come to be more like those of brother and sister than anything else. shirley was too much troubled over the news from home to have a mind for other things, and in her distress she had turned to jefferson for advice and help as she would have looked to an elder brother. he had felt this impulse to confide in him and consult his opinion and it had pleased him more than he dared betray. he had shown her all the sympathy of which his warm, generous nature was capable, yet secretly he did not regret that events had necessitated this sudden return home together on the same ship. he was sorry for judge rossmore, of course, and there was nothing he would not do on his return to secure a withdrawal of the charges. that his father would use his influence he had no doubt. but meantime he was selfish enough to be glad for the opportunity it gave him to be a whole week alone with shirley. no matter how much one may be with people in city or country or even when stopping at the same hotel or house, there is no place in the world where two persons, especially when they are of the opposite sex, can become so intimate as on shipboard. the reason is obvious. the days are long and monotonous. there is nowhere to go, nothing to see but the ocean, nothing to do but read, talk or promenade. seclusion in one's stuffy cabin is out of the question, the public sitting rooms are noisy and impossible, only a steamer chair on deck is comfortable and once there snugly wrapped up in a rug it is surprising how quickly another chair makes its appearance alongside and how welcome one is apt to make the intruder. thus events combined with the weather conspired to bring shirley and jefferson more closely together. the sea had been rough ever since they sailed, keeping mrs. blake confined to her stateroom almost continuously. they were, therefore, constantly in one another's company, and slowly, unconsciously, there was taking root in their hearts the germ of the only real and lasting love--the love born of something higher than mere physical attraction, the nobler, more enduring affection that is born of mutual sympathy, association and companionship. "isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed shirley ecstatically. "look at those great waves out there! see how majestically they soar and how gracefully they fall!" "glorious!" assented jefferson sharing her enthusiasm. "there's nothing to compare with it. it's nature's grandest spectacle. the ocean is the only place on earth that man has not defiled and spoiled. those waves are the same now as they were on the day of creation." "not the day of creation. you mean during the aeons of time creation was evolving," corrected shirley. "i meant that of course," assented jefferson. "when one says 'day' that is only a form of speech." "why not be accurate?" persisted shirley. "it was the use of that little word 'day' which has given the theologians so many sleepless nights." there was a roguish twinkle in her eye. she well knew that he thought as she did on metaphysical questions, but she could not resist teasing him. like jefferson, she was not a member of any church, although her nature was deeply religious. hers was the religion the soul inculcates, not that which is learned by rote in the temple. she was a christian because she thought christ the greatest figure in world history, and also because her own conduct of life was modelled upon christian principles and virtues. she was religious for religion's sake and not for public ostentation. the mystery of life awed her and while her intelligence could not accept all the doctrines of dogmatic religion she did not go so far as jefferson, who was a frank agnostic. she would not admit that we do not know. the longings and aspirations of her own soul convinced her of the existence of a supreme being, first cause, divine intelligence--call it what you will--which had brought out of chaos the wonderful order of the universe. the human mind was, indeed, helpless to conceive such a first cause in any form and lay prostrate before the unknown, yet she herself was an enthusiastic delver into scientific hypothesis and the teachings of darwin, spencer, haeckel had satisfied her intellect if they had failed to content her soul. the theory of evolution as applied to life on her own little planet appealed strongly to her because it accounted plausibly for the presence of man on earth. the process through which we had passed could be understood by every intelligence. the blazing satellite, violently detached from the parent sun starting on its circumscribed orbit--that was the first stage, the gradual subsidence of the flames and the cooling of the crust--the second stage: the gases mingling and forming water which covered the earth--the third stage; the retreating of the waters and the appearance of the land--the fourth stage; the appearance of vegetation and animal life--the fifth stage; then, after a long interval and through constant evolution and change the appearance of man, which was the sixth stage. what stages still to come, who knows? this simple account given by science was, after all, practically identical with the biblical legend! it was when shirley was face to face with nature in her wildest and most primitive aspects that this deep rooted religious feeling moved her most strongly. at these times she felt herself another being, exalted, sublimated, lifted from this little world with its petty affairs and vanities up to dizzy heights. she had felt the same sensation when for the first time she had viewed the glories of the snow clad matterhorn, she had felt it when on a summer's night at sea she had sat on deck and watched with fascinated awe the resplendent radiance of the countless stars, she felt it now as she looked at the foaming, tumbling waves. "it is so beautiful," she murmured as she turned to walk. the ship was rolling a little and she took jefferson's arm to steady herself. shirley was an athletic girl and had all the ease and grace of carriage that comes of much tennis and golf playing. barely twenty-four years old, she was still in the first flush of youth and health, and there was nothing she loved so much as exercise and fresh air. after a few turns on deck, there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks that was good to see and many an admiring glance was cast at the young couple as they strode briskly up and down past the double rows of elongated steamer chairs. they had the deck pretty much to themselves. it was only four o'clock, too early for the appetite-stimulating walk before dinner, and their fellow passengers were basking in the sunshine, stretched out on their chairs in two even rows like so many mummies on exhibition. some were reading, some were dozing. two or three were under the weather, completely prostrated, their bilious complexion of a deathly greenish hue. at each new roll of the ship, they closed their eyes as if resigned to the worst that might happen and their immediate neighbours furtively eyed each of their movements as if apprehensive of what any moment might bring forth. a few couples were flirting to their heart's content under the friendly cover of the lifeboats which, as on most of the transatlantic liners, were more useful in saving reputations than in saving life. the deck steward was passing round tea and biscuits, much to the disgust of the ill ones, but to the keen satisfaction of the stronger stomached passengers who on shipboard never seem to be able to get enough to eat and drink. on the bridge, the second officer, a tall, handsome man with the points of his moustache trained upwards à la kaiser wilhelm, was striding back and forth, every now and then sweeping the horizon with his glass and relieving the monotony of his duties by ogling the better looking women passengers. "hello, shirley!" called out a voice from a heap of rugs as shirley and jefferson passed the rows of chairs. they stopped short and discovered mrs. blake ensconced in a cozy corner, sheltered from the wind. "why, aunt milly," exclaimed shirley surprised. "i thought you were downstairs. i didn't think you could stand this sea." "it is a little rougher than i care to have it," responded mrs. blake with a wry grimace and putting her hand to her breast as if to appease disturbing qualms. "it was so stuffy in the cabin i could not bear it. it's more pleasant here but it's getting a little cool and i think i'll go below. where have you children been all afternoon?" jefferson volunteered to explain. "the children have been rhapsodizing over the beauties of the ocean," he laughed. with a sly glance at shirley, he added, "your niece has been coaching me in metaphysics." shirley shook her finger at him. "now jefferson, if you make fun of me i'll never talk seriously with you again." "_wie geht es, meine damen?_" shirley turned on hearing the guttural salutation. it was captain hegermann, the commander of the ship, a big florid saxon with great bushy golden whiskers and a basso voice like edouard de reszké. he was imposing in his smart uniform and gold braid and his manner had the self-reliant, authoritative air usual in men who have great responsibilities and are accustomed to command. he was taking his afternoon stroll and had stopped to chat with his lady passengers. he had already passed mrs. blake a dozen times and not noticed her, but now her pretty niece was with her, which altered the situation. he talked to the aunt and looked at shirley, much to the annoyance of jefferson, who muttered things under his breath. "when shall we be in, captain?" asked mrs. blake anxiously, forgetting that this was one of the questions which according to ship etiquette must never be asked of the officers. but as long as he could ignore mrs. blake and gaze at shirley capt. hegermann did not mind. he answered amiably: "at the rate we are going, we ought to sight fire island sometime to-morrow evening. if we do, that will get us to our dock about o'clock friday morning, i fancy." then addressing shirley direct he said: "and you, fraulein, i hope you won't be glad the voyage is over?" shirley sighed and a worried, anxious look came into her face. "yes, captain, i shall be very glad. it is not pleasure that is bringing me back to america so soon." the captain elevated his eyebrows. he was sorry the young lady had anxieties to keep her so serious, and he hoped she would find everything all right on her arrival. then, politely saluting, he passed on, only to halt again a few paces on where his bewhiskered gallantry met with more encouragement. mrs. blake rose from her chair. the air was decidedly cooler, she would go downstairs and prepare for dinner. shirley said she would remain on deck a little longer. she was tired of walking, so when her aunt left them she took her chair and told jefferson to get another. he wanted nothing better, but before seating himself he took the rugs and wrapped shirley up with all the solicitude of a mother caring for her first born. arranging the pillow under her head, he asked: "is that comfortable?" she nodded, smiling at him. "you're a good boy, jeff. but you'll spoil me." "nonsense," he stammered as he took another chair and put himself by her side. "as if any fellow wouldn't give his boots to do a little job like that for you!" she seemed to take no notice of the covert compliment. in fact, she already took it as a matter of course that jefferson was very fond of her. did she love him? she hardly knew. certainly she thought more of him than of any other man she knew and she readily believed that she could be with him for the rest of her life and like him better every day. then, too, they had become more intimate during the last few days. this trouble, this unknown peril had drawn them together. yes, she would be sorry if she were to see jefferson paying attention to another woman. was this love? perhaps. these thoughts were running through her mind as they sat there side by side isolated from the main herd of passengers, each silent, watching through the open rail the foaming water as it rushed past. jefferson had been casting furtive glances at his companion and as he noted her serious, pensive face he thought how pretty she was. he wondered what she was thinking of and suddenly inspired no doubt by the mysterious power that enables some people to read the thoughts of others, he said abruptly: "shirley, i can read your thoughts. you were thinking of me." she was startled for a moment but immediately recovered her self possession. it never occurred to her to deny it. she pondered for a moment and then replied: "you are right, jeff, i was thinking of you. how did you guess?" he leaned over her chair and took her hand. she made no resistance. her delicate, slender hand lay passively in his big brown one and met his grasp frankly, cordially. he whispered: "what were you thinking of me--good or bad?" "good, of course. how could i think anything bad of you?" she turned her eyes on him in wonderment. then she went on: "i was wondering how a girl could distinguish between the feeling she has for a man she merely likes, and the feeling she has for a man she loves." jefferson bent eagerly forward so as to lose no word that might fall from those coveted lips. "in what category would i be placed?" he asked. "i don't quite know," she answered, laughingly. then seriously, she added: "jeff, why should we act like children? your actions, more than your words, have told me that you love me. i have known it all along. if i have appeared cold and indifferent it is because"--she hesitated. "because?" echoed jefferson anxiously, as if his whole future depended on that reason. "because i was not sure of myself. would it be womanly or honourable on my part to encourage you, unless i felt i reciprocated your feelings? you are young, one day you will be very rich, the whole world lies before you. there are plenty of women who would willingly give you their love." "no--no!" he burst out in vigorous protest, "it is you i want, shirley, you alone." grasping her hand more closely, he went on, passion vibrating in every note of his voice. "i love you, shirley. i've loved you from the very first evening i met you. i want you to be my wife." shirley looked straight up into the blue eyes so eagerly bent down on hers, so entreating in their expression, and in a gentle voice full of emotion she answered: "jefferson, you have done me the greatest honour a man can do a woman. don't ask me to answer you now. i like you very much--i more than like you. whether it is love i feel for you--that i have not yet determined. give me time. my present trouble and then my literary work--" "i know," agreed jefferson, "that this is hardly the time to speak of such matters. your father has first call on your attention. but as to your literary work. i do not understand." "simply this. i am ambitious. i have had a little success--just enough to crave for more. i realize that marriage would put an extinguisher on all aspirations in that direction." "is marriage so very commonplace?" grumbled jefferson. "not commonplace, but there is no room in marriage for a woman having personal ambitions of her own. once married her duty is to her husband and her children--not to herself." "that is right," he replied; "but which is likely to give you greater joy--a literary success or a happy wifehood? when you have spent your best years and given the public your best work they will throw you over for some new favorite. you'll find yourself an old woman with nothing more substantial to show as your life work than that questionable asset, a literary reputation. how many literary reputations to-day conceal an aching heart and find it difficult to make both ends meet? how different with the woman who married young and obeys nature's behest by contributing her share to the process of evolution. her life is spent basking in the affection of her husband and the chubby smiles of her dimpled babes, and when in the course of time she finds herself in the twilight of her life, she has at her feet a new generation of her own flesh and blood. isn't that better than a literary reputation?" he spoke so earnestly that shirley looked at him in surprise. she knew he was serious but she had not suspected that he thought so deeply on these matters. her heart told her that he was uttering the true philosophy of the ages. she said: "why, jefferson, you talk like a book. perhaps you are right, i have no wish to be a blue stocking and deserted in my old age, far from it. but give me time to think. let us first ascertain the extent of this disaster which has overtaken my father. then if you still care for me and if i have not changed my mind," here she glanced slyly at him, "we will resume our discussion." again she held out her hand which he had released. "is it a bargain?" she asked. "it's a bargain," he murmured, raising the white hand to his lips. a fierce longing rose within him to take her in his arms and kiss passionately the mouth that lay temptingly near his own, but his courage failed him. after all, he reasoned, he had not yet the right. a few minutes later they left the deck and went downstairs to dress for dinner. that same evening they stood again at the rail watching the mysterious phosphorescence as it sparkled in the moonlight. her thoughts travelling faster than the ship, shirley suddenly asked: "do you really think mr. ryder will use his influence to help my father?" jefferson set his jaw fast and the familiar ryder gleam came into his eyes as he responded: "why not? my father is all powerful. he has made and unmade judges and legislators and even presidents. why should he not be able to put a stop to these preposterous proceedings? i will go to him directly we land and we'll see what can be done." so the time on shipboard had passed, shirley alternately buoyed up with hope and again depressed by the gloomiest forebodings. the following night they passed fire island and the next day the huge steamer dropped anchor at quarantine. chapter vi a month had passed since the memorable meeting of the directors of the southern and transcontinental railroad in new york and during that time neither john burkett ryder nor judge rossmore had been idle. the former had immediately set in motion the machinery he controlled in the legislature at washington, while the judge neglected no step to vindicate himself before the public. ryder, for reasons of his own--probably because he wished to make the blow the more crushing when it did fall--had insisted on the proceedings at the board meeting being kept a profound secret and some time elapsed before the newspapers got wind of the coming congressional inquiry. no one had believed the stories about judge rossmore but now that a quasi-official seal had been set on the current gossip, there was a howl of virtuous indignation from the journalistic muck rakers. what was the country coming to? they cried in double leaded type. after the embezzling by life insurance officers, the rascality of the railroads, the looting of city treasuries, the greed of the trusts, the grafting of the legislators, had arisen a new and more serious scandal--the corruption of the judiciary. the last bulwark of the nation had fallen, the country lay helpless at the mercy of legalized sandbaggers. even the judges were no longer to be trusted, the most respected one among them all had been unable to resist the tempter. the supreme court, the living voice of the constitution, was honeycombed with graft. public life was rotten to the core! neither the newspapers nor the public stopped to ascertain the truth or the falsity of the charges against judge rossmore. it was sufficient that the bribery story furnished the daily sensation which newspaper editors and newspaper readers must have. the world is ever more prompt to believe ill rather than good of a man, and no one, except in rossmore's immediate circle of friends, entertained the slightest doubt of his guilt. it was common knowledge that the "big interests" were behind the proceedings, and that judge rossmore was a scapegoat, sacrificed by the system because he had been blocking their game. if rossmore had really accepted the bribe, and few now believed him spotless, he deserved all that was coming to him. senator roberts was very active in washington preparing the case against judge rossmore. the latter being a democrat and "the interests" controlling a republican majority in the house, it was a foregone conclusion that the inquiry would be against him, and that a demand would at once be made upon the senate for his impeachment. almost prostrated by the misfortune which had so suddenly and unexpectedly come upon him, judge rossmore was like a man demented. his reason seemed to be tottering, he spoke and acted like a man in a dream. naturally he was entirely incapacitated for work and he had applied to washington to be temporarily relieved from his judicial duties. he was instantly granted a leave of absence and went at once to his home in madison avenue, where he shut himself up in his library, sitting for hours at his desk wrestling with documents and legal tomes in a pathetic endeavour to find some way out, trying to elude this net in which unseen hands had entangled him. what an end to his career! to have struggled and achieved for half a century, to have built up a reputation year by year, as a man builds a house brick by brick, only to see the whole crumble to his feet like dust! to have gained the respect of the country, to have made a name as the most incorruptible of public servants and now to be branded as a common bribe taker! could he be dreaming? it was too incredible! what would his daughter say--his shirley? ah, the thought of the expression of incredulity and wonder on her face when she heard the news cut him to the heart like a knife thrust. yet, he mused, her very unwillingness to believe it should really be his consolation. ah, his wife and his child--they knew he had been innocent of wrong doing. the very idea was ridiculous. at most he had been careless. yes, he was certainly to blame. he ought to have seen the trap so carefully prepared and into which he had walked as if blindfolded. that extra $ , worth of stock, on which he had never received a cent interest, had been the decoy in a carefully thought out plot. they, the plotters, well knew how ignorant he was of financial matters and he had been an easy victim. who would believe his story that the stock had been sent to him with a plausibly-worded letter to the effect that it represented a bonus on his own investment? now he came to think of it, calmly and reasonably, he would not believe it himself. as usual, he had mislaid or destroyed the secretary's letter and there was only his word against the company's books to substantiate what would appear a most improbable if not impossible occurrence. it was his conviction of his own good faith that made his present dilemma all the more cruel. had he really been a grafter, had he really taken the stock as a bribe he would not care so much, for then he would have foreseen and discounted the chances of exposure. yes, there was no doubt possible. he was the victim of a conspiracy, there was an organized plot to ruin him, to get him out of the way. the "interests" feared him, resented his judicial decisions and they had halted at nothing to accomplish their purpose. how could he fight them back, what could he do to protect himself? he had no proofs of a conspiracy, his enemies worked in the dark, there was no way in which he could reach them or know who they were. he thought of john burkett ryder. ah, he remembered now. ryder was the man who had recommended the investment in alaskan stock. of course, why did he not think of it before? he recollected that at the time he had been puzzled at receiving so much stock and he had mentioned it to ryder, adding that the secretary had told him it was customary. oh, why had he not kept the secretary's letter? but ryder would certainly remember it. he probably still had his two letters in which he spoke of making the investment. if those letters could be produced at the congressional inquiry they would clear him at once. so losing no time, and filled with renewed hope he wrote to the colossus a strong, manly letter which would have melted an iceberg, urging mr. ryder to come forward now at this critical time and clear him of this abominable charge, or in any case to kindly return the two letters he must have in his possession, as they would go far to help him at the trial. three days passed and no reply from ryder. on the fourth came a polite but frigid note from mr. ryder's private secretary. mr. ryder had received judge rossmore's letter and in reply begged to state that he had a vague recollection of some conversation with the judge in regard to investments, but he did not think he had advised the purchase of any particular stock, as that was something he never did on principle, even with his most intimate friends. he had no wish to be held accountable in case of loss, etc. as to the letter which judge rossmore mentioned as having written to mr. ryder in regard to having received more stock than he had bought, of that mr. ryder had no recollection whatsoever. judge rossmore was probably mistaken as to the identity of his correspondent. he regretted he could not be of more service to judge rossmore, and remained his very obedient servant. it was very evident that no help was to be looked for in that quarter. there was even decided hostility in ryder's reply. could it be true that the financier was really behind these attacks upon his character, was it possible that one man merely to make more money would deliberately ruin his fellow man whose hand he had grasped in friendship? he had been unwilling to believe it when his friend ex-judge stott had pointed to ryder as the author of all his misfortunes, but this unsympathetic letter with its falsehoods, its lies plainly written all over its face, was proof enough. yes, there was now no doubt possible. john burkett ryder was his enemy and what an enemy! many a man had committed suicide when he had incurred the enmity of the colossus. judge rossmore, completely discouraged, bowed his head to the inevitable. his wife, a nervous, sickly woman, was helpless to comfort or aid him. she had taken their misfortune as a visitation of an inscrutable deity. she knew, of course, that her husband was wholly innocent of the accusations brought against him and if his character could be cleared and himself rehabilitated before the world, she would be the first to rejoice. but if it pleased the almighty in his wisdom to sorely try her husband and herself and inflict this punishment upon them it was not for the finite mind to criticise the ways of providence. there was probably some good reason for the apparent cruelty and injustice of it which their earthly understanding failed to grasp. mrs. rossmore found much comfort in this philosophy, which gave a satisfactory ending to both ends of the problem, and she was upheld in her view by the rector of the church which she had attended regularly each sunday for the past five and twenty years. christian resignation in the hour of trial, submission to the will of heaven were, declared her spiritual adviser, the fundamental principles of religion. he could only hope that mrs. rossmore would succeed in imbuing her husband with her christian spirit. but when the judge's wife returned home and saw the keen mental distress of the man who had been her companion for twenty-five long years, the comforter in her sorrows, the joy and pride of her young wifehood, she forgot all about her smug churchly consoler, and her heart went out to her husband in a spontaneous burst of genuine human sympathy. yes, they must do something at once. where men had failed perhaps a woman could do something. she wanted to cable at once for shirley, who was everything in their household--organizer, manager, adviser--but the judge would not hear of it. no, his daughter was enjoying her holiday in blissful ignorance of what had occurred. he would not spoil it for her. they would see; perhaps things would improve. but he sent for his old friend ex-judge stott. they were life-long friends, having become acquainted nearly thirty years ago at the law school, at the time when both were young men about to enter on a public career. stott, who was rossmore's junior, had begun as a lawyer in new york and soon acquired a reputation in criminal practice. he afterwards became assistant district attorney and later, when a vacancy occurred in the city magistrature, he was successful in securing the appointment. on the bench he again met his old friend rossmore and the two men once more became closely intimate. the regular court hours, however, soon palled on a man of judge stott's nervous temperament and it was not long before he retired to take up once more his criminal practice. he was still a young man, not yet fifty, and full of vigor and fight. he had a blunt manner but his heart was in the right place, and he had a record as clean as his close shaven face. he was a hard worker, a brilliant speaker and one of the cleverest cross-examiners at the bar. this was the man to whom judge rossmore naturally turned for legal assistance. stott was out west when he first heard of the proceedings against his old friend, and this indignity put upon the only really honest man in public life whom he knew, so incensed him that he was already hurrying back to his aid when the summons reached him. meantime, a fresh and more serious calamity had overwhelmed judge rossmore. everything seemed to combine to break the spirit of this man who had dared defy the power of organized capital. hardly had the news of the congressional inquiry been made public, than the financial world was startled by an extraordinary slump in wall street. there was nothing in the news of the day to justify a decline, but prices fell and fell. the bears had it all their own way, the big interests hammered stocks all along the line, "coppers" especially being the object of attack. the market closed feverishly and the next day the same tactics were pursued. from the opening, on selling orders coming from no one knew where, prices fell to nothing, a stampede followed and before long it became a panic. pandemonium reigned on the floor of the stock exchange. white faced, dishevelled brokers shouted and struggled like men possessed to execute the orders of their clients. big financial houses, which stood to lose millions on a falling market, rallied and by rush orders to buy, attempted to stem the tide, but all to no purpose. one firm after another went by the board unable to weather the tempest, until just before closing time, the stock ticker announced the failure of the great northwestern mining co. the drive in the market had been principally directed against its securities, and after vainly endeavoring to check the bear raid, it had been compelled to declare itself bankrupt. it was heavily involved, assets nil, stock almost worthless. it was probable that the creditors would not see ten cents on the dollar. thousands were ruined and judge rossmore among them. all the savings of a lifetime--nearly $ , were gone. he was practically penniless, at a time when he needed money most. he still owned his house in madison avenue, but that would have to go to settle with his creditors. by the time everything was paid there would only remain enough for a modest competence. as to his salary, of course he could not touch that so long as this accusation was hanging over his head. and if he were impeached it would stop altogether. the salary, therefore, was not to be counted on. they must manage as best they could and live more cheaply, taking a small house somewhere in the outskirts of the city where he could prepare his case quietly without attracting attention. stott thought this was the best thing they could do and he volunteered to relieve his friend by taking on his own hands all the arrangements of the sale of the house and furniture, which offer the judge accepted only too gladly. meantime, mrs. rossmore went to long island to see what could be had, and she found at the little village of massapequa just what they were looking for--a commodious, neatly-furnished two-story cottage at a modest rental. of course, it was nothing like what they had been accustomed to, but it was clean and comfortable, and as mrs. rossmore said, rather tactlessly, beggars cannot be choosers. perhaps it would not be for long. instant possession was to be had, so deposit was paid on the spot and a few days later the rossmores left their mansion on madison avenue and took up their residence in massapequa, where their advent created quite a fluster in local social circles. massapequa is one of the thousand and one flourishing communities scattered over long island, all of which are apparently modelled after the same pattern. each is an exact duplicate of its neighbour in everything except the name--the same untidy railroad station, the same sleepy stores, the same attractive little frame residences, built for the most part on the "why pay rent? own your own home" plan. a healthy boom in real estate imparts plenty of life to them all and massapequa is particularly famed as being the place where the cat jumped to when manhattan had to seek an outlet for its congested population and ever-increasing army of home seekers. formerly large tracts of flat farm lands, only sparsely shaded by trees, massapequa, in common with other villages of its kind, was utterly destitute of any natural attractions. there was the one principal street leading to the station, with a few scattered stores on either side, a church and a bank. happily, too, for those who were unable to survive the monotony of the place, it boasted of a pretty cemetery. there were also a number of attractive cottages with spacious porches hung with honeysuckle and of these the rossmores occupied one of the less pretentious kind. but although massapequa, theoretically speaking, was situated only a stone's throw from the metropolis, it might have been situated in the great sahara so far as its inhabitants took any active interest in the doings of gay gotham. local happenings naturally had first claim upon massapequa's attention--the prowess of the local baseball team, mrs. robinson's tea party and the highly exciting sessions of the local pinochle club furnishing food for unlimited gossip and scandal. the newspapers reached the village, of course, but only the local news items aroused any real interest, while the women folk usually restricted their readings to those pages devoted to daily hints for the home, mrs. sayre's learned articles on health and beauty and fay stanton's daily fashions. it was not surprising, therefore, that the fame of judge rossmore and the scandal in which he was at present involved had not penetrated as far as massapequa and that the natives were considerably mystified as to who the new arrivals in their midst might be. stott had been given a room in the cottage so that he might be near at hand to work with the judge in the preparation of the defence, and he came out from the city every evening. it was now june. the senate would not take action until it convened in december, but there was a lot of work to be done and no time to be lost. the evening following the day of their arrival they were sitting on the porch enjoying the cool evening air after dinner. the judge was smoking. he was not a slave to the weed, but he enjoyed a quiet pipe after meals, claiming that it quieted his nerves and enabled him to think more clearly. besides, it was necessary to keep at bay the ubiquitous long island mosquito. mrs. rossmore had remained for a moment in the dining-room to admonish eudoxia, their new and only maid-of-all-work, not to wreck too much of the crockery when she removed the dinner dishes. suddenly stott, who was perusing an evening paper, asked: "by the way, where's your daughter? does she know of this radical change in your affairs?" judge rossmore started. by what mysterious agency had this man penetrated his own most intimate thoughts? he was himself thinking of shirley that very moment, and by some inexplicable means--telepathy modern psychologists called it--the thought current had crossed to stott, whose mind, being in full sympathy, was exactly attuned to receive it. removing the pipe from his mouth the judge replied: "shirley's in paris. poor girl, i hadn't the heart to tell her. she has no idea of what's happened. i didn't want to spoil her holiday." he was silent for a moment. then, after a few more puffs he added confidentially in a low tone, as if he did not care for his wife to hear: "the truth is, stott, i couldn't bear to have her return now. i couldn't look my own daughter in the face." a sound as of a great sob which he had been unable to control cut short his speech. his eyes filled with tears and he began to smoke furiously as if ashamed of this display of emotion. stott, blowing his nose with suspicious vigor, replied soothingly: "you mustn't talk like that. everything will come out all right, of course. but i think you are wrong not to have told your daughter. her place is here at your side. she ought to be told even if only in justice to her. if you don't tell her someone else will, or, what's worse, she'll hear of it through the newspapers." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed the judge, visibly perturbed at the suggestion about the newspapers. "don't you agree with me?" demanded stott, appealing to mrs. rossmore, who emerged from the house at that instant. "don't you think your daughter should be informed of what has happened?" "most assuredly i do," answered mrs. rossmore determinedly. "the judge wouldn't hear of it, but i took the law into my own hands. i've cabled for her." "you cabled for shirley?" cried the judge incredulously. he was so unaccustomed to seeing his ailing, vacillating wife do anything on her own initiative and responsibility that it seemed impossible. "you cabled for shirley?" he repeated. "yes," replied mrs. rossmore triumphantly and secretly pleased that for once in her life she had asserted herself. "i cabled yesterday. i simply couldn't bear it alone any longer." "what did you say?" inquired the judge apprehensively. "i just told her to come home at once. to-morrow; we ought to get an answer." stott meantime had been figuring on the time of shirley's probable arrival. if the cablegram had been received in paris the previous evening it would be too late to catch the french boat. the north german lloyd steamer was the next to leave and it touched at cherbourg. she would undoubtedly come on that. in a week at most she would be here. then it became a question as to who should go to meet her at the dock. the judge could not go, that was certain. it would be too much of an ordeal. mrs. rossmore did not know the lower part of the city well, and had no experience in meeting ocean steamships. there was only one way out--would stott go? of course he would and he would bring shirley back with him to massapequa. so during the next few days while stott and the judge toiled preparing their case, which often necessitated brief trips to the city, mrs. rossmore, seconded with sulky indifference by eudoxia, was kept busy getting a room ready for her daughter's arrival. eudoxia, who came originally from county cork, was an irish lady with a thick brogue and a husky temper. she was amiable enough so long as things went to her satisfaction, but when they did not suit her she was a termagant. she was neither beautiful nor graceful, she was not young nor was she very clean. her usual condition was dishevelled, her face was all askew, and when she dressed up she looked like a valentine. her greatest weakness was a propensity for smashing dishes, and when reprimanded she would threaten to take her traps and skidoo. this news of the arrival of a daughter failed to fill her with enthusiasm. firstly, it meant more work; secondly she had not bargained for it. when she took the place it was on the understanding that the family consisted only of an elderly gentleman and his wife, that there was practically no work, good wages, plenty to eat, with the privilege of an evening out when she pleased. instead of this millennium she soon found stott installed as a permanent guest and now a daughter was to be foisted on her. no wonder hard working girls were getting sick and tired of housework! as already hinted there was no unhealthy curiosity among massapequans regarding their new neighbors from the city but some of the more prominent people of the place considered it their duty to seek at least a bowing acquaintance with the rossmores by paying them a formal visit. so the day following the conversation on the porch when the judge and stott had gone to the city on one of their periodical excursions, mrs. rossmore was startled to see a gentleman of clerical appearance accompanied by a tall, angular woman enter their gate and ring the bell. the rev. percival pontifex deetle and his sister miss jane deetle prided themselves on being leaders in the best social circle in massapequa. the incumbent of the local presbyterian church, the rev. deetle, was a thin, sallow man of about thirty-five. he had a diminutive face with a rather long and very pointed nose which gave a comical effect to his physiognomy. theology was written all over his person and he wore the conventional clerical hat which, owing to his absurdly small face, had the unfortunate appearance of being several sizes too large for him. miss deetle was a gaunt and angular spinster who had an unhappy trick of talking with a jerk. she looked as if she were constantly under self-restraint and was liable at any moment to explode into a fit of rage and only repressed herself with considerable effort. as they came up the stoop, eudoxia, already instructed by mrs. rossmore, was ready for them. with her instinctive respect for the priestly garb she was rather taken back on seeing a clergyman, but she brazened it out: "mr. rossmore's not home." then shaking her head, she added: "they don't see no visitors." unabashed, the rev. deetle drew a card from a case and handing it to the girl said pompously: "then we will see mrs. rossmore. i saw her at the window as we came along. here, my girl, take her this card. tell her that the reverend pontifex deetle and miss deetle have called to present their compliments." brushing past eudoxia, who vainly tried to close the door, the rev. deetle coolly entered the house, followed by his sister, and took a seat in the parlour. "she'll blame me for this," wailed the girl, who had not budged and who stood there fingering the rev. deetle's card. "blame you? for what?" demanded the clerical visitor in surprise. "she told me to say she was out--but i can't lie to a minister of the gospel--leastways not to his face. i'll give her your card, sir." the reverend caller waited until eudoxia had disappeared, then he rose and looked around curiously at the books and pictures. "hum--not a bible or a prayer book or a hymn book, not a picture or anything that would indicate the slightest reverence for holy things." he picked up a few papers that were lying on the table and after glancing at them threw them down in disgust. "law reports--wall street reports--the god of this world. evidently very ordinary people, jane." he looked at his sister, but she sat stiffly and primly in her chair and made no reply. he repeated: "didn't you hear me? i said they are ordinary people." "i've no doubt," retorted miss deetle, "and as such they will not thank us for prying into their affairs." "prying, did you say?" said the parson, resenting this implied criticism of his actions. "just plain prying," persisted his sister angrily. "i don't see what else it is." the rev. pontifex straightened up and threw out his chest as he replied: "it is protecting my flock. as leader of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery, it is my duty to visit the widows and orphans of this community." "these people are neither widows or orphans," objected miss deetle. "they are strangers," insisted the rev. pontifex, "and it is my duty to minister to them--if they need it. furthermore it is my duty to my congregation to find out who is in their midst. no less than three of the lady trustees of my church have asked me who and what these people are and whence they came." "the lady trustees are a pack of old busybodies," growled his sister. her brother raised his finger warningly. "jane, do you know you are uttering a blasphemy? these rossmore people have been here two weeks. they have visited no one, no one visits them. they have avoided a temple of worship, they have acted most mysteriously. who are they? what are they hiding? is it fair to my church, is it fair to my flock? it is not a bereavement, for they don't wear mourning. i'm afraid it may be some hidden scandal--" further speculations on his part were interrupted by the entrance of mrs. rossmore, who thought rightly that the quickest way to get rid of her unwelcome visitors was to hurry downstairs as quickly as possible. "miss deetle--mr. deetle. i am much honoured," was her not too effusive greeting. the reverend pontifex, anxious to make a favourable impression, was all smiles and bows. the idea of a possible scandal had for the moment ceased to worry him. "the honour is ours," he stammered. "i--er--we--er--my sister jane and i called to--" "won't you sit down?" said mrs. rossmore, waving him to a chair. he danced around her in a manner that made her nervous. "thank you so much," he said with a smile that was meant to be amiable. he took a seat at the further end of the room and an awkward pause followed. finally his sister prompted him: "you wanted to see mrs. rossmore about the festival," she said. "oh, of course, i had quite forgotten. how stupid of me. the fact is, mrs. rossmore," he went on, "we are thinking of giving a festival next week--a festival with strawberries--and our trustees thought, in fact it occurred to me also that if you and mr. rossmore would grace the occasion with your presence it would give us an opportunity--so to speak--get better acquainted, and er--" another awkward pause followed during which he sought inspiration by gazing fixedly in the fireplace. then turning on mrs. rossmore so suddenly that the poor woman nearly jumped out of her chair he asked: "do you like strawberries?" "it's very kind of you," interrupted mrs. rossmore, glad of the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. "indeed, i appreciate your kindness most keenly but my husband and i go nowhere, nowhere at all. you see we have met with reverses and--" "reverses," echoed the clerical visitor, with difficulty keeping his seat. this was the very thing he had come to find out and here it was actually thrown at him. he congratulated himself on his cleverness in having inspired so much confidence and thought with glee of his triumph when he returned with the full story to the lady trustees. simulating, therefore, the deepest sympathy he tried to draw his hostess out: "dear me, how sad! you met with reverses." turning to his sister, who was sitting in her corner like a petrified mummy, he added: "jane, do you hear? how inexpressibly sad! they have met with reverses!" he paused, hoping that mrs. rossmore would go on to explain just what their reverses had been, but she was silent. as a gentle hint he said softly: "did i interrupt you, madam?" "not at all, i did not speak," she answered. thus baffled, he turned the whites of his eyes up to the ceiling and said: "when reverses come we naturally look for spiritual consolation. my dear mrs. rossmore, in the name of the unified all souls baptismal presbytery i offer you that consolation." mrs. rossmore looked helplessly from one to the other embarrassed as to what to say. who were these strangers that intruded on her privacy offering a consolation she did not want? miss deetle, as if glad of the opportunity to joke at her brother's expense, said explosively: "my dear pontifex, you have already offered a strawberry festival which mrs. rossmore has been unable to accept." "well, what of it?" demanded mr. deetle, glaring at his sister for the irrelevant interruption. "you are both most kind," murmured mrs. rossmore; "but we could not accept in any case. my daughter is returning home from paris next week." "ah, your daughter--you have a daughter?" exclaimed mr. deetle, grasping at the slightest straw to add to his stock of information. "coming from paris, too! such a wicked city!" he had never been to paris, he went on to explain, but he had read enough about it and he was grateful that the lord had chosen massapequa as the field of his labours. here at least, life was sweet and wholesome and one's hopes of future salvation fairly reasonable. he was not a brilliant talker when the conversation extended beyond massapequa but he rambled on airing his views on the viciousness of the foreigner in general, until mrs. rossmore, utterly wearied, began to wonder when they would go. finally he fell back upon the weather. "we are very fortunate in having such pleasant weather, don't you think so, madam? oh, massapequa is a lovely spot, isn't it? we think it's the one place to live in. we are all one happy family. that's why my sister and i called to make your acquaintance." "you are very good, i'm sure. i shall tell my husband you came and he'll be very pleased." having exhausted his conversational powers and seeing that further efforts to pump mrs. rossmore were useless, the clerical visitor rose to depart: "it looks like rain. come, jane, we had better go. good-bye, madam, i am delighted to have made this little visit and i trust you will assure mr. rossmore that all souls unified baptismal presbytery always has a warm welcome for him." they bowed and mrs. rossmore bowed. the agony was over and as the door closed on them mrs. rossmore gave a sigh of relief. that evening stott and the judge came home earlier than usual and from their dejected appearance mrs. rossmore divined bad news. the judge was painfully silent throughout the meal and stott was unusually grave. finally the latter took her aside and broke it to her gently. in spite of their efforts and the efforts of their friends the congressional inquiry had resulted in a finding against the judge and a demand had already been made upon the senate for his impeachment. they could do nothing now but fight it in the senate with all the influence they could muster. it was going to be hard but stott was confident that right would prevail. after dinner as they were sitting in silence on the porch, each measuring the force of this blow which they had expected yet had always hoped to ward off, the crunching sound of a bicycle was heard on the quiet country road. the rider stopped at their gate and came up the porch holding out an envelope to the judge, who, guessing the contents, had started forward. he tore it open. it was a cablegram from paris and read as follows: _am sailing on the kaiser wilhelm to-day._ _shirley._ chapter vii the pier of the north german lloyd steamship company, at hoboken, fairly sizzled with bustle and excitement. the kaiser wilhelm had arrived at sandy hook the previous evening and was now lying out in midstream. she would tie up at her dock within half an hour. employés of the line, baggage masters, newspaper reporters, custom house officers, policemen, detectives, truck drivers, expressmen, longshoremen, telegraph messengers and anxious friends of incoming passengers surged back and forth in seemingly hopeless confusion. the shouting of orders, the rattling of cab wheels, the shrieking of whistles was deafening. from out in the river came the deep toned blasts of the steamer's siren, in grotesque contrast with the strident tooting of a dozen diminutive tugs which, puffing and snorting, were slowly but surely coaxing the leviathan into her berth alongside the dock. the great vessel, spick and span after a coat of fresh paint hurriedly put on during the last day of the voyage, bore no traces of gale, fog and stormy seas through which she had passed on her , mile run across the ocean. conspicuous on the bridge, directing the docking operations, stood capt. hegermann, self satisfied and smiling, relieved that the responsibilities of another trip were over, and at his side, sharing the honours, was the grizzled pilot who had brought the ship safely through the dangers of gedney's channel, his shabby pea jacket, old slouch hat, top boots and unkempt beard standing out in sharp contrast with the immaculate white duck trousers, the white and gold caps and smart full dress uniforms of the ship's officers. the rails on the upper decks were seen to be lined with passengers, all dressed in their shore going clothes, some waving handkerchiefs at friends they already recognized, all impatiently awaiting the shipping of the gangplank. stott had come early. they had received word at massapequa the day before that the steamer had been sighted off fire island and that she would be at her pier the next morning at o'clock. stott arrived at . and so found no difficulty in securing a front position among the small army of people, who, like himself, had come down to meet friends. as the huge vessel swung round and drew closer, stott easily picked out shirley. she was scanning eagerly through a binocular the rows of upturned faces on the dock, and he noted that a look of disappointment crossed her face at not finding the object of her search. she turned and said something to a lady in black and to a man who stood at her side. who they might be stott had no idea. fellow passengers, no doubt. one becomes so intimate on shipboard; it seems a friendship that must surely last a lifetime, whereas--the custom officers have not finished rummaging through your trunks when these easily-made steamer friends are already forgotten. presently shirley took another look and her glass soon lighted on him. instantly she recognized her father's old friend. she waved a handkerchief and stott raised his hat. then she turned quickly and spoke again to her friends, whereupon they all moved in the direction of the gangplank, which was already being lowered. shirley was one of the first to come ashore. stott was waiting for her at the foot of the gangplank and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him. he had known her ever since she was a little tot in arms, and bystanders who noticed them meet had no doubt that they were father and daughter. shirley was deeply moved; a great lump in her throat seemed to choke her utterance. so far she had been able to bear up, but now that home was so near her heart failed her. she had hoped to find her father on the dock. why had he not come? were things so bad then? she questioned judge stott anxiously, fearfully. he reassured her. both her mother and father were well. it was too long a trip for them to make, so he had volunteered. "too long a trip," echoed shirley puzzled. "this is not far from our house. madison avenue is no distance. that could not have kept father away." "you don't live on madison avenue any longer. the house and its contents have been sold," replied stott gravely, and in a few words he outlined the situation as it was. shirley listened quietly to the end and only the increasing pallor of her face and an occasional nervous twitching at the corner of her mouth betrayed the shock that this recital of her father's misfortunes was to her. ah, this she had little dreamed of! yet why not? it was but logic. when wrecked in reputation, one might as well be wrecked in fortune, too. what would their future be, how could that proud, sensitive man her father bear this humiliation, this disgrace? to be condemned to a life of obscurity, social ostracism, and genteel poverty! oh, the thought was unendurable! she herself could earn money, of course. if her literary work did not bring in enough, she could teach and what she earned would help out. certainly her parents should never want for anything so long as she could supply it. she thought bitterly how futile now were plans of marriage, even if she had ever entertained such an idea seriously. henceforward, she did not belong to herself. her life must be devoted to clearing her father's name. these reflections were suddenly interrupted by the voice of mrs. blake calling out: "shirley, where have you been? we lost sight of you as we left the ship, and we have been hunting for you ever since." her aunt, escorted by jefferson ryder, had gone direct to the customs desk and in the crush they had lost trace of her. shirley introduced stott. "aunt milly, this is judge stott, a very old friend of father's. mrs. blake, my mother's sister. mother will be surprised to see her. they haven't met for ten years." "this visit is going to be only a brief one," said mrs. blake. "i really came over to chaperone shirley more than anything else." "as if i needed chaperoning with mr. ryder for an escort!" retorted shirley. then presenting jefferson to stott she said: "this is mr. jefferson ryder--judge stott. mr. ryder has been very kind to me abroad." the two men bowed and shook hands. "any relation to j.b.?" asked stott good humouredly. "his son--that's all," answered jefferson laconically. stott now looked at the young man with more interest. yes, there was a resemblance, the same blue eyes, the righting jaw. but how on earth did judge rossmore's daughter come to be travelling in the company of john burkett ryder's son? the more he thought of it the more it puzzled him, and while he cogitated shirley and her companions wrestled with the united states customs, and were undergoing all the tortures invented by uncle sam to punish americans for going abroad. shirley and mrs. blake were fortunate in securing an inspector who was fairly reasonable. of course, he did not for a moment believe their solemn statement, already made on the ship, that they had nothing dutiable, and he rummaged among the most intimate garments of their wardrobe in a wholly indecent and unjustifiable manner, but he was polite and they fared no worse than all the other women victims of this, the most brutal custom house inspection system in the world. jefferson had the misfortune to be allotted an inspector who was half seas over with liquor and the man was so insolent and threatening in manner that it was only by great self-restraint that jefferson controlled himself. he had no wish to create a scandal on the dock, nor to furnish good "copy" for the keen-eyed, long-eared newspaper reporters who would be only too glad of such an opportunity for a "scare head," but when the fellow compelled him to open every trunk and valise and then put his grimy hands to the bottom and by a quick upward movement jerked the entire contents out on the dock he interfered: "you are exceeding your authority," he exclaimed hotly. "how dare you treat my things in this manner?" the drunken uniformed brute raised his bloodshot, bleary eyes and took jefferson in from tip to toe. he clenched his fist as if about to resort to violence, but he was not so intoxicated as to be quite blind to the fact that this passenger had massive square shoulders, a determined jaw and probably a heavy arm. so contenting himself with a sneer, he said: "this ain't no country for blooming english dooks. you're not in england now you know. this is a free country. see?" "i see this," replied jefferson, furious "that you are a drunken ruffian and a disgrace to the uniform you wear. i shall report your conduct immediately," with which he proceeded to the customs desk to lodge a complaint. he might have spared himself the trouble. the silver haired, distinguished looking old officer in charge knew that jefferson's complaint was well founded, he knew that this particular inspector was a drunkard and a discredit to the government which employed him, but at the same time he also knew that political influence had been behind his appointment and that it was unsafe to do more than mildly reprimand him. when, therefore, he accompanied jefferson to the spot where the contents of the trunks lay scattered in confusion all over the dock, he merely expostulated with the officer, who made some insolent reply. seeing that it was useless to lose further time, jefferson repacked his trunks as best he could and got them on a cab. then he hurried over to shirley's party and found them already about to leave the pier. "come and see us, jeff," whispered shirley as their cab drove through the gates. "where," he asked, "madison avenue?" she hesitated for a moment and then replied quickly: "no, we are stopping down on long island for the summer--at a cute little place called massapequa. run down and see us." he raised his hat and the cab drove on. there was greater activity in the rossmore cottage at massapequa than there had been any day since the judge and his wife went to live there. since daybreak eudoxia had been scouring and polishing in honour of the expected arrival and a hundred times mrs. rossmore had climbed the stairs to see that everything was as it should be in the room which had been prepared for shirley. it was not, however, without a passage at arms that eudoxia consented to consider the idea of an addition to the family. mrs. rossmore had said to her the day before: "my daughter will be here to-morrow, eudoxia." a look expressive of both displeasure and astonishment marred the classic features of the hireling. putting her broom aside and placing her arms akimbo she exclaimed in an injured tone: "and it's a dayther you've got now? so it's three in family you are! when i took the place it's two you tould me there was!" "well, with your kind permission," replied mrs. rossmore, "there will be three in future. there is nothing in the constitution of the united states that says we can't have a daughter without consulting our help, is there?" the sarcasm of this reply did not escape even the dull-edged wits of the irish drudge. she relapsed into a dignified silence and a few minutes later was discovered working with some show of enthusiasm. the judge was nervous and fidgety. he made a pretence to read, but it was plain to see that his mind was not on his book. he kept leaving his chair to go and look at the clock; then he would lay the volume aside and wander from room to room like a lost soul. his thoughts were on the dock at hoboken. by noon every little detail had been attended to and there was nothing further to do but sit and wait for the arrival of stott and shirley. they were to be expected any moment now. the passengers had probably got off the steamer by eleven o'clock. it would take at least two hours to get through the customs and out to massapequa. the judge and his wife sat on the porch counting the minutes and straining their ears to catch the first sound of the train from new york. "i hope stott broke the news to her gently," said the judge. "i wish we had gone to meet her ourselves," sighed his wife. the judge was silent and for a moment or two he puffed vigorously at his pipe, as was his habit when disturbed mentally. then he said: "i ought to have gone, martha, but i was afraid. i'm afraid to look my own daughter in the face and tell her that i am a disgraced man, that i am to be tried by the senate for corruption, perhaps impeached and turned off the bench as if i were a criminal. shirley won't believe it, sometimes i can't believe it myself. i often wake up in the night and think of it as part of a dream, but when the morning comes it's still true--it's still true!" he smoked on in silence. then happening to look up he noticed that his wife was weeping. he laid his hand gently on hers. "don't cry, dear, don't make it harder for me to bear. shirley must see no trace of tears." "i was thinking of the injustice of it all," replied mrs. rossmore, wiping her eyes. "fancy shirley in this place, living from hand to mouth," went on the judge. "that's the least," answered his wife. "she's a fine, handsome girl, well educated and all the rest of it. she ought to make a good marriage." no matter what state of mind mrs. rossmore might be in, she never lost sight of the practical side of things. "hardly with her father's disgrace hanging over her head," replied the judge wearily. "who," he added, "would have the courage to marry a girl whose father was publicly disgraced?" both relapsed into another long silence, each mentally reviewing the past and speculating on the future. suddenly mrs. rossmore started. surely she could not be mistaken! no, the clanging of a locomotive bell was plainly audible. the train was in. from the direction of the station came people with parcels and hand bags and presently there was heard the welcome sound of carriage wheels crunching over the stones. a moment later they saw coming round the bend in the road a cab piled up with small baggage. "here they are! here they are!" cried mrs. rossmore. "come, eudoxia!" she called to the servant, while she herself hurried down to the gate. the judge, fully as agitated as herself, only showing his emotion in a different way, remained on the porch pale and anxious. the cab stopped at the curb and stott alighted, first helping out mrs. blake. mrs. rossmore's astonishment on seeing her sister was almost comical. "milly!" she exclaimed. they embraced first and explained afterwards. then shirley got out and was in her mother's arms. "where's father?" was shirley's first question. "there--he's coming!" the judge, unable to restrain his impatience longer, ran down from the porch towards the gate. shirley, with a cry of mingled grief and joy, precipitated herself on his breast. "father! father!" she cried between her sobs. "what have they done to you?" "there--there, my child. everything will be well--everything will be well." her head lay on his shoulder and he stroked her hair with his hand, unable to speak from pent up emotion. mrs. rossmore could not recover from her stupefaction on seeing her sister. mrs. blake explained that she had come chiefly for the benefit of the voyage and announced her intention of returning on the same steamer. "so you see i shall bother you only a few days," she said. "you'll stay just as long as you wish," rejoined mrs. rossmore. "happily we have just one bedroom left." then turning to eudoxia, who was wrestling with the baggage, which formed a miniature matterhorn on the sidewalk, she gave instructions: "eudoxia, you'll take this lady's baggage to the small bedroom adjoining miss shirley's. she is going to stop with us for a few days." taken completely aback at the news of this new addition, eudoxia looked at first defiance. she seemed on the point of handing in her resignation there and then. but evidently she thought better of it, for, taking a cue from mrs. rossmore, she asked in the sarcastic manner of her mistress: "four is it now, m'm? i suppose the constitootion of the united states allows a family to be as big as one likes to make it. it's hard on us girls, but if it's the law, it's all right, m'm. the more the merrier!" with which broadside, she hung the bags all over herself and staggered off to the house. stott explained that the larger pieces and the trunks would come later by express. mrs. rossmore took him aside while mrs. blake joined shirley and the judge. "did you tell shirley?" asked mrs. rossmore. "how did she take it?" "she knows everything," answered stott, "and takes it very sensibly. we shall find her of great moral assistance in our coming fight in the senate," he added confidently. [pencil illustration of shirley embracing her father at the gate of the cottage at massapequa.] "father! father! what have they done to you?"--_page _. realizing that the judge would like to be left alone with shirley, mrs. rossmore invited mrs. blake to go upstairs and see the room she would have, while stott said he would be glad of a washup. when they had gone shirley sidled up to her father in her old familiar way. "i've just been longing to see you, father," she said. she turned to get a good look at him and noticing the lines of care which had deepened during her absence she cried: "why, how you've changed! i can scarcely believe it's you. say something. let me hear the sound of your voice, father." the judge tried to smile. "why, my dear girl, i--" shirley threw her arms round his neck. "ah, yes, now i know it's you," she cried. "of course it is, shirley, my dear girl. of course it is. who else should it be?" "yes, but it isn't the same," insisted shirley. "there is no ring to your voice. it sounds hollow and empty, like an echo. and this place," she added dolefully, "this awful place--" she glanced around at the cracked ceilings, the cheaply papered walls, the shabby furniture, and her heart sank as she realized the extent of their misfortune. she had come back prepared for the worst, to help win the fight for her father's honour, but to have to struggle against sordid poverty as well, to endure that humiliation in addition to disgrace--ah, that was something she had not anticipated! she changed colour and her voice faltered. her father had been closely watching for just such signs and he read her thoughts. "it's the best we can afford, shirley," he said quietly. "the blow has been complete. i will tell you everything. you shall judge for yourself. my enemies have done for me at last." "your enemies?" cried shirley eagerly. "tell me who they are so i may go to them." "yes, dear, you shall know everything. but not now. you are tired after your journey. to-morrow sometime stott and i will explain everything." "very well, father, as you wish," said shirley gently. "after all," she added in an effort to appear cheerful, "what matter where we live so long as we have each other?" she drew away to hide her tears and left the room on pretence of inspecting the house. she looked into the dining-room and kitchen and opened the cupboards, and when she returned there were no visible signs of trouble in her face. "it's a cute little house, isn't it?" she said. "i've always wanted a little place like this--all to ourselves. oh, if you only knew how tired i am of new york and its great ugly houses, its retinue of servants and its domestic and social responsibilities! we shall be able to live for ourselves now, eh, father?" she spoke with a forced gaiety that might have deceived anyone but the judge. he understood the motive of her sudden change in manner and silently he blessed her for making his burden lighter. "yes, dear, it's not bad," he said. "there's not much room, though." "there's quite enough," she insisted. "let me see." she began to count on her fingers. "upstairs--three rooms, eh? and above that three more--" "no," smiled the judge, "then comes the roof?" "of course," she laughed, "how stupid of me--a nice gable roof, a sloping roof that the rain runs off beautifully. oh, i can see that this is going to be awfully jolly--just like camping out. you know how i love camping out. and you have a piano, too." she went over to the corner where stood one of those homely instruments which hardly deserve to be dignified by the name piano, with a cheap, gaudily painted case outside and a tin pan effect inside, and which are usually to be found in the poorer class of country boarding houses. shirley sat down and ran her fingers over the keys, determined to like everything. "it's a little old," was her comment, "but i like these zither effects. it's just like the sixteenth century spinet. i can see you and mother dancing a stately minuet," she smiled. "what's that about mother dancing?" demanded mrs. rossmore, who at that instant entered the room. shirley arose and appealed to her: "isn't it absurd, mother, when you come to think of it, that anybody should accuse father of being corrupt and of having forfeited the right to be judge? isn't it still more absurd that we should be helpless and dejected and unhappy because we are on long island instead of madison avenue? why should manhattan island be a happier spot than long island? why shouldn't we be happy anywhere; we have each other. and we do need each other. we never knew how much till to-day, did we? we must stand by each other now. father is going to clear his name of this preposterous charge and we're going to help him, aren't we, mother? we're not helpless just because we are women. we're going to work, mother and i." "work?" echoed mrs. rossmore, somewhat scandalized. "work," repeated shirley very decisively. the judge interfered. he would not hear of it. "you work, shirley? impossible!" "why not? my book has been selling well while i was abroad. i shall probably write others. then i shall write, too, for the newspapers and magazines. it will add to our income." "your book--'the american octopus,' is selling well?" inquired the judge, interested. "so well," replied shirley, "that the publishers wrote me in paris that the fourth edition was now on the press. that means good royalties. i shall soon be a fashionable author. the publishers will be after me for more books and we'll have all the money we want. oh, it is so delightful, this novel sensation of a literary success!" she exclaimed with glee. "aren't you proud of me, dad?" the judge smiled indulgently. of course he was glad and proud. he always knew his shirley was a clever girl. but by what strange fatality, he thought to himself, had his daughter in this book of hers assailed the very man who had encompassed his own ruin? it seemed like the retribution of heaven. neither his daughter nor the financier was conscious of the fact that each was indirectly connected with the impeachment proceedings. ryder could not dream that "shirley green," the author of the book which flayed him so mercilessly, was the daughter of the man he was trying to crush. shirley, on the other hand, was still unaware of the fact that it was ryder who had lured her father to his ruin. mrs. rossmore now insisted on shirley going to her room to rest. she must be tired and dusty. after changing her travelling dress she would feel refreshed and more comfortable. when she was ready to come down again luncheon would be served. so leaving the judge to his papers, mother and daughter went upstairs together, and with due maternal pride mrs. rossmore pointed out to shirley all the little arrangements she had made for her comfort. then she left her daughter to herself while she hurried downstairs to look after eudoxia and luncheon. when, at last, she could lock herself in her room where no eye could see her, shirley threw herself down on the bed and burst into a torrent of tears. she had kept up appearances as long as it was possible, but now the reaction had set in. she gave way freely to her pent up feelings, she felt that unless she could relieve herself in this way her heart would break. she had been brave until now, she had been strong to hear everything and see everything, but she could not keep it up forever. stott's words to her on the dock had in part prepared her for the worst, he had told her what to expect at home, but the realization was so much more vivid. while hundreds of miles of ocean still lay between, it had all seemed less real, almost attractive as a romance in modern life, but now she was face to face with the grim reality--this shabby cottage, cheap neighbourhood and commonplace surroundings, her mother's air of resignation to the inevitable, her father's pale, drawn face telling so eloquently of the keen mental anguish through which he had passed. she compared this pitiful spectacle with what they had been when she left for europe, the fine mansion on madison avenue with its rich furnishings and well-trained servants, and her father's proud aristocratic face illumined with the consciousness of his high rank in the community, and the attention he attracted every time he appeared on the street or in public places as one of the most brilliant and most respected judges on the bench. then to have come to this all in the brief space of a few months! it was incredible, terrible, heart rending! and what of the future? what was to be done to save her father from this impeachment which she knew well would hurry him to his grave? he could not survive that humiliation, that degradation. he must be saved in the senate, but how--how? she dried her eyes and began to think. surely her woman's wit would find some way. she thought of jefferson. would he come to massapequa? it was hardly probable. he would certainly learn of the change in their circumstances and his sense of delicacy would naturally keep him away for some time even if other considerations, less unselfish, did not. perhaps he would be attracted to some other girl he would like as well and who was not burdened with a tragedy in her family. her tears began to flow afresh until she hated herself for being so weak while there was work to be done to save her father. she loved jefferson. yes, she had never felt so sure of it as now. she felt that if she had him there at that moment she would throw herself in his arms crying: "take me, jefferson, take me away, where you will, for i love you! i love you!" but jefferson was not there and the rickety chairs in the tiny bedroom and the cheap prints on the walls seemed to jibe at her in her misery. if he were there, she thought as she looked into a cracked mirror, he would think her very ugly with her eyes all red from crying. he would not marry her now in any case. no self-respecting man would. she was glad that she had spoken to him as she had in regard to marriage, for while a stain remained upon her father's name marriage was out of the question. she might have yielded on the question of the literary career, but she would never allow a man to taunt her afterwards with the disgrace of her own flesh and blood. no, henceforth her place was at her father's side until his character was cleared. if the trial in the senate were to go against him, then she could never see jefferson again. she would give up all idea of him and everything else. her literary career would be ended, her life would be a blank. they would have to go abroad, where they were not known, and try and live down their shame, for no matter how innocent her father might be the world would believe him guilty. once condemned by the senate, nothing could remove the stigma. she would have to teach in order to contribute towards the support, they would manage somehow. but what a future, how unnecessary, how unjust! suddenly she thought of jefferson's promise to interest his father in their case and she clutched at the hope this promise held out as a drowning man clutches at a drifting straw. jefferson would not forget his promise and he would come to massapequa to tell her of what he had done. she was sure of that. perhaps, after all, there was where their hope lay. why had she not told her father at once? it might have relieved his mind. john burkett ryder, the colossus, the man of unlimited power! he could save her father and he would. and the more she thought about it, the more cheerful and more hopeful she became, and she started to dress quickly so that she might hurry down to tell her father the good news. she was actually sorry now that she had said so many hard things of mr. ryder in her book and she was worrying over the thought that her father's case might be seriously prejudiced if the identity of the author were ever revealed, when there came a knock at her door. it was eudoxia. "please, miss, will you come down to lunch?" chapter viii a whirling maelstrom of human activity and dynamic energy--the city which above all others is characteristic of the genius and virility of the american people--new york, with its congested polyglot population and teeming millions, is assuredly one of the busiest, as it is one of the most strenuous and most noisy places on earth. yet, despite its swarming streets and crowded shops, ceaselessly thronged with men and women eagerly hurrying here and there in the pursuit of business or elusive pleasure, all chattering, laughing, shouting amid the deafening, multisonous roar of traffic incidental to gotham's daily life, there is one part of the great metropolis where there is no bustle, no noise, no crowd, where the streets are empty even in daytime, where a passer-by is a curiosity and a child a phenomenon. this deserted village in the very heart of the big town is the millionaires' district, the boundaries of which are marked by carnegie hill on the north, fiftieth street on the south, and by fifth and madison avenues respectively on the west and east. there is nothing more mournful than the outward aspect of these princely residences which, abandoned and empty for three-quarters of the year, stand in stately loneliness, as if ashamed of their isolation and utter uselessness. their blinds drawn, affording no hint of life within, enveloped the greater part of the time in the stillness and silence of the tomb, they appear to be under the spell of some baneful curse. no merry-voiced children romp in their carefully railed off gardens, no sounds of conversation or laughter come from their hermetically closed windows, not a soul goes in or out, at most, at rare intervals, does one catch a glimpse of a gorgeously arrayed servant gliding about in ghostly fashion, supercilious and suspicious, and addressing the chance visitor in awed whispers as though he were the guardian of a house of affliction. it is, indeed, like a city of the dead. so it appeared to jefferson as he walked up fifth avenue, bound for the ryder residence, the day following his arrival from europe. although he still lived at his father's house, for at no time had there been an open rupture, he often slept in his studio, finding it more convenient for his work, and there he had gone straight from the ship. he felt, however, that it was his duty to see his mother as soon as possible; besides he was anxious to fulfil his promise to shirley and find what his father could do to help judge rossmore. he had talked about the case with several men the previous evening at the club and the general impression seemed to be that, guilty or innocent, the judge would be driven off the bench. the "interests" had forced the matter as a party issue, and the republicans being in control in the senate the outcome could hardly be in doubt. he had learned also of the other misfortunes which had befallen judge rossmore and he understood now the reason for shirley's grave face on the dock and her little fib about summering on long island. the news had been a shock to him, for, apart from the fact that the judge was shirley's father, he admired him immensely as a man. of his perfect innocence there could, of course, be no question: these charges of bribery had simply been trumped up by his enemies to get him off the bench. that was very evident. the "interests" feared him and so had sacrificed him without pity, and as jefferson walked along central park, past the rows of superb palaces which face its eastern wall, he wondered in which particular mansion had been hatched this wicked, iniquitous plot against a wholly blameless american citizen. here, he thought, were the citadels of the plutocrats, america's aristocracy of money, the strongholds of her coal, railroad, oil, gas and ice barons, the castles of her monarchs of steel, copper, and finance. each of these million-dollar residences, he pondered, was filled from cellar to roof with costly furnishings, masterpieces of painting and sculpture, priceless art treasures of all kinds purchased in every corner of the globe with the gold filched from a trust-ridden people. for every stone in those marble halls a human being, other than the owner, had been sold into bondage, for each of these magnificent edifices, which the plutocrat put up in his pride only to occupy it two months in the year, ten thousand american men, women and children had starved and sorrowed. europe, thought jefferson as he strode quickly along, pointed with envy to america's unparalleled prosperity, spoke with bated breath of her great fortunes. rather should they say her gigantic robberies, her colossal frauds! as a nation we were not proud of our multi-millionaires. how many of them would bear the searchlight of investigation? would his own father? how many millions could one man make by honest methods? america was enjoying unprecedented prosperity, not because of her millionaires, but in spite of them. the united states owed its high rank in the family of nations to the country's vast natural resources, its inexhaustible vitality, its great wheat fields, the industrial and mechanical genius of its people. it was the plain american citizen who had made the greatness of america, not the millionaires who, forming a class by themselves of unscrupulous capitalists, had created an arrogant oligarchy which sought to rule the country by corrupting the legislature and the judiciary. the plutocrats--these were the leeches, the sores in the body politic. an organized band of robbers, they had succeeded in dominating legislation and in securing control of every branch of the nation's industry, crushing mercilessly and illegally all competition. they were the money power, and such a menace were they to the welfare of the people that, it had been estimated, twenty men in america had it in their power, by reason of the vast wealth which they controlled, to come together, and within twenty-four hours arrive at an understanding by which every wheel of trade and commerce would be stopped from revolving, every avenue of trade blocked and every electric key struck dumb. those twenty men could paralyze the whole country, for they controlled the circulation of the currency and could create a panic whenever they might choose. it was the rapaciousness and insatiable greed of these plutocrats that had forced the toilers to combine for self-protection, resulting in the organization of the labor unions which, in time, became almost as tyrannical and unreasonable as the bosses. and the breach between capital on the one hand and labour on the other was widening daily, masters and servants snarling over wages and hours, the quarrel ever increasing in bitterness and acrimony until one day the extreme limit of patience would be reached and industrial strikes would give place to bloody violence. meantime the plutocrats, wholly careless of the significant signs of the times and the growing irritation and resentment of the people, continued their illegal practices, scoffing at public opinion, snapping their fingers at the law, even going so far in their insolence as to mock and jibe at the president of the united states. feeling secure in long immunity and actually protected in their wrong doing by the courts--the legal machinery by its very elaborateness defeating the ends of justice--the trust kings impudently defied the country and tried to impose their own will upon the people. history had thus repeated itself. the armed feudalism of the middle ages had been succeeded in twentieth century america by the tyranny of capital. yet, ruminated the young artist as he neared the ryder residence, the american people had but themselves to blame for their present thralldom. forty years before abraham lincoln had warned the country when at the close of the war he saw that the race for wealth was already making men and women money-mad. in he wrote these words: "yes, we may congratulate ourselves that this cruel war is nearing its close. it has cost a vast amount of treasure and blood. the best blood of the flower of american youth has been freely offered upon our country's altar that the nation might live. it has been indeed a trying hour for the republic, but i see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. as a result of the war, corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the republic is destroyed." truly prophetic these solemn words were to-day. forgetting the austere simplicity of their forebears, a love of show and ostentation had become the ruling passion of the american people. money, money, money! was to-day the only standard, the only god! the whole nation, frenzied with a wild lust for wealth no matter how acquired, had tacitly acquiesced in all sorts of turpitude, every description of moral depravity, and so had fallen an easy victim to the band of capitalistic adventurers who now virtually ruled the land. with the thieves in power, the courts were powerless, the demoralization was general and the world was afforded the edifying spectacle of an entire country given up to an orgy of graft--treason in the senate--corruption in the legislature, fraudulent elections, leaks in government reports, trickery in wall street, illegal corners in coal, meat, ice and other prime necessaries of life, the deadly horrors of the beef and drug trusts, railroad conspiracies, insurance scandals, the wrecking of savings banks, police dividing spoils with pickpockets and sharing the wages of prostitutes, magistrates charged with blackmailing--a foul stench of social rottenness and decay! what, thought jefferson, would be the outcome--socialism or anarchy? still, he mused, one ray of hope pierced the general gloom--the common sense, the vigour and the intelligence of the true american man and woman, the love for a "square deal" which was characteristic of the plain people, the resistless force of enlightened public opinion. the country was merely passing through a dark phase in its history, it was the era of the grafters. there would come a reaction, the rascals would be exposed and driven off, and the nation would go on upward toward its high destiny. the country was fortunate, too, in having a strong president, a man of high principles and undaunted courage who had already shown his capacity to deal with the critical situation. america was lucky with her presidents. picked out by the great political parties as mere figureheads, sometimes they deceived their sponsors, and showed themselves men and patriots. such a president was theodore roosevelt. after beginning vigorous warfare on the trusts, attacking fearlessly the most rascally of the band, the chief of the nation had sounded the slogan of alarm in regard to the multi-millionaires. the amassing of colossal fortunes, he had declared, must be stopped--a man might accumulate more than sufficient for his own needs and for the needs of his children, but the evil practice of perpetuating great and ever-increasing fortunes for generations yet unborn was recognized as a peril to the state. to have had the courage to propose such a sweeping and radical restrictive measure as this should alone, thought jefferson, ensure for theodore roosevelt a place among america's greatest and wisest statesmen. he and americans of his calibre would eventually perform the titanic task of cleansing these augean stables, the muck and accumulated filth of which was sapping the health and vitality of the nation. jefferson turned abruptly and went up the wide steps of an imposing white marble edifice, which took up the space of half a city block. a fine example of french renaissance architecture, with spire roofs, round turrets and mullioned windows dominating the neighbouring houses, this magnificent home of the plutocrat, with its furnishings and art treasures, had cost john burkett ryder nearly ten millions of dollars. it was one of the show places of the town, and when the "rubber neck" wagons approached the ryder mansion and the guides, through their megaphones, expatiated in awe-stricken tones on its external and hidden beauties, there was a general craning of vertebrae among the "seeing new york"-ers to catch a glimpse of the abode of the richest man in the world. only a few privileged ones were ever permitted to penetrate to the interior of this ten-million-dollar home. ryder was not fond of company, he avoided strangers and lived in continual apprehension of the subpoena server. not that he feared the law, only he usually found it inconvenient to answer questions in court under oath. the explicit instructions to the servants, therefore, were to admit no one under any pretext whatever unless the visitor had been approved by the hon. fitzroy bagley, mr. ryder's aristocratic private secretary, and to facilitate this preliminary inspection there had been installed between the library upstairs and the front door one of those ingenious electric writing devices, such as are used in banks, on which a name is hastily scribbled, instantly transmitted elsewhere, immediately answered and the visitor promptly admitted or as quickly shown the door. indeed the house, from the street, presented many of the characteristics of a prison. it had massive doors behind a row of highly polished steel gates, which would prove as useful in case of attempted invasion as they were now ornamental, and heavily barred windows, while on either side of the portico were great marble columns hung with chains and surmounted with bronze lions rampant. it was unusual to keep the town house open so late in the summer, but mr. ryder was obliged for business reasons to be in new york at this time, and mrs. ryder, who was one of the few american wives who do not always get their own way, had good-naturedly acquiesced in the wishes of her lord. jefferson did not have to ring at the paternal portal. the sentinel within was at his post; no one could approach that door without being seen and his arrival and appearance signalled upstairs. but the great man's son headed the list of the privileged ones, so without ado the smartly dressed flunkey opened wide the doors and jefferson was under his father's roof. "is my father in?" he demanded of the man. "no, sir," was the respectful answer. "mr. ryder has gone out driving, but mr. bagley is upstairs." then after a brief pause he added: "mrs. ryder is in, too." in this household where the personality of the mistress was so completely overshadowed by the stronger personality of the master the latter's secretary was a more important personage to the servants than the unobtrusive wife. jefferson went up the grand staircase hung on either side with fine old portraits and rare tapestries, his feet sinking deep in the rich velvet carpet. on the first landing was a piece of sculptured marble of inestimable worth, seen in the soft warm light that sifted through a great pictorial stained-glass window overhead, the subject representing ajax and ulysses contending for the armour of achilles. to the left of this, at the top of another flight leading to the library, was hung a fine full-length portrait of john burkett ryder. the ceilings here as in the lower hall were richly gilt and adorned with paintings by famous modern artists. when he reached this floor jefferson was about to turn to the right and proceed direct to his mother's suite when he heard a voice near the library door. it was mr. bagley giving instructions to the butler. the honourable fitzroy bagley, a younger son of a british peer, had left his country for his country's good, and in order to turn an honest penny, which he had never succeeded in doing at home, he had entered the service of america's foremost financier, hoping to gather a few of the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table and disguising the menial nature of his position under the high-sounding title of private secretary. his job called for a spy and a toady and he filled these requirements admirably. excepting with his employer, of whom he stood in craven fear, his manner was condescendingly patronizing to all with whom he came in contact, as if he were anxious to impress on these american plebeians the signal honour which a fitzroy, son of a british peer, did them in deigning to remain in their "blarsted" country. in mr. ryder's absence, therefore, he ran the house to suit himself, bullying the servants and not infrequently issuing orders that were contradictory to those already given by mrs. ryder. the latter offered no resistance, she knew he was useful to her husband and, what to her mind was a still better reason for letting him have his own way, she had always had the greatest reverence for the british aristocracy. it would have seemed to her little short of vulgarity to question the actions of anyone who spoke with such a delightful english accent. moreover, he dressed with irreproachable taste, was an acknowledged authority on dinner menus and social functions and knew his burke backwards--altogether an accomplished and invaluable person. jefferson could not bear the sight of him; in fact, it was this man's continual presence in the house that had driven him to seek refuge elsewhere. he believed him to be a scoundrel as he certainly was a cad. nor was his estimate of the english secretary far wrong. the man, like his master, was a grafter, and the particular graft he was after now was either to make a marriage with a rich american girl or to so compromise her that the same end would be attained. he was shrewd enough to realize that he had little chance to get what he wanted in the open matrimonial market, so he determined to attempt a raid and carry off an heiress under her father's nose, and the particular proboscis he had selected was that of his employer's friend, senator roberts. the senator and miss roberts were frequently at the ryder house and in course of time the aristocratic secretary and the daughter had become quite intimate. a flighty girl, with no other purpose in life beyond dress and amusement and having what she termed "a good time," kate thought it excellent pastime to flirt with mr. bagley, and when she discovered that he was serious in his attentions she felt flattered rather than indignant. after all, she argued, he was of noble birth. if his two brothers died he would be peer of england, and she had enough money for both. he might not make a bad husband. but she was careful to keep her own counsel and not let her father have any suspicion of what was going on. she knew that his heart was set on her marrying jefferson ryder and she knew better than anyone how impossible that dream was. she herself liked jefferson quite enough to marry him, but if his eyes were turned in another direction--and she knew all about his attentions to miss rossmore--she was not going to break her heart about it. so she continued to flirt secretly with the honourable fitzroy while she still led the ryders and her own father to think that she was interested in jefferson. "jorkins," mr. bagley was saying to the butler, "mr. ryder will occupy the library on his return. see that he is not disturbed." "yes, sir," replied the butler respectfully. the man turned to go when the secretary called him back. "and, jorkins, you will station another man at the front entrance. yesterday it was left unguarded, and a man had the audacity to address mr. ryder as he was getting out of his carriage. last week a reporter tried to snapshot him. mr. ryder was furious. these things must not happen again, jorkins. i shall hold you responsible." "very good, sir." the butler bowed and went downstairs. the secretary looked up and saw jefferson. his face reddened and his manner grew nervous. "hello! back from europe, jefferson? how jolly! your mother will be delighted. she's in her room upstairs." declining to take the hint, and gathering from bagley's embarrassed manner that he wanted to get rid of him, jefferson lingered purposely. when the butler had disappeared, he said: "this house is getting more and more like a barracks every day. you've got men all over the place. one can't move a step without falling over one." mr. bagley drew himself up stiffly, as he always did when assuming an air of authority. "your father's personality demands the utmost precaution," he replied. "we cannot leave the life of the richest and most powerful financier in the world at the mercy of the rabble." "what rabble?" inquired jefferson, amused. "the common rabble--the lower class--the riff-raff," explained mr. bagley. "pshaw!" laughed jefferson. "if our financiers were only half as respectable as the common rabble, as you call them, they would need no bars to their houses." mr. bagley sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "your father has warned me against your socialistic views." then, with a lofty air, he added: "for four years i was third groom of the bedchamber to the second son of england's queen. i know my responsibilities." "but you are not groom of the bedchamber here," retorted jefferson. "whatever i am," said mr. bagley haughtily, "i am answerable to your father alone." "by the way, bagley," asked jefferson, "when do you expect father to return? i want to see him." "i'm afraid it's quite impossible," answered the secretary with studied insolence. "he has three important people to see before dinner. there's the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington--all here by appointment. it's quite impossible." "i didn't ask you if it were possible. i said i wanted to see him and i will see him," answered jefferson quietly but firmly, and in a tone and manner which did not admit of further opposition. "i'll go and leave word for him on his desk," he added. he started to enter the library when the secretary, who was visibly perturbed, attempted to bar his way. "there's some one in there," he said in an undertone. "someone waiting for your father." "is there?" replied jefferson coolly. "i'll see who it is," with which he brushed past mr. bagley and entered the library. he had guessed aright. a woman was there. it was kate roberts. "hello, kate! how are you?" they called each other by their first names, having been acquainted for years, and while theirs was an indifferent kind of friendship they had always been on good terms. at one time jefferson had even begun to think he might do what his father wished and marry the girl, but it was only after he had met and known shirley rossmore that he realized how different one woman can be from another. yet kate had her good qualities. she was frivolous and silly as are most girls with no brains and nothing else to do in life but dress and spend money, but she might yet be happy with some other fellow, and that was why it made him angry to see this girl with $ , in her own right playing into the hands of an unscrupulous adventurer. he had evidently disturbed an interesting _tête-à-tête_. he decided to say nothing, but mentally he resolved to spoil mr. bagley's game and save kate from her own folly. on hearing his voice kate turned and gave a little cry of genuine surprise. "why, is it you, jeff? i thought you were in europe." "i returned yesterday," he replied somewhat curtly. he crossed over to his father's desk where he sat down to scribble a few words, while mr. bagley, who had followed him in scowling, was making frantic dumb signs to kate. "i fear i intrude here," said jefferson pointedly. "oh, dear no, not at all," replied kate in some confusion. "i was waiting for my father. how is paris?" she asked. "lovely as ever," he answered. "did you have a good time?" she inquired. "i enjoyed it immensely. i never had a better one." "you probably were in good company," she said significantly. then she added: "i believe miss rossmore was in paris." "yes, i think she was there," was his non-committal answer. to change the conversation, which was becoming decidedly personal, he picked up a book that was lying on his father's desk and glanced at the title. it was "the american octopus." "is father still reading this?" he asked. "he was at it when i left." "everybody is reading it," said kate. "the book has made a big sensation. do you know who the hero is?" "who?" he asked with an air of the greatest innocence. "why, no less a personage than your father--john burkett ryder himself! everybody says it's he--the press and everybody that's read it. he says so himself." "really?" he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. "i must read it." "it has made a strong impression on mr. ryder," chimed in mr. bagley. "i never knew him to be so interested in a book before. he's trying his best to find out who the author is. it's a jolly well written book and raps you american millionaires jolly well--what?" "whoever wrote the book," interrupted kate, "is somebody who knows mr. ryder exceedingly well. there are things in it that an outsider could not possibly know." "phew!" jefferson whistled softly to himself. he was treading dangerous ground. to conceal his embarrassment, he rose. "if you'll excuse me, i'll go and pay my filial respects upstairs. i'll see you again," he gave kate a friendly nod, and without even glancing at mr. bagley left the room. the couple stood in silence for a few moments after he disappeared. then kate went to the door and listened to his retreating footsteps. when she was sure that he was out of earshot she turned on mr. bagley indignantly. "you see what you expose me to. jefferson thinks this was a rendezvous." "well, it was to a certain extent," replied the secretary unabashed. "didn't you ask me to see you here?" "yes," said kate, taking a letter from her bosom, "i wanted to ask you what this means?" "my dear miss roberts--kate--i"--stammered the secretary. "how dare you address me in this manner when you know i and mr. ryder are engaged?" no one knew better than kate that this was not true, but she said it partly out of vanity, partly out of a desire to draw out this englishman who made such bold love to her. "miss roberts," replied mr. bagley loftily, "in that note i expressed my admiration--my love for you. your engagement to mr. jefferson ryder is, to say the least, a most uncertain fact." there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice that did not escape kate. "you must not judge from appearances," she answered, trying to keep up the outward show of indignation which inwardly she did not feel. "jeff and i may hide a passion that burns like a volcano. all lovers are not demonstrative, you know." the absurdity of this description as applied to her relations with jefferson appealed to her as so comical that she burst into laughter in which the secretary joined. "then why did you remain here with me when the senator went out with mr. ryder, senior?" he demanded. "to tell you that i cannot listen to your nonsense any longer," retorted the girl. "what?" he cried, incredulously. "you remain here to tell me that you cannot listen to me when you could easily have avoided listening to me without telling me so. kate, your coldness is not convincing." "you mean you think i want to listen to you?" she demanded. "i do," he answered, stepping forward as if to take her in his arms. "mr. bagley!" she exclaimed, recoiling. "a week ago," he persisted, "you called me fitzroy. once, in an outburst of confidence, you called me fitz." "you hadn't asked me to marry you then," she laughed mockingly. then edging away towards the door she waved her hand at him playfully and said teasingly: "good-bye, mr. bagley, i am going upstairs to mrs. ryder. i will await my father's return in her room. i think i shall be safer." he ran forward to intercept her, but she was too quick for him. the door slammed in his face and she was gone. meantime jefferson had proceeded upstairs, passing through long and luxuriously carpeted corridors with panelled frescoed walls, and hung with grand old tapestries and splendid paintings, until he came to his mother's room. he knocked. "come in!" called out the familiar voice. he entered. mrs. ryder was busy at her escritoire looking over a mass of household accounts. "hello, mother!" he cried, running up and hugging her in his boyish, impulsive way. jefferson had always been devoted to his mother, and while he deplored her weakness in permitting herself to be so completely under the domination of his father, she had always found him an affectionate and loving son. "jefferson!" she exclaimed when he released her. "my dear boy, when did you arrive?" "only yesterday. i slept at the studio last night. you're looking bully, mother. how's father?" mrs. ryder sighed while she looked her son over proudly. in her heart she was glad jefferson had turned out as he had. her boy certainly would never be a financier to be attacked in magazines and books. answering his question she said: "your father is as well as those busybodies in the newspapers will let him be. he's considerably worried just now over that new book 'the american octopus.' how dare they make him out such a monster? he's no worse than other successful business men. he's richer, that's all, and it makes them jealous. he's out driving now with senator roberts. kate is somewhere in the house--in the library, i think." "yes, i found her there," replied jefferson dryly. "she was with that cad, bagley. when is father going to find that fellow out?" "oh, jefferson," protested his mother, "how can you talk like that of mr. bagley. he is such a perfect gentleman. his family connections alone should entitle him to respect. he is certainly the best secretary your father ever had. i'm sure i don't know what we should do without him. he knows everything that a gentleman should." "and a good deal more, i wager," growled jefferson. "he wasn't groom of the backstairs to england's queen for nothing." then changing the topic, he said suddenly: "talking about kate, mother, we have got to reach some definite understanding. this talk about my marrying her must stop. i intend to take the matter up with father to-day." "oh, of course, more trouble!" replied his mother in a resigned tone. she was so accustomed to having her wishes thwarted that she was never surprised at anything. "we heard of your goings on in paris. that miss rossmore was there, was she not?" "that has got nothing to do with it," replied jefferson warmly. he resented shirley's name being dragged into the discussion. then more calmly he went on: "now, mother, be reasonable, listen. i purpose to live my own life. i have already shown my father that i will not be dictated to, and that i can earn my own living. he has no right to force this marriage on me. there has never been any misunderstanding on kate's part. she and i understand each other thoroughly." "well, jefferson, you may be right from your point of view," replied his mother weakly. she invariably ended by agreeing with the last one who argued with her. "you are of age, of course. your parents have only a moral right over you. only remember this: it would be foolish of you to do anything now to anger your father. his interests are your interests. don't do anything to jeopardize them. of course, you can't be forced to marry a girl you don't care for, but your father will be bitterly disappointed. he had set his heart on this match. he knows all about your infatuation for miss rossmore and it has made him furious. i suppose you've heard about her father?" "yes, and it's a dastardly outrage," blurted out jefferson. "it's a damnable conspiracy against one of the most honourable men that ever lived, and i mean to ferret out and expose the authors. i came here to-day to ask father to help me." "you came to ask your father to help you?" echoed his mother incredulously. "why not?" demanded jefferson. "is it true then that he is selfishness incarnate? wouldn't he do that much to help a friend?" "you've come to the wrong house, jeff. you ought to know that. your father is far from being judge rossmore's friend. surely you have sense enough to realize that there are two reasons why he would not raise a finger to help him. one is that he has always been his opponent in public life, the other is that you want to marry his daughter." jefferson sat as if struck dumb. he had not thought of that. yes, it was true. his father and the father of the girl he loved were mortal enemies. how was help to be expected from the head of those "interests" which the judge had always attacked, and now he came to think of it, perhaps his own father was really at the bottom of these abominable charges! he broke into a cold perspiration and his voice was altered as he said: "yes, i see now, mother. you are right." then he added bitterly: "that has always been the trouble at home. no matter where i turn, i am up against a stone wall--the money interests. one never hears a glimmer of fellow-feeling, never a word of human sympathy, only cold calculation, heartless reasoning, money, money, money! oh, i am sick of it. i don't want any of it. i am going away where i'll hear no more of it." his mother laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "don't talk that way, jefferson. your father is not a bad man at heart, you know that. his life has been devoted to money making and he has made a greater fortune than any man living or dead. he is only what his life has made him. he has a good heart. and he loves you--his only son. but his business enemies--ah! those he never forgives." jefferson was about to reply when suddenly a dozen electric bells sounded all over the house. "what's that?" exclaimed jefferson, alarmed, and starting towards the door. "oh, that's nothing," smiled his mother. "we have had that put in since you went away. your father must have just come in. those bells announce the fact. it was done so that if there happened to be any strangers in the house they could be kept out of the way until he reached the library safely." "oh," laughed jefferson, "he's afraid some one will kidnap him? certainly he would be a rich prize. i wouldn't care for the job myself, though. they'd be catching a tartar." his speech was interrupted by a timid knock at the door. "may i come in to say good-bye?" asked a voice which they recognized as kate's. she had successfully escaped from mr. bagley's importunities and was now going home with the senator. she smiled amiably at jefferson and they chatted pleasantly of his trip abroad. he was sincerely sorry for this girl whom they were trying to foist on him. not that he thought she really cared for him, he was well aware that hers was a nature that made it impossible to feel very deeply on any subject, but the idea of this ready-made marriage was so foreign, so revolting to the american mind! he thought it would be a kindness to warn her against bagley. "don't be foolish, kate," he said. "i was not blind just now in the library. that man is no good." as is usual when one's motives are suspected, the girl resented his interference. she knew he hated mr. bagley and she thought it mean of him to try and get even in this way. she stiffened up and replied coldly: "i think i am able to look after myself, jefferson. thanks, all the same." he shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. she said good-bye to mrs. ryder, who was again immersed in her tradespeople bills, and left the room, escorted by jefferson, who accompanied her downstairs and on to the street where senator roberts was waiting for her in the open victoria. the senator greeted with unusual cordiality the young man whom he still hoped to make his son-in-law. "come and see us, jefferson," he said. "come to dinner any evening. we are always alone and kate and i will be glad to see you." "jefferson has so little time now, father. his work and--his friends keep him pretty busy," jefferson had noted both the pause and the sarcasm, but he said nothing. he smiled and the senator raised his hat. as the carriage drove off the young man noticed that kate glanced at one of the upper windows where mr. bagley stood behind a curtain watching. jefferson returned to the house. the psychological moment had arrived. he must go now and confront his father in the library. chapter ix the library was the most important room in the ryder mansion, for it was there that the colossus carried through his most important business deals, and its busiest hours were those which most men devote to rest. but john burkett ryder never rested. there could be no rest for any man who had a thousand millions of dollars to take care of. like macbeth, he could sleep no more. when the hum of business life had ceased down town and he returned home from the tall building in lower broadway, then his real work began. the day had been given to mere business routine; in his own library at night, free from inquisitive ears and prying eyes, he could devise new schemes for strengthening his grip upon the country, he could evolve more gigantic plans for adding to his already countless millions. here the money moloch held court like any king, with as much ceremony and more secrecy, and having for his courtiers some of the most prominent men in the political and industrial life of the nation. corrupt senators, grafting congressmen, ambitious railroad presidents, insolent coal barons who impudently claimed they administered the coal lands in trust for the almighty, unscrupulous princes of finance and commerce, all visited this room to receive orders or pay from the head of the "system." here were made and unmade governors of states, mayors of cities, judges, heads of police, cabinet ministers, even presidents. here were turned over to confidential agents millions of dollars to overturn the people's vote in the national elections; here were distributed yearly hundreds of thousands of dollars to grafters, large and small, who had earned it in the service of the "interests." here, secretly and unlawfully, the heads of railroads met to agree on rates which by discriminating against one locality in favour of another crushed out competition, raised the cost to the consumer, and put millions in the pockets of the trust. here were planned tricky financial operations, with deliberate intent to mislead and deceive the investing public, operations which would send stocks soaring one day, only a week later to put wall street on the verge of panic. half a dozen suicides might result from the coup, but twice as many millions of profits had gone into the coffers of the "system." here, too, was perpetrated the most heinous crime that can be committed against a free people--the conspiring of the trusts abetted by the railroads, to arbitrarily raise the prices of the necessaries of life--meat, coal, oil, ice, gas--wholly without other justification than that of greed, which, with these men, was the unconquerable, all-absorbing passion. in short, everything that unscrupulous leaders of organized capital could devise to squeeze the life blood out of the patient, defenceless toiler was done within these four walls. it was a handsome room, noble in proportions and abundantly lighted by three large and deeply recessed, mullioned windows, one in the middle of the room and one at either end. the lofty ceiling was a marvellously fine example of panelled oak of gothic design, decorated with gold, and the shelves for books which lined the walls were likewise of oak, richly carved. in the centre of the wall facing the windows was a massive and elaborately designed oak chimney-piece, reaching up to the ceiling, and having in the middle panel over the mantel a fine three-quarter length portrait of george washington. the room was furnished sumptuously yet quietly, and fully in keeping with the rich collection of classic and modern authors that filled the bookcases, and in corners here and there stood pedestals with marble busts of shakespeare, goethe and voltaire. it was the retreat of a scholar rather than of a man of affairs. when jefferson entered, his father was seated at his desk, a long black cigar between his lips, giving instructions to mr. bagley. mr. ryder looked up quickly as the door opened and the secretary made a movement forward as if to eject the intruder, no matter who he might be. they were not accustomed to having people enter the sanctum of the colossus so unceremoniously. but when he saw who it was, mr. ryder's stern, set face relaxed and he greeted his son amiably. "why, jeff, my boy, is that you? just a moment, until i get rid of bagley, and i'll be with you." jefferson turned to the book shelves and ran over the titles while the financier continued his business with the secretary. "now, bagley. come, quick. what is it?" he spoke in a rapid, explosive manner, like a man who has only a few moments to spare before he must rush to catch a train. john ryder had been catching trains all his life, and he had seldom missed one. "governor rice called. he wants an appointment," said mr. bagley, holding out a card. "i can't see him. tell him so," came the answer, quick as a flash. "who else?" he demanded. "where's your list?" mr. bagley took from the desk a list of names and read them over. "general abbey telephoned. he says you promised--" "yes, yes," interrupted ryder impatiently, "but not here. down town, to-morrow, any time. next?" the secretary jotted down a note against each name and then said: "there are some people downstairs in the reception room. they are here by appointment." "who are they?" "the national republican committee and sergeant ellison of the secret service from washington," replied mr. bagley. "who was here first?" demanded the financier. "sergeant ellison, sir." "then i'll see him first, and the committee afterwards. but let them all wait until i ring. i wish to speak with my son." he waved his hand and the secretary, knowing well from experience that this was a sign that there must be no further discussion, bowed respectfully and left the room. jefferson turned and advanced towards his father, who held out his hand. "well, jefferson," he said kindly, "did you have a good time abroad?" "yes, sir, thank you. such a trip is a liberal education in itself." "ready for work again, eh? i'm glad you're back, jefferson. i'm busy now, but one of these days i want to have a serious talk with you in regard to your future. this artist business is all very well--for a pastime. but it's not a career--surely you can appreciate that--for a young man with such prospects as yours. have you ever stopped to think of that?" jefferson was silent. he did not want to displease his father; on the other hand, it was impossible to let things drift as they had been doing. there must be an understanding sooner or later. why not now? "the truth is, sir," he began timidly, "i'd like a little talk with you now, if you can spare the time." ryder, sr., looked first at his watch and then at his son, who, ill at ease, sat nervously on the extreme edge of a chair. then he said with a smile: "well, my boy, to be perfectly frank, i can't--but--i will. come, what is it?" then, as if to apologize for his previous abruptness, he added, "i've had a very busy day, jeff. what with trans-continental and trans-atlantic and southern pacific, and wall street, and rate bills, and washington i feel like atlas shouldering the world." "the world wasn't intended for one pair of shoulders to carry, sir," rejoined jefferson calmly. his father looked at him in amazement. it was something new to hear anyone venturing to question or comment upon anything he said. "why not?" he demanded, when he had recovered from his surprise. "julius caesar carried it. napoleon carried it--to a certain extent. however, that's neither here nor there. what is it, boy?" unable to remain a moment inactive, he commenced to pick among the mass of papers on his desk, while jefferson was thinking what to say. the last word his father uttered gave him a cue, and he blurted out protestingly: "that's just it, sir. you forget that i'm no longer a boy. it's time to treat me as if i were a man." ryder, sr., leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily. "a man at twenty-eight? that's an excellent joke. do you know that a man doesn't get his horse sense till he's forty?" "i want you to take me seriously," persisted jefferson. ryder, sr., was not a patient man. his moments of good humour were of brief duration. anything that savoured of questioning his authority always angered him. the smile went out of his face and he retorted explosively: "go on--damn it all! be serious if you want, only don't take so long about it. but understand one thing. i want no preaching, no philosophical or socialistic twaddle. no tolstoi--he's a great thinker, and you're not. no bernard shaw--he's funny, and you're not. now go ahead." this beginning was not very encouraging, and jefferson felt somewhat intimidated. but he realized that he might not have another such opportunity, so he plunged right in. "i should have spoken to you before if you had let me," he said. "i often--" "if i let you?" interrupted his father. "do you expect me to sit and listen patiently to your wild theories of social reform? you asked me one day why the wages of the idle rich was wealth and the wages of hard work was poverty, and i told you that i worked harder in one day than a tunnel digger works in a life-time. thinking is a harder game than any. you must think or you won't know. napoleon knew more about war than all his generals put together. i know more about money than any man living to-day. the man who knows is the man who wins. the man who takes advice isn't fit to give it. that's why i never take yours. come, don't be a fool, jeff--give up this art nonsense. come back to the trading company. i'll make you vice-president, and i'll teach you the business of making millions." jefferson shook his head. it was hard to have to tell his own father that he did not think the million-making business quite a respectable one, so he only murmured: "it's impossible, father. i am devoted to my work. i even intend to go away and travel a few years and see the world. it will help me considerably." ryder, sr., eyed his son in silence for a few moments; then he said gently: "don't be obstinate, jeff. listen to me. i know the world better than you do. you mustn't go away. you are the only flesh and blood i have." he stopped speaking for a moment, as if overcome by a sudden emotion over which he had no control. jefferson remained silent, nervously toying with a paper cutter. seeing that his words had made no effect, ryder thumped his desk with his fist and cried: "you see my weakness. you see that i want you with me, and now you take advantage--you take advantage--" "no, father, i don't," protested jefferson; "but i want to go away. although i have my studio and am practically independent, i want to go where i shall be perfectly free--where my every move will not be watched--where i can meet my fellow-man heart to heart on an equal basis, where i shall not be pointed out as the son of ready money ryder. i want to make a reputation of my own as an artist." "why not study theology and become a preacher?" sneered ryder. then, more amiably, he said: "no, my lad, you stay here. study my interests--study the interests that will be yours some day." "no," said jefferson doggedly, "i'd rather go--my work and my self-respect demand it." "then go, damn it, go!" cried his father in a burst of anger. "i'm a fool for wasting my time with an ungrateful son." he rose from his seat and began to pace the room. "father," exclaimed jefferson starting forward, "you do me an injustice." "an injustice?" echoed mr. ryder turning round. "ye gods! i've given you the biggest name in the commercial world; the most colossal fortune ever accumulated by one man is waiting for you, and you say i've done you an injustice!" "yes--we are rich," said jefferson bitterly. "but at what a cost! you do not go into the world and hear the sneers that i get everywhere. you may succeed in muzzling the newspapers and magazines, but you cannot silence public opinion. people laugh when they hear the name ryder--when they do not weep. all your millions cannot purchase the world's respect. you try to throw millions to the public as a bone to a dog, and they decline the money on the ground that it is tainted. doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of your methods?" ryder laughed cynically. he went back to his desk, and, sitting facing his son, he replied: "jefferson, you are young. it is one of the symptoms of youth to worry about public opinion. when you are as old as i am you will understand that there is only one thing which counts in this world--money. the man who has it possesses power over the man who has it not, and power is what the ambitious man loves most." he stopped to pick up a book. it was "the american octopus." turning again to his son, he went on: "do you see this book? it is the literary sensation of the year. why? because it attacks me--the richest man in the world. it holds me up as a monster, a tyrant, a man without soul, honour or conscience, caring only for one thing--money; having but one passion--the love of power, and halting at nothing, not even at crime, to secure it. that is the portrait they draw of your father." jefferson said nothing. he was wondering if his sire had a suspicion who wrote it and was leading up to that. but ryder, sr., continued: "do i care? the more they attack me the more i like it. their puny pen pricks have about the same effect as mosquito bites on the pachyderm. what i am, the conditions of my time made me. when i started in business a humble clerk, forty years ago, i had but one goal--success; i had but one aim--to get rich. i was lucky. i made a little money, and i soon discovered that i could make more money by outwitting my competitors in the oil fields. railroad conditions helped me. the whole country was money mad. a wave of commercial prosperity swept over the land and i was carried along on its crest. i grew enormously rich, my millions increasing by leaps and bounds. i branched out into other interests, successful always, until my holdings grew to what they are to-day--the wonder of the twentieth century. what do i care for the world's respect when my money makes the world my slave? what respect can i have for a people that cringe before money and let it rule them? are you aware that not a factory wheel turns, not a vote is counted, not a judge is appointed, not a legislator seated, not a president elected without my consent? i am the real ruler of the united states--not the so-called government at washington. they are my puppets and this is my executive chamber. this power will be yours one day, boy, but you must know how to use it when it comes." "i never want it, father," said jefferson firmly. "to me your words savour of treason. i couldn't imagine that american talking that way." he pointed to the mantel, at the picture of george washington. ryder, sr., laughed. he could not help it if his son was an idealist. there was no use getting angry, so he merely shrugged his shoulders and said: "all right, jeff. we'll discuss the matter later, when you've cut your wisdom teeth. just at present you're in the clouds. but you spoke of my doing you an injustice. how can my love of power do you an injustice?" "because," replied jefferson, "you exert that power over your family as well as over your business associates. you think and will for everybody in the house, for everyone who comes in contact with you. yours is an influence no one seems able to resist. you robbed me of my right to think. ever since i was old enough to think, you have thought for me; ever since i was old enough to choose, you have chosen for me. you have chosen that i should marry kate roberts. that is the one thing i wished to speak to you about. the marriage is impossible." ryder, sr., half sprang from his seat. he had listened patiently, he thought, to all that his headstrong son had said, but that he should repudiate in this unceremonious fashion what was a tacit understanding between the two families, and, what was more, run the risk of injuring the ryder interests--that was inconceivable. leaving his desk, he advanced into the centre of the room, and folding his arms confronted jefferson. "so," he said sternly, "this is your latest act of rebellion, is it? you are going to welsh on your word? you are going to jilt the girl?" "i never gave my word," answered jefferson hotly. "nor did kate understand that an engagement existed. you can't expect me to marry a girl i don't care a straw about. it would not be fair to her." "have you stopped to think whether it would be fair to me?" thundered his father. his face was pale with anger, his jet-black eyes flashed, and his white hair seemed to bristle with rage. he paced the floor for a few moments, and then turning to jefferson, who had not moved, he said more calmly: "don't be a fool, jeff. i don't want to think for you, or to choose for you, or to marry for you. i did not interfere when you threw up the position i made for you in the trading company and took that studio. i realized that you were restless under the harness, so i gave you plenty of rein. but i know so much better than you what is best for you. believe me i do. don't--don't be obstinate. this marriage means a great deal to my interests--to your interests. kate's father is all powerful in the senate. he'll never forgive this disappointment. hang it all, you liked the girl once, and i made sure that--" he stopped suddenly, and the expression on his face changed as a new light dawned upon him. "it isn't that rossmore girl, is it?" he demanded. his face grew dark and his jaw clicked as he said between his teeth: "i told you some time ago how i felt about her. if i thought that it was rossmore's daughter! you know what's going to happen to him, don't you?" thus appealed to, jefferson thought this was the most favourable opportunity he would have to redeem his promise to shirley. so, little anticipating the tempest he was about to unchain, he answered: "i am familiar with the charges that they have trumped up against him. needless to say, i consider him entirely innocent. what's more, i firmly believe he is the victim of a contemptible conspiracy. and i'm going to make it my business to find out who the plotters are. i came to ask you to help me. will you?" for a moment ryder was speechless from utter astonishment. then, as he realized the significance of his son's words and their application to himself he completely lost control of himself. his face became livid, and he brought his fist down on his desk with a force that shook the room. "i will see him in hell first!" he cried. "damn him! he has always opposed me. he has always defied my power, and now his daughter has entrapped my son. so it's her you want to go to, eh? well, i can't make you marry a girl you don't want, but i can prevent you throwing yourself away on the daughter of a man who is about to be publicly disgraced, and, by god, i will." "poor old rossmore," said jefferson bitterly. "if the history of every financial transaction were made known, how many of us would escape public disgrace? would you?" he cried. ryder, sr., rose, his hands working dangerously. he made a movement as if about to advance on his son, but by a supreme effort he controlled himself. "no, upon my word, it's no use disinheriting you, you wouldn't care. i think you'd be glad; on my soul, i do!" then calming down once more, he added: "jefferson, give me your word of honour that your object in going away is not to find out this girl and marry her unknown to me. i don't mind your losing your heart, but, damn it, don't lose your head. give me your hand on it." jefferson reluctantly held out his hand. "if i thought you would marry that girl unknown to me, i'd have rossmore sent out of the country and the woman too. listen, boy. this man is my enemy, and i show no mercy to my enemies. there are more reasons than one why you cannot marry miss rossmore. if she knew one of them she would not marry you." "what reasons?" demanded jefferson. "the principal one," said ryder, slowly and deliberately, and eyeing his son keenly as if to judge of the effect of his words, "the principal one is that it was through my agents that the demand was made for her father's impeachment." "ah," cried jefferson, "then i guessed aright! oh, father, how could you have done that? if you only knew him!" ryder, sr., had regained command of his temper, and now spoke calmly enough. "jefferson, i don't have to make any apologies to you for the way i conduct my business. the facts contained in the charge were brought to my attention. i did not see why i should spare him. he never spared me. i shall not interfere, and the probabilities are that he will be impeached. senator roberts said this afternoon that it was a certainty. you see yourself how impossible a marriage with miss rossmore would be, don't you?" "yes, father, i see now. i have nothing more to say." "do you still intend going away?" "yes," replied jefferson bitterly. "why not? you have taken away the only reason why i should stay." "think it well over, lad. marry kate or not, as you please, but i want you to stay here." "it's no use. my mind is made up," answered jefferson decisively. the telephone rang, and jefferson got up to go. mr. ryder took up the receiver. "hallo! what's that? sergeant ellison? yes, send him up." putting the telephone down, ryder, sr., rose, and crossing the room accompanied his son to the door. "think it well over, jeff. don't be hasty." "i have thought it over, sir, and i have decided to go." a few moments later jefferson left the house. ryder, sr., went back to his desk and sat for a moment in deep thought. for the first time in his life he was face to face with defeat; for the first time he had encountered a will as strong as his own. he who could rule parliaments and dictate to governments now found himself powerless to rule his own son. at all costs, he mused, the boy's infatuation for judge rossmore's daughter must be checked, even if he had to blacken the girl's character as well as the father's, or, as a last resort, send the entire family out of the country. he had not lost sight of his victim since the carefully prepared crash in wall street, and the sale of the rossmore home following the bankruptcy of the great northwestern mining company. his agents had reported their settlement in the quiet little village on long island, and he had also learned of miss rossmore's arrival from europe, which coincided strangely with the home-coming of his own son. he decided, therefore, to keep a closer watch on massapequa now than ever, and that is why to-day's call of sergeant ellison, a noted sleuth in the government service, found so ready a welcome. the door opened, and mr. bagley entered, followed by a tall, powerfully built man whose robust physique and cheap looking clothes contrasted strangely with the delicate, ultra-fashionably attired english secretary. "take a seat, sergeant," said mr. ryder, cordially motioning his visitor to a chair. the man sat down gingerly on one of the rich leather-upholstered chairs. his manner was nervous and awkward, as if intimidated in the presence of the financier. "are the republican committee still waiting?" demanded mr. ryder. "yes, sir," replied the secretary. "i'll see them in a few minutes. leave me with sergeant ellison." mr. bagley bowed and retired. "well, sergeant, what have you got to report?" he opened a box of cigars that stood on the desk and held it out to the detective. "take a cigar," he said amiably. the man took a cigar, and also the match which mr. ryder held out. the financier knew how to be cordial with those who could serve him. "thanks. this is a good one," smiled the sleuth, sniffing at the weed. "we don't often get a chance at such as these." "it ought to be good," laughed ryder. "they cost two dollars apiece." the detective was so surprised at this unheard of extravagance that he inhaled a puff of smoke which almost choked him. it was like burning money. ryder, with his customary bluntness, came right down to business. "well, what have you been doing about the book?" he demanded. "have you found the author of 'the american octopus'?" "no, sir, i have not. i confess i'm baffled. the secret has been well kept. the publishers have shut up like a clam. there's only one thing that i'm pretty well sure of." "what's that?" demanded ryder, interested. "that no such person as shirley green exists." "oh," exclaimed the financier, "then you think it is a mere _nom de plume_?" "yes, sir." "and what do you think was the reason for preserving the anonymity?" "well, you see, sir, the book deals with a big subject. it gives some hard knocks, and the author, no doubt, felt a little timid about launching it under his or her real name. at least that's my theory, sir." "and a good one, no doubt," said mr. ryder. then he added: "that makes me all the more anxious to find out who it is. i would willingly give this moment a check for $ , to know who wrote it. whoever it is, knows me as well as i know myself. we must find the author." the sleuth was silent for a moment. then he said: "there might be one way to reach the author, but it will be successful only in the event of her being willing to be known and come out into the open. suppose you write to her in care of the publishers. they would certainly forward the letter to wherever she may be. if she does not want you to know who she is she will ignore your letter and remain in the background. if, on the contrary, she has no fear of you, and is willing to meet you, she will answer the letter." "ah, i never thought of that!" exclaimed ryder. "it's a good idea. i'll write such a letter at once. it shall go to-night." he unhooked the telephone and asked mr. bagley to come up. a few seconds later the secretary entered the room. "bagley," said mr. ryder, "i want you to write a letter for me to miss shirley green, author of that book 'the american octopus.' we will address it care of her publishers, littleton & co. just say that if convenient i should like a personal interview with her at my office, no. broadway, in relation to her book, 'the american octopus.' see that it is mailed to-night. that's all." mr. bagley bowed and retired. mr. ryder turned to the secret service agent. "there, that's settled. we'll see how it works. and now, sergeant, i have another job for you, and if you are faithful to my interests you will not find me unappreciative. do you know a little place on long island called massapequa?" "yes," grinned the detective, "i know it. they've got some fine specimens of 'skeeters' there." paying no attention to this jocularity, mr. ryder continued: "judge rossmore is living there--pending the outcome of his case in the senate. his daughter has just arrived from europe. my son jefferson came home on the same ship. they are a little more friendly than i care to have them. you understand. i want to know if my son visits the rossmores, and if he does i wish to be kept informed of all that's going on. you understand?" "perfectly, sir. you shall know everything." mr. ryder took a blank check from his desk and proceeded to fill it up. then handing it to the detective, he said: "here is $ for you. spare neither trouble or expense." "thank you, sir," said the man as he pocketed the money. "leave it to me." "that's about all, i think. regarding the other matter, we'll see how the letter works." he touched a bell and rose, which was a signal to the visitor that the interview was at an end. mr. bagley entered. "sergeant ellison is going," said mr. ryder. "have him shown out, and send the republican committee up." chapter x "what!" exclaimed shirley, changing colour, "you believe that john burkett ryder is at the bottom of this infamous accusation against father?" it was the day following her arrival at massapequa, and shirley, the judge and stott were all three sitting on the porch. until now, by common consent, any mention of the impeachment proceedings had been avoided by everyone. the previous afternoon and evening had been spent listening to an account of shirley's experiences in europe and a smile had flitted across even the judge's careworn face as his daughter gave a humorous description of the picturesque paris students with their long hair and peg-top trousers, while stott simply roared with laughter. ah, it was good to laugh again after so much trouble and anxiety! but while shirley avoided the topic that lay nearest her heart, she was consumed with a desire to tell her father of the hope she had of enlisting the aid of john burkett ryder. the great financier was certainly able to do anything he chose, and had not his son jefferson promised to win him over to their cause? so, to-day, after mrs. rossmore and her sister had gone down to the village to make some purchases shirley timidly broached the matter. she asked stott and her father to tell her everything, to hold back nothing. she wanted to hear the worst. stott, therefore, started to review the whole affair from the beginning, explaining how her father in his capacity as judge of the supreme court had to render decisions, several of which were adverse to the corporate interests of a number of rich men, and how since that time these powerful interests had used all their influence to get him put off the bench. he told her about the transcontinental case and how the judge had got mysteriously tangled up in the great northern mining company, and of the scandalous newspaper rumours, followed by the news of the congressional inquiry. then he told her about the panic in wall street, the sale of the house on madison avenue and the removal to long island. "that is the situation," said stott when he had finished. "we are waiting now to see what the senate will do. we hope for the best. it seems impossible that the senate will condemn a man whose whole life is like an open book, but unfortunately the senate is strongly republican and the big interests are in complete control. unless support comes from some unexpected quarter we must be prepared for anything." support from some unexpected quarter! stott's closing words rang in shirley's head. was that not just what she had to offer? unable to restrain herself longer and her heart beating tumultuously from suppressed emotion, she cried: "we'll have that support! we'll have it! i've got it already! i wanted to surprise you! father, the most powerful man in the united states will save you from being dishonoured!" the two men leaned forward in eager interest. what could the girl mean? was she serious or merely jesting? but shirley was never more serious in her life. she was jubilant at the thought that she had arrived home in time to invoke the aid of this powerful ally. she repeated enthusiastically: "we need not worry any more. he has but to say a word and these proceedings will be instantly dropped. they would not dare act against his veto. did you hear, father, your case is as good as won!" "what do you mean, child? who is this unknown friend?" "surely you can guess when i say the most powerful man in the united states? none other than john burkett ryder!" she stopped short to watch the effect which this name would have on her hearers. but to her surprise neither her father nor stott displayed the slightest emotion or even interest. puzzled at this cold reception, she repeated: "did you hear, father--john burkett ryder will come to your assistance. i came home on the same ship as his son and he promised to secure his father's aid." the judge puffed heavily at his pipe and merely shook his head, making no reply. stott explained: "we can't look for help from that quarter, shirley. you don't expect a man to cut loose his own kite, do you?" "what do you mean?" demanded shirley, mystified. "simply this--that john burkett ryder is the very man who is responsible for all your father's misfortunes." the girl sank back in her seat pale and motionless, as if she had received a blow. was it possible? could jefferson's father have done them such a wrong as this? she well knew that ryder, sr., was a man who would stop at nothing to accomplish his purpose--this she had demonstrated conclusively in her book--but she had never dreamed that his hand would ever be directed against her own flesh and blood. decidedly some fatality was causing jefferson and herself to drift further and further apart. first, her father's trouble. that alone would naturally have separated them. and now this discovery that jefferson's father had done hers this wrong. all idea of marriage was henceforth out of the question. that was irrevocable. of course, she could not hold jefferson to blame for methods which he himself abhorred. she would always think as much of him as ever, but whether her father emerged safely from the trial in the senate or not--no matter what the outcome of the impeachment proceedings might be, jefferson could never be anything else than a ryder and from now on there would be an impassable gulf between the rossmores and the ryders. the dove does not mate with the hawk. "do you really believe this, that john ryder deliberately concocted the bribery charge with the sole purpose of ruining my father?" demanded shirley when she had somewhat recovered. "there is no other solution of the mystery possible," answered stott. "the trusts found they could not fight him in the open, in a fair, honest way, so they plotted in the dark. ryder was the man who had most to lose by your father's honesty on the bench. ryder was the man he hit the hardest when he enjoined his transcontinental railroad. ryder, i am convinced, is the chief conspirator." "but can such things be in a civilized community?" cried shirley indignantly. "cannot he be exposed, won't the press take the matter up, cannot we show conspiracy?" "it sounds easy, but it isn't," replied stott. "i have had a heap of experience with the law, my child, and i know what i'm talking about. they're too clever to be caught tripping. they've covered their tracks well, be sure of that. as to the newspapers--when did you ever hear of them championing a man when he's down?" "and you, father--do you believe ryder did this?" "i have no longer any doubt of it," answered the judge. "i think john ryder would see me dead before he would raise a finger to help me. his answer to my demand for my letters convinced me that he was the arch plotter." "what letters do you refer to?" demanded shirley. "the letters i wrote to him in regard to my making an investment. he advised the purchase of certain stock. i wrote him two letters at the time, which letters if i had them now would go a long way to clearing me of this charge of bribery, for they plainly showed that i regarded the transaction as a _bona fide_ investment. since this trouble began i wrote to ryder asking him to return me these letters so i might use them in my defence. the only reply i got was an insolent note from his secretary saying that mr. ryder had forgotten all about the transaction, and in any case had not the letters i referred to." "couldn't you compel him to return them?" asked shirley. "we could never get at him," interrupted stott. "the man is guarded as carefully as the czar." "still," objected shirley, "it is possible that he may have lost the letters or even never received them." "oh, he has them safe enough," replied stott. "a man like ryder keeps every scrap of paper, with the idea that it may prove useful some day. the letters are lying somewhere in his desk. besides, after the transcontinental decision he was heard to say that he'd have judge rossmore off the bench inside of a year." "and it wasn't a vain boast--he's done it," muttered the judge. shirley relapsed into silence. her brain was in a whirl. it was true then. this merciless man of money, this ogre of monopolistic corporations, this human juggernaut had crushed her father merely because by his honesty he interfered with his shady business deals! ah, why had she spared him in her book? she felt now that she had been too lenient, not bitter enough, not sufficiently pitiless. such a man was entitled to no mercy. yes, it was all clear enough now. john burkett ryder, the head of "the system," the plutocrat whose fabulous fortune gave him absolute control over the entire country, which invested him with a personal power greater than that of any king, this was the man who now dared attack the judiciary, the corner stone of the constitution, the one safeguard of the people's liberty. where would it end? how long would the nation tolerate being thus ruthlessly trodden under the unclean heels of an insolent oligarchy? the capitalists, banded together for the sole purpose of pillage and loot, had already succeeded in enslaving the toiler. the appalling degradation of the working classes, the sordidness and demoralizing squalor in which they passed their lives, the curse of drink, the provocation to crime, the shame of the sweat shops--all which evils in our social system she had seen as a settlement worker, were directly traceable to centralized wealth. the labor unions regulated wages and hours, but they were powerless to control the prices of the necessaries of life. the trusts could at pleasure create famine or plenty. they usually willed to make it famine so they themselves might acquire more millions with which to pay for marble palaces, fast motor cars, ocean-going yachts and expensive establishments at newport. food was ever dearer and of poorer quality, clothes cost more, rents and taxes were higher. she thought of the horrors in the packing houses at chicago recently made the subject of a sensational government report--putrid, pestiferous meats put up for human food amid conditions of unspeakable foulness, freely exposed to deadly germs from the expectorations of work people suffering from tuberculosis, in unsanitary rotten buildings soaked through with blood and every conceivable form of filth and decay, the beef barons careless and indifferent to the dictates of common decency so long as they could make more money. and while our public gasped in disgust at the sickening revelations of the beef scandal and foreign countries quickly cancelled their contracts for american prepared meats, the millionaire packer, insolent in the possession of wealth stolen from a poisoned public, impudently appeared in public in his fashionable touring car, with head erect and self-satisfied, wholly indifferent to his shame. these and other evidences of the plutocracy's cruel grip upon the nation had ended by exasperating the people. there must be a limit somewhere to the turpitudes of a degenerate class of _nouveaux riches_. the day of reckoning was fast approaching for the grafters and among the first to taste the vengeance of the people would be the colossus. but while waiting for the people to rise in their righteous wrath, ryder was all powerful, and if it were true that he had instituted these impeachment proceedings her father had little chance. what could be done? they could not sit and wait, as stott had said, for the action of the senate. if it were true that ryder controlled the senate as he controlled everything else her father was doomed. no, they must find some other way. and long after the judge and stott had left for the city shirley sat alone on the porch engrossed in thought, taxing her brain to find some way out of the darkness. and when presently her mother and aunt returned they found her still sitting there, silent and preoccupied. if they only had those two letters, she thought. they alone might save her father. but how could they be got at? mr. ryder had put them safely away, no doubt. he would not give them up. she wondered how it would be to go boldly to him appeal to whatever sense of honour and fairness that might be lying latent within him. no, such a man would not know what the terms "honour," "fairness" meant. she pondered upon it all day and at night when she went tired to bed it was her last thought as she dropped off to sleep. the following morning broke clear and fine. it was one of those glorious, ideal days of which we get perhaps half a dozen during the whole summer, days when the air is cool and bracing, champagne-like in its exhilarating effect, and when nature dons her brightest dress, when the atmosphere is purer, the grass greener, the sky bluer, the flowers sweeter and the birds sing in more joyous chorus, when all creation seems in tune. days that make living worth while, when one can forget the ugliness, the selfishness, the empty glitter of the man-made city and walk erect and buoyant in the open country as in the garden of god. shirley went out for a long walk. she preferred to go alone so she would not have to talk. hers was one of those lonely, introspective natures that resent the intrusion of aimless chatter when preoccupied with serious thoughts. long island was unknown territory to her and it all looked very flat and uninteresting, but she loved the country and found keen delight in the fresh, pure air and the sweet scent of new mown hay wafted from the surrounding fields. in her soft, loose-fitting linen dress, her white canvas shoes, garden hat trimmed with red roses, and lace parasol, she made an attractive picture and every passer-by--with the exception of one old farmer and he was half blind--turned to look at this good-looking girl, a stranger in those parts and whose stylish appearance suggested fifth avenue rather than the commonplace purlieus of massapequa. every now and then shirley espied in the distance the figure of a man which she thought she recognized as that of jefferson. had he come, after all? the blood went coursing tumultuously through her veins only a moment later to leave her face a shade paler as the man came nearer and she saw he was a stranger. she wondered what he was doing, if he gave her a thought, if he had spoken to his father and what the latter had said. she could realize now what mr. ryder's reply had been. then she wondered what her future life would be. she could do nothing, of course, until the senate had passed upon her father's case, but it was imperative that she get to work. in a day or two, she would call on her publishers and learn how her book was selling. she might get other commissions. if she could not make enough money in literary work she would have to teach. it was a dreary outlook at best, and she sighed as she thought of the ambitions that had once stirred her breast. all the brightness seemed to have gone out of her life, her father disgraced, jefferson now practically lost to her--only her work remained. as she neared the cottage on her return home she caught sight of the letter carrier approaching the gate. instantly she thought of jefferson, and she hurried to intercept the man. perhaps he had written instead of coming. "miss shirley rossmore?" said the man eyeing her interrogatively. "that's i," said shirley. the postman handed her a letter and passed on. shirley glanced quickly at the superscription. no, it was not from jefferson; she knew his handwriting too well. the envelope, moreover, bore the firm name of her publishers. she tore it open and found that it merely contained another letter which the publishers had forwarded. this was addressed to miss shirley green and ran as follows: _dear madam._--if convenient, i should like to see you at my office, no. broadway, in relation to your book "the american octopus." kindly inform me as to the day and hour at which i may expect you. yours truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley almost shouted from sheer excitement. at first she was alarmed--the name john burkett ryder was such a bogey to frighten bad children with, she thought he might want to punish her for writing about him as she had. she hurried to the porch and sat there reading the letter over and over and her brain began to evolve ideas. she had been wondering how she could get at mr. ryder and here he was actually asking her to call on him. evidently he had not the slightest idea of her identity, for he had been able to reach her only through her publishers and no doubt he had exhausted every other means of discovering her address. the more she pondered over it the more she began to see in this invitation a way of helping her father. yes, she would go and beard the lion in his den, but she would not go to his office. she would accept the invitation only on condition that the interview took place in the ryder mansion where undoubtedly the letters would be found. she decided to act immediately. no time was to be lost, so she procured a sheet of paper and an envelope and wrote as follows: mr. john burkett ryder, _dear sir._--i do not call upon gentlemen at their business office. yours, etc., shirley green. her letter was abrupt and at first glance seemed hardly calculated to bring about what she wanted--an invitation to call at the ryder home, but she was shrewd enough to see that if ryder wrote to her at all it was because he was most anxious to see her and her abruptness would not deter him from trying again. on the contrary, the very unusualness of anyone thus dictating to him would make him more than ever desirous of making her acquaintance. so shirley mailed the letter and awaited with confidence for ryder's reply. so certain was she that one would come that she at once began to form her plan of action. she would leave massapequa at once, and her whereabouts must remain a secret even from her own family. as she intended to go to the ryder house in the assumed character of shirley green, it would never do to run the risk of being followed home by a ryder detective to the rossmore cottage. she would confide in one person only--judge stott. he would know where she was and would be in constant communication with her. but, otherwise, she must be alone to conduct the campaign as she judged fit. she would go at once to new york and take rooms in a boarding house where she would be known as shirley green. as for funds to meet her expenses, she had her diamonds, and would they not be filling a more useful purpose if sold to defray the cost of saving her father than in mere personal adornment? so that evening, while her mother was talking with the judge, she beckoned stott over to the corner where she was sitting: "judge stott," she began, "i have a plan." he smiled indulgently at her. "another friend like that of yesterday?" he asked. "no," replied the girl, "listen. i am in earnest now and i want you to help me. you said that no one on earth could resist john burkett ryder, that no one could fight against the money power. well, do you know what i am going to do?" there was a quiver in her voice and her nostrils were dilated like those of a thoroughbred eager to run the race. she had risen from her seat and stood facing him, her fists clenched, her face set and determined. stott had never seen her in this mood and he gazed at her half admiringly, half curiously. "what will you do?" he asked with a slightly ironical inflection in his voice. "i am going to fight john burkett ryder!" she cried. stott looked at her open-mouthed. "you?" he said. "yes, i," said shirley. "i'm going to him and i intend to get those letters if he has them." stott shook his head. [photo, from the play, of shirley discussing her book with mr. ryder] "how do you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has ever produced."--act iii. "my dear child," he said, "what are you talking about? how can you expect to reach ryder? we couldn't." "i don't know just how yet," replied shirley, "but i'm going to try. i love my father and i'm going to leave nothing untried to save him." "but what can you do?" persisted stott. "the matter has been sifted over and over by some of the greatest minds in the country." "has any woman sifted it over?" demanded shirley. "no, but--" stammered stott. "then it's about time one did," said the girl decisively. "those letters my father speaks of--they would be useful, would they not?" "they would be invaluable." "then i'll get them. if not--" "but i don't understand how you're going to get at ryder," interrupted stott. "this is how," replied shirley, passing over to him the letter she had received that afternoon. as stott recognized the well-known signature and read the contents the expression of his face changed. he gasped for breath and sank into a chair from sheer astonishment. "ah, that's different!" he cried, "that's different!" briefly shirley outlined her plan, explaining that she would go to live in the city immediately and conduct her campaign from there. if she was successful it might save her father and if not no harm could come of it. stott demurred at first. he did not wish to bear alone the responsibility of such an adventure. there was no knowing what might happen to her, visiting a strange house under an assumed name. but when he saw how thoroughly in earnest she was and that she was ready to proceed without him he capitulated. he agreed that she might be able to find the missing letters or if not that she might make some impression on ryder himself. she could show interest in the judge's case as a disinterested outsider and so might win his sympathies. from being a sceptic, stott now became enthusiastic. he promised to co-operate in every way and to keep shirley's whereabouts an absolute secret. the girl, therefore, began to make her preparations for departure from home by telling her parents that she had accepted an invitation to spend a week or two with an old college chum in new york. that same evening her mother, the judge, and stott went for a stroll after dinner and left her to take care of the house. they had wanted shirley to go, too, but she pleaded fatigue. the truth was that she wanted to be alone so she could ponder undisturbed over her plans. it was a clear, starlit night, with no moon, and shirley sat on the porch listening to the chirping of the crickets and idly watching the flashes of the mysterious fireflies. she was in no mood for reading and sat for a long time rocking herself engrossed in her thoughts. suddenly she heard someone unfasten the garden gate. it was too soon for the return of the promenaders; it must be a visitor. through the uncertain penumbra of the garden she discerned approaching a form which looked familiar. yes, now there was no doubt possible. it was, indeed, jefferson ryder. she hurried down the porch to greet him. no matter what the father had done she could never think any the less of the son. he took her hand and for several moments neither one spoke. there are times when silence is more eloquent than speech and this was one of them. the gentle grip of his big strong hand expressed more tenderly than any words the sympathy that lay in his heart for the woman he loved. shirley said quietly: "you have come at last, jefferson." "i came as soon as i could," he replied gently. "i saw father only yesterday." "you need not tell me what he said," shirley hastened to say. jefferson made no reply. he understood what she meant. he hung his head and hit viciously with his walking stick at the pebbles that lay at his feet. she went on: "i know everything now. it was foolish of me to think that mr. ryder would ever help us." "i can't help it in any way," blurted out jefferson. "i have not the slightest influence over him. his business methods i consider disgraceful--you understand that, don't you, shirley?" the girl laid her hand on his arm and replied kindly: "of course, jeff, we know that. come up and sit down." he followed her on the porch and drew up a rocker beside her. "they are all out for a walk," she explained. "i'm glad," he said frankly. "i wanted a quiet talk with you. i did not care to meet anyone. my name must be odious to your people." both were silent, feeling a certain awkwardness. they seemed to have drifted apart in some way since those delightful days in paris and on the ship. then he said: "i'm going away, but i couldn't go until i saw you." "you are going away?" exclaimed shirley, surprised. "yes," he said, "i cannot stand it any more at home. i had a hot talk with my father yesterday about one thing and another. he and i don't chin well together. besides this matter of your father's impeachment has completely discouraged me. all the wealth in the world could never reconcile me to such methods! i'm ashamed of the rôle my own flesh and blood has played in that miserable affair. i can't express what i feel about it." "yes," sighed shirley, "it is hard to believe that you are the son of that man!" "how is your father?" inquired jefferson. "how does he take it?" "oh, his heart beats and he can see and hear and speak," replied shirley sadly, "but he is only a shadow of what he once was. if the trial goes against him, i don't think he'll survive it." "it is monstrous," cried jefferson. "to think that my father should be responsible for this thing!" "we are still hoping for the best," added shirley, "but the outlook is dark." "but what are you going to do?" he asked. "these surroundings are not for you--" he looked around at the cheap furnishings which he could see through the open window and his face showed real concern. "i shall teach or write, or go out as governess," replied shirley with a tinge of bitterness. then smiling sadly she added: "poverty is easy; it is unmerited disgrace which is hard." the young man drew his chair closer and took hold of the hand that lay in her lap. she made no resistance. "shirley," he said, "do you remember that talk we had on the ship? i asked you to be my wife. you led me to believe that you were not indifferent to me. i ask you again to marry me. give me the right to take care of you and yours. i am the son of the world's richest man, but i don't want his money. i have earned a competence of my own--enough to live on comfortably. we will go away where you and your father and mother will make their home with us. do not let the sins of the fathers embitter the lives of the children." "mine has not sinned," said shirley bitterly. "i wish i could say the same of mine," replied jefferson. "it is because the clouds are dark about you that i want to come into your life to comfort you." the girl shook her head. "no, jefferson, the circumstances make such a marriage impossible. your family and everybody else would say that i had inveigled you into it. it is even more impossible now than i thought it was when i spoke to you on the ship. then i was worried about my father's trouble and could give no thought to anything else. now it is different. your father's action has made our union impossible for ever. i thank you for the honour you have done me. i do like you. i like you well enough to be your wife, but i will not accept this sacrifice on your part. your offer, coming at such a critical time, is dictated only by your noble, generous nature, by your sympathy for our misfortune. afterwards, you might regret it. if my father were convicted and driven from the bench and you found you had married the daughter of a disgraced man you would be ashamed of us all, and if i saw that it would break my heart." emotion stopped her utterance and she buried her face in her hands weeping silently. "shirley," said jefferson gently, "you are wrong. i love you for yourself, not because of your trouble. you know that. i shall never love any other woman but you. if you will not say 'yes' now, i shall go away as i told my father i would and one day i shall come back and then if you are still single i shall ask you again to be my wife." "where are you going?" she asked. "i shall travel for a year and then, may be, i shall stay a couple of years in paris, studying at the beaux arts. then i may go to rome. if i am to do anything worth while in the career i have chosen i must have that european training." "paris! rome!" echoed shirley. "how i envy you! yes, you are right. get away from this country where the only topic, the only thought is money, where the only incentive to work is dollars. go where there are still some ideals, where you can breathe the atmosphere of culture and art." forgetting momentarily her own troubles, shirley chatted on about life in the art centres of europe, advised jefferson where to go, with whom to study. she knew people in paris, rome and munich and she would give him letters to them. only, if he wanted to perfect himself in the languages, he ought to avoid americans and cultivate the natives. then, who could tell? if he worked hard and was lucky, he might have something exhibited at the salon and return to america a famous painter. "if i do," smiled jefferson, "you shall be the first to congratulate me. i shall come and ask you to be my wife. may i?" he added, shirley smiled gravely. "get famous first. you may not want me then." "i shall always want you," he whispered hoarsely, bending over her. in the dim light of the porch he saw that her tear-stained face was drawn and pale. he rose and held out his hand. "good-bye," he said simply. "good-bye, jefferson." she rose and put her hand in his. "we shall always be friends. i, too, am going away." "you going away--where to?" he asked surprised. "i have work to do in connection with my father's case," she said. "you?" said jefferson puzzled. "you have work to do--what work?" "i can't say what it is, jefferson. there are good reasons why i can't. you must take my word for it that it is urgent and important work." then she added: "you go your way, jefferson; i will go mine. it was not our destiny to belong to each other. you will become famous as an artist. and i--" "and you--" echoed jefferson. "i--i shall devote my life to my father. it's no use, jefferson--really--i've thought it all out. you must not come back to me--you understand. we must be alone with our grief--father and i. good-bye." he raised her hand to his lips. "good-bye, shirley. don't forget me. i shall come back for you." he went down the porch and she watched him go out of the gate and down the road until she could see his figure no longer. then she turned back and sank into her chair and burying her face in her handkerchief she gave way to a torrent of tears which afforded some relief to the weight on her heart. presently the others returned from their walk and she told them about the visitor. "mr. ryder's son, jefferson, was here. we crossed on the same ship. i introduced him to judge stott on the dock." the judge looked surprised, but he merely said: "i hope for his sake that he is a different man from his father." "he is," replied shirley simply, and nothing more was said. two days went by, during which shirley went on completing the preparations for her visit to new york. it was arranged that stott should escort her to the city. shortly before they started for the train a letter arrived for shirley. like the first one it had been forwarded by her publishers. it read as follows: miss shirley green, _dear madam._--i shall be happy to see you at my residence--fifth avenue--any afternoon that you will mention. yours very truly, john burkett ryder, per b. shirley smiled in triumph as, unseen by her father and mother, she passed it over to stott. she at once sat down and wrote this reply: mr. john burkett ryder, _dear sir._--i am sorry that i am unable to comply with your request. i prefer the invitation to call at your private residence should come from mrs. ryder. yours, etc., shirley green. she laughed as she showed this to stott: "he'll write me again," she said, "and next time his wife will sign the letter." an hour later she left massapequa for the city. chapter xi the hon. fitzroy bagley had every reason to feel satisfied with himself. his _affaire de coeur_ with the senator's daughter was progressing more smoothly than ever, and nothing now seemed likely to interfere with his carefully prepared plans to capture an american heiress. the interview with kate roberts in the library, so awkwardly disturbed by jefferson's unexpected intrusion, had been followed by other interviews more secret and more successful, and the plausible secretary had contrived so well to persuade the girl that he really thought the world of her, and that a brilliant future awaited her as his wife, that it was not long before he found her in a mood to refuse him nothing. bagley urged immediate marriage; he insinuated that jefferson had treated her shamefully and that she owed it to herself to show the world that there were other men as good as the one who had jilted her. he argued that in view of the senator being bent on the match with ryder's son it would be worse than useless for him, bagley, to make formal application for her hand, so, as he explained, the only thing which remained was a runaway marriage. confronted with the _fait accompli_, papa roberts would bow to the inevitable. they could get married quietly in town, go away for a short trip, and when the senator had gotten over his first disappointment they would be welcomed back with open arms. kate listened willingly enough to this specious reasoning. in her heart she was piqued at jefferson's indifference and she was foolish enough to really believe that this marriage with a british nobleman, twice removed, would be in the nature of a triumph over him. besides, this project of an elopement appealed strangely to her frivolous imagination; it put her in the same class as all her favourite novel heroines. and it would be capital fun! meantime, senator roberts, in blissful ignorance of this little plot against his domestic peace, was growing impatient and he approached his friend ryder once more on the subject of his son jefferson. the young man, he said, had been back from europe some time. he insisted on knowing what his attitude was towards his daughter. if they were engaged to be married he said there should be a public announcement of the fact. it was unfair to him and a slight to his daughter to let matters hang fire in this unsatisfactory way and he hinted that both himself and his daughter might demand their passports from the ryder mansion unless some explanation were forthcoming. ryder was in a quandary. he had no wish to quarrel with his useful washington ally; he recognized the reasonableness of his complaint. yet what could he do? much as he himself desired the marriage, his son was obstinate and showed little inclination to settle down. he even hinted at attractions in another quarter. he did not tell the senator of his recent interview with his son when the latter made it very plain that the marriage could never take place. ryder, sr., had his own reasons for wishing to temporize. it was quite possible that jefferson might change his mind and abandon his idea of going abroad and he suggested to the senator that perhaps if he, the senator, made the engagement public through the newspapers it might have the salutary effect of forcing his son's hand. so a few mornings later there appeared among the society notes in several of the new york papers this paragraph: "the engagement is announced of miss katherine roberts, only daughter of senator roberts of wisconsin, to jefferson ryder, son of mr. john burkett ryder." two persons in new york happened to see the item about the same time and both were equally interested, although it affected them in a different manner. one was shirley rossmore, who had chanced to pick up the newspaper at the breakfast table in her boarding house. "so soon?" she murmured to herself. well, why not? she could not blame jefferson. he had often spoken to her of this match arranged by his father and they had laughed over it as a typical marriage of convenience modelled after the continental pattern. jefferson, she knew, had never cared for the girl nor taken the affair seriously. some powerful influences must have been at work to make him surrender so easily. here again she recognized the masterly hand of ryder, sr., and more than ever she was eager to meet this extraordinary man and measure her strength with his. her mind, indeed, was too full of her father's troubles to grieve over her own however much she might have been inclined to do so under other circumstances, and all that day she did her best to banish the paragraph from her thoughts. more than a week had passed since she left massapequa and what with corresponding with financiers, calling on editors and publishers, every moment of her time had been kept busy. she had found a quiet and reasonable priced boarding house off washington square and here stott had called several times to see her. her correspondence with mr. ryder had now reached a phase when it was impossible to invent any further excuses for delaying the interview asked for. as she had foreseen, a day or two after her arrival in town she had received a note from mrs. ryder asking her to do her the honour to call and see her, and shirley, after waiting another two days, had replied making an appointment for the following day at three o'clock. this was the same day on which the paragraph concerning the ryder-roberts engagement appeared in the society chronicles of the metropolis. directly after the meagre meal which in new york boarding houses is dignified by the name of luncheon, shirley proceeded to get ready for this portentous visit to the ryder mansion. she was anxious to make a favourable impression on the financier, so she took some pains with her personal appearance. she always looked stylish, no matter what she wore, and her poverty was of too recent date to make much difference to her wardrobe, which was still well supplied with paris-made gowns. she selected a simple close-fitting gown of gray chiffon cloth and a picture hat of leghorn straw heaped with red roses, shirley's favourite flower. thus arrayed, she sallied forth at two o'clock--a little gray mouse to do battle with the formidable lion. the sky was threatening, so instead of walking a short way up fifth avenue for exercise, as she had intended doing, she cut across town through ninth street, and took the surface car on fourth avenue. this would put her down at madison avenue and seventy-fourth street, which was only a block from the ryder residence. she looked so pretty and was so well dressed that the passers-by who looked after her wondered why she did not take a cab instead of standing on a street corner for a car. but one's outward appearance is not always a faithful index to the condition of one's pocketbook, and shirley was rapidly acquiring the art of economy. it was not without a certain trepidation that she began this journey. so far, all her plans had been based largely on theory, but now that she was actually on her way to mr. ryder all sorts of misgivings beset her. suppose he knew her by sight and roughly accused her of obtaining access to his house under false pretences and then had her ejected by the servants? how terrible and humiliating that would be! and even if he did not how could she possibly find those letters with him watching her, and all in the brief time of a conventional afternoon call? it had been an absurd idea from the first. stott was right; she saw that now. but she had entered upon it and she was not going to confess herself beaten until she had tried. and as the car sped along madison avenue, gradually drawing nearer to the house which she was going to enter disguised as it were, like a burglar, she felt cold chills run up and down her spine--the same sensation that one experiences when one rings the bell of a dentist's where one has gone to have a tooth extracted. in fact, she felt so nervous and frightened that if she had not been ashamed before herself she would have turned back. in about twenty minutes the car stopped at the corner of seventy-fourth street. shirley descended and with a quickened pulse walked towards the ryder mansion, which she knew well by sight. there was one other person in new york who, that same morning, had read the newspaper item regarding the ryder-roberts betrothal, and he did not take the matter so calmly as shirley had done. on the contrary, it had the effect of putting him into a violent rage. this was jefferson. he was working in his studio when he read it and five minutes later he was tearing up-town to seek the author of it. he understood its object, of course; they wanted to force his hand, to shame him into this marriage, to so entangle him with the girl that no other alternative would be possible to an honourable man. it was a despicable trick and he had no doubt that his father was at the back of it. so his mind now was fully made up. he would go away at once where they could not make his life a burden with this odious marriage which was fast becoming a nightmare to him. he would close up his studio and leave immediately for europe. he would show his father once for all that he was a man and expected to be treated as one. he wondered what shirley was doing. where had she gone, what was this mysterious work of which she had spoken? he only realized now, when she seemed entirely beyond his reach, how much he loved her and how empty his life would be without her. he would know no happiness until she was his wife. her words on the porch did not discourage him. under the circumstances he could not expect her to have said anything else. she could not marry into john ryder's family with such a charge hanging over her own father's head, but, later, when the trial was over, no matter how it turned out, he would go to her again and ask her to be his wife. on arriving home the first person he saw was the ubiquitous mr. bagley, who stood at the top of the first staircase giving some letters to the butler. jefferson cornered him at once, holding out the newspaper containing the offending paragraph. "say, bagley," he cried, "what does this mean? is this any of your doing?" the english secretary gave his employer's son a haughty stare, and then, without deigning to reply or even to glance at the newspaper, continued his instructions to the servant: "here, jorkins, get stamps for all these letters and see they are mailed at once. they are very important." "very good, sir." the man took the letters and disappeared, while jefferson, impatient, repeated his question: "my doing?" sneered mr. bagley. "really, jefferson, you go too far! do you suppose for one instant that i would condescend to trouble myself with your affairs?" jefferson was in no mood to put up with insolence from anyone, especially from a man whom he heartily despised, so advancing menacingly he thundered: "i mean--were you, in the discharge of your menial-like duties, instructed by my father to send that paragraph to the newspapers regarding my alleged betrothal to miss roberts? yes or no?" the man winced and made a step backward. there was a gleam in the ryder eye which he knew by experience boded no good. "really, jefferson," he said in a more conciliatory tone, "i know absolutely nothing about the paragraph. this is the first i hear of it. why not ask your father?" "i will," replied jefferson grimly. he was turning to go in the direction of the library when bagley stopped him. "you cannot possibly see him now," he said. "sergeant ellison of the secret service is in there with him, and your father told me not to disturb him on any account. he has another appointment at three o'clock with some woman who writes books." seeing that the fellow was in earnest, jefferson did not insist. he could see his father a little later or send him a message through his mother. proceeding upstairs he found mrs. ryder in her room and in a few energetic words he explained the situation to his mother. they had gone too far with this match-making business, he said, his father was trying to interfere with his personal liberty and he was going to put a stop to it. he would leave at once for europe. mrs. ryder had already heard of the projected trip abroad, so the news of this sudden departure was not the shock it might otherwise have been. in her heart she did not blame her son, on the contrary she admired his spirit, and if the temporary absence from home would make him happier, she would not hold him back. yet, mother like, she wept and coaxed, but nothing would shake jefferson in his determination and he begged his mother to make it very plain to his father that this was final and that a few days would see him on his way abroad. he would try and come back to see his father that afternoon, but otherwise she was to say good-bye for him. mrs. ryder promised tearfully to do what her son demanded and a few minutes later jefferson was on his way to the front door. as he went down stairs something white on the carpet attracted his attention. he stooped and picked it up. it was a letter. it was in bagley's handwriting and had evidently been dropped by the man to whom the secretary had given it to post. but what interested jefferson more than anything else was that it was addressed to miss kate roberts. under ordinary circumstances, a king's ransom would not have tempted the young man to read a letter addressed to another, but he was convinced that his father's secretary was an adventurer and if he were carrying on an intrigue in this manner it could have only one meaning. it was his duty to unveil a rascal who was using the ryder roof and name to further his own ends and victimize a girl who, although sophisticated enough to know better, was too silly to realize the risk she ran at the hands of an unscrupulous man. hesitating no longer, jefferson tore open the envelope and read: my dearest wife that is to be: i have arranged everything. next wednesday--just a week from to-day--we will go to the house of a discreet friend of mine where a minister will marry us; then we will go to city hall and get through the legal part of it. afterwards, we can catch the four o'clock train for buffalo. meet me in the ladies' room at the holland house wednesday morning at a.m. i will come there with a closed cab. your devoted fitz. "phew!" jefferson whistled. a close shave this for senator roberts, he thought. his first impulse was to go upstairs again to his mother and put the matter in her hands. she would immediately inform his father, who would make short work of mr. bagley. but, thought jefferson, why should he spoil a good thing? he could afford to wait a day or two. there was no hurry. he could allow bagley to think all was going swimmingly and then uncover the plot at the eleventh hour. he would even let this letter go to kate, there was no difficulty in procuring another envelope and imitating the handwriting--and when bagley was just preparing to go to the rendezvous he would spring the trap. such a cad deserved no mercy. the scandal would be a knock-out blow, his father would discharge him on the spot and that would be the last they would see of the aristocratic english secretary. jefferson put the letter in his pocket and left the house rejoicing. while the foregoing incidents were happening john burkett ryder was secluded in his library. the great man had come home earlier than usual, for he had two important callers to see by appointment that afternoon. one was sergeant ellison, who had to report on his mission to massapequa; the other was miss shirley green, the author of "the american octopus," who had at last deigned to honour him with a visit. pending the arrival of these visitors the financier was busy with his secretary trying to get rid as rapidly as possible of what business and correspondence there was on hand. the plutocrat was sitting at his desk poring over a mass of papers. between his teeth was the inevitable long black cigar and when he raised his eyes to the light a close observer might have remarked that they were sea-green, a colour they assumed when the man of millions was absorbed in scheming new business deals. every now and then he stopped reading the papers to make quick calculations on scraps of paper. then if the result pleased him, a smile overspread his saturnine features. he rose from his chair and nervously paced the floor as he always did when thinking deeply. "five millions," he muttered, "not a cent more. if they won't sell we'll crush them--" mr. bagley entered. mr. ryder looked up quickly. "well, bagley?" he said interrogatively. "has sergeant ellison come?" "yes, sir. but mr. herts is downstairs. he insists on seeing you about the philadelphia gas deal. he says it is a matter of life and death." "to him--yes," answered the financier dryly. "let him come up. we might as well have it out now." mr. bagley went out and returned almost immediately, followed by a short, fat man, rather loudly dressed and apoplectic in appearance. he looked like a prosperous brewer, while, as a matter of fact, he was president of a gas company, one of the shrewdest promoters in the country, and a big man in wall street. there was only one bigger man and that was john ryder. but, to-day, mr. herts was not in good condition. his face was pale and his manner flustered and nervous. he was plainly worried. "mr. ryder," he began with excited gesture, "the terms you offer are preposterous. it would mean disaster to the stockholders. our gas properties are worth six times that amount. we will sell out for twenty millions--not a cent less." ryder shrugged his shoulders. "mr. herts," he replied coolly, "i am busy to-day and in no mood for arguing. we'll either buy you out or force you out. choose. you have our offer. five millions for your gas property. will you take it?" "we'll see you in hell first!" cried his visitor exasperated. "very well," replied ryder still unruffled, "all negotiations are off. you leave me free to act. we have an offer to buy cheap the old germantown gas company which has charter rights to go into any of the streets of philadelphia. we shall purchase that company, we will put ten millions new capital into it, and reduce the price of gas in philadelphia to sixty cents a thousand. where will you be then?" the face of the colossus as he uttered this stand and deliver speech was calm and inscrutable. conscious of the resistless power of his untold millions, he felt no more compunction in mercilessly crushing this business rival than he would in trampling out the life of a worm. the little man facing him looked haggard and distressed. he knew well that this was no idle threat. he was well aware that ryder and his associates by the sheer weight of the enormous wealth they controlled could sell out or destroy any industrial corporation in the land. it was plainly illegal, but it was done every day, and his company was not the first victim nor the last. desperate, he appealed humbly to the tyrannical money power: "don't drive us to the wall, mr. ryder. this forced sale will mean disaster to us all. put yourself in our place--think what it means to scores of families whose only support is the income from their investment in our company." "mr. herts," replied ryder unmoved, "i never allow sentiment to interfere with business. you have heard my terms. i refuse to argue the matter further. what is it to be? five millions or competition? decide now or this interview must end!" he took out his watch and with his other hand touched a bell. beads of perspiration stood on his visitor's forehead. in a voice broken with suppressed emotion he said hoarsely: "you're a hard, pitiless man, john ryder! so be it--five millions. i don't know what they'll say. i don't dare return to them." "those are my terms," said ryder coldly. "the papers," he added, "will be ready for your signature to-morrow at this time, and i'll have a cheque ready for the entire amount. good-day." mr. bagley entered. ryder bowed to herts, who slowly retired. when the door had closed on him ryder went back to his desk, a smile of triumph on his face. then he turned to his secretary: "let sergeant ellison come up," he said. the secretary left the room and mr. ryder sank comfortably in his chair, puffing silently at his long black cigar. the financier was thinking, but his thoughts concerned neither the luckless gas president he had just pitilessly crushed, nor the detective who had come to make his report. he was thinking of the book "the american octopus," and its bold author whom he was to meet in a very few minutes. he glanced at the clock. a quarter to three. she would be here in fifteen minutes if she were punctual, but women seldom are, he reflected. what kind of a woman could she be, this shirley green, to dare cross swords with a man whose power was felt in two hemispheres? no ordinary woman, that was certain. he tried to imagine what she looked like, and he pictured a tall, gaunt, sexless spinster with spectacles, a sort of nightmare in the garb of a woman. a sour, discontented creature, bitter to all mankind, owing to disappointments in early life and especially vindictive towards the rich, whom her socialistic and even anarchistical tendencies prompted her to hate and attack. yet, withal, a brainy, intelligent woman, remarkably well informed as to political and industrial conditions--a woman to make a friend of rather than an enemy. and john ryder, who had educated himself to believe that with gold he could do everything, that none could resist its power, had no doubt that with money he could enlist this shirley green in his service. at least it would keep her from writing more books about him. the door opened and sergeant ellison entered, followed by the secretary, who almost immediately withdrew. "well, sergeant," said mr. ryder cordially, "what have you to tell me? i can give you only a few minutes. i expect a lady friend of yours." the plutocrat sometimes condescended to be jocular with his subordinates. "a lady friend of mine, sir?" echoed the man, puzzled. "yes--miss shirley green, the author," replied the financier, enjoying the detective's embarrassment. "that suggestion of yours worked out all right. she's coming here to-day." "i'm glad you've found her, sir." "it was a tough job," answered ryder with a grimace. "we wrote her half a dozen times before she was satisfied with the wording of the invitation. but, finally, we landed her and i expect her at three o'clock. now what about that rossmore girl? did you go down to massapequa?" "yes, sir, i have been there half a dozen times. in fact, i've just come from there. judge rossmore is there, all right, but his daughter has left for parts unknown." "gone away--where?" exclaimed the financier. this was what he dreaded. as long as he could keep his eye on the girl there was little danger of jefferson making a fool of himself; with her disappeared everything was possible. "i could not find out, sir. their neighbours don't know much about them. they say they're haughty and stuck up. the only one i could get anything out of was a parson named deetle. he said it was a sad case, that they had reverses and a daughter who was in paris--" "yes, yes," said ryder impatiently, "we know all that. but where's the daughter now?" "search me, sir. i even tried to pump the irish slavey. gee, what a vixen! she almost flew at me. she said she didn't know and didn't care." ryder brought his fist down with force on his desk, a trick he had when he wished to emphasize a point. "sergeant, i don't like the mysterious disappearance of that girl. you must find her, do you hear, you must find her if it takes all the sleuths in the country. had my son been seen there?" "the parson said he saw a young fellow answering his description sitting on the porch of the rossmore cottage the evening before the girl disappeared, but he didn't know who he was and hasn't seen him since." "that was my son, i'll wager. he knows where the girl is. perhaps he's with her now. maybe he's going to marry her. that must be prevented at any cost. sergeant, find that rossmore girl and i'll give you $ , ." the detective's face flushed with pleasure at the prospect of so liberal a reward. rising he said: "i'll find her, sir. i'll find her." mr. bagley entered, wearing the solemn, important air he always affected when he had to announce a visitor of consequence. but before he could open his mouth mr. ryder said: "bagley, when did you see my son, jefferson, last?" "to-day, sir. he wanted to see you to say good-bye. he said he would be back." ryder gave a sigh of relief and addressing the detective said: "it's not so bad as i thought." then turning again to his secretary he asked: "well, bagley, what is it?" "there's a lady downstairs, sir--miss shirley green." the financier half sprang from his seat. "oh, yes. show her up at once. good-bye, sergeant, good-bye. find that rossmore woman and the $ , is yours." the detective went out and a few moments later mr. bagley reappeared ushering in shirley. the mouse was in the den of the lion. chapter xii mr. ryder remained at his desk and did not even look up when his visitor entered. he pretended to be busily preoccupied with his papers, which was a favourite pose of his when receiving strangers. this frigid reception invariably served its purpose, for it led visitors not to expect more than they got, which usually was little enough. for several minutes shirley stood still, not knowing whether to advance or to take a seat. she gave a little conventional cough, and ryder looked up. what he saw so astonished him that he at once took from his mouth the cigar he was smoking and rose from his seat. he had expected a gaunt old maid with spectacles, and here was a stylish, good-looking young woman, who could not possibly be over twenty-five. there was surely some mistake. this slip of a girl could not have written "the american octopus." he advanced to greet shirley. "you wish to see me, madame?" he asked courteously. there were times when even john burkett ryder could be polite. "yes," replied shirley, her voice trembling a little; in spite of her efforts to keep cool. "i am here by appointment. three o'clock, mrs. ryder's note said. i am miss green." "_you_--miss green?" echoed the financier dubiously. "yes, i am miss green--shirley green, author of 'the american octopus.' you asked me to call. here i am." for the first time in his life, john ryder was nonplussed. he coughed and stammered and looked round for a place where he could throw his cigar. shirley, who enjoyed his embarrassment, put him at his ease. "oh, please go on smoking," she said; "i don't mind it in the least." ryder threw the cigar into a receptacle and looked closely at his visitor. "so you are shirley green, eh?" "that is my _nom-de-plume_--yes," replied the girl nervously. she was already wishing herself back at massapequa. the financier eyed her for a moment in silence as if trying to gauge the strength of the personality of this audacious young woman, who had dared to criticise his business methods in public print; then, waving her to a seat near his desk, he said: "won't you sit down?" "thank you," murmured shirley. she sat down, and he took his seat at the other side of the desk, which brought them face to face. again inspecting the girl with a close scrutiny that made her cheeks burn, ryder said: "i rather expected--" he stopped for a moment as if uncertain what to say, then he added: "you're younger than i thought you were, miss green, much younger." "time will remedy that," smiled shirley. then, mischievously, she added: "i rather expected to see mrs. ryder." there was the faintest suspicion of a smile playing around the corners of the plutocrat's mouth as he picked up a book lying on his desk and replied: "yes--she wrote you, but i--wanted to see you about this." shirley's pulse throbbed faster, but she tried hard to appear unconcerned as she answered: "oh, my book--have you read it?" "i have," replied ryder slowly and, fixing her with a stare that was beginning to make her uncomfortable, he went on: "no doubt your time is valuable, so i'll come right to the point. i want to ask you, miss green, where you got the character of your central figure--the octopus, as you call him--john broderick?" "from imagination--of course," answered shirley. ryder opened the book, and shirley noticed that there were several passages marked. he turned the leaves over in silence for a minute or two and then he said: "you've sketched a pretty big man here--" "yes," assented shirley, "he has big possibilities, but i think he makes very small use of them." ryder appeared not to notice her commentary, and, still reading the book, he continued: "on page you call him '_the world's greatest individualized potentiality, a giant combination of materiality, mentality and money--the greatest exemplar of individual human will in existence to-day._' and you make indomitable will and energy the keystone of his marvellous success. am i right?" he looked at her questioningly. "quite right," answered shirley. ryder proceeded: "on page you say '_the machinery of his money-making mind typifies the laws of perpetual unrest. it must go on, relentlessly, resistlessly, ruthlessly making money--making money and continuing to make money. it cannot stop until the machinery crumbles._'" laying the book down and turning sharply on shirley, he asked her bluntly: "do you mean to say that i couldn't stop to-morrow if i wanted to?" she affected to not understand him. "_you?_" she inquired in a tone of surprise. "well--it's a natural question," stammered ryder, with a nervous little laugh; "every man sees himself in the hero of a novel just as every woman sees herself in the heroine. we're all heroes and heroines in our own eyes. but tell me what's your private opinion of this man. you drew the character. what do you think of him as a type, how would you classify him?" "as the greatest criminal the world has yet produced," replied shirley without a moment's hesitation. the financier looked at the girl in unfeigned astonishment. "criminal?" he echoed. "yes, criminal," repeated shirley decisively. "he is avarice, egotism, and ambition incarnate. he loves money because he loves power, and he loves power more than his fellow man." ryder laughed uneasily. decidedly, this girl had opinions of her own which she was not backward to express. "isn't that rather strong?" he asked. "i don't think so," replied shirley. then quickly she asked: "but what does it matter? no such man exists." "no, of course not," said ryder, and he relapsed into silence. yet while he said nothing, the plutocrat was watching his visitor closely from under his thick eyebrows. she seemed supremely unconscious of his scrutiny. her aristocratic, thoughtful face gave no sign that any ulterior motive had actuated her evidently very hostile attitude against him. that he was in her mind when she drew the character of john broderick there was no doubt possible. no matter how she might evade the identification, he was convinced he was the hero of her book. why had she attacked him so bitterly? at first, it occurred to him that blackmail might be her object; she might be going to ask for money as the price of future silence. yet it needed but a glance at her refined and modest demeanour to dispel that idea as absurd. then he remembered, too, that it was not she who had sought this interview, but himself. no, she was no blackmailer. more probably she was a dreamer--one of those meddling sociologists who, under pretence of bettering the conditions of the working classes, stir up discontent and bitterness of feeling. as such; she might prove more to be feared than a mere blackmailer whom he could buy off with money. he knew he was not popular, but he was no worse than the other captains of industry. it was a cut-throat game at best. competition was the soul of commercial life, and if he had outwitted his competitors and made himself richer than all of them, he was not a criminal for that. but all these attacks in newspapers and books did not do him any good. one day the people might take these demagogic writings seriously and then there would be the devil to pay. he took up the book again and ran over the pages. this certainly was no ordinary girl. she knew more and had a more direct way of saying things than any woman he had ever met. and as he watched her furtively across the desk he wondered how he could use her; how instead of being his enemy, he could make her his friend. if he did not, she would go away and write more such books, and literature of this kind might become a real peril to his interests. money could do anything; it could secure the services of this woman and prevent her doing further mischief. but how could he employ her? suddenly an inspiration came to him. for some years he had been collecting material for a history of the empire trading company. she could write it. it would practically be his own biography. would she undertake it? embarrassed by the long silence, shirley finally broke it by saying: "but you didn't ask me to call merely to find out what i thought of my own work." "no," replied ryder slowly, "i want you to do some work for me." he opened a drawer at the left-hand side of his desk and took out several sheets of foolscap and a number of letters. shirley's heart beat faster as she caught sight of the letters. were her father's among them? she wondered what kind of work john burkett ryder had for her to do and if she would do it whatever it was. some literary work probably, compiling or something of that kind. if it was well paid, why should she not accept? there would be nothing humiliating in it; it would not tie her hands in any way. she was a professional writer in the market to be employed by whoever could pay the price. besides, such work might give her better opportunities to secure the letters of which she was in search. gathering in one pile all the papers he had removed from the drawer, mr. ryder said: "i want you to put my biography together from this material. but first," he added, taking up "the american octopus," "i want to know where you got the details of this man's life." "oh, for the most part--imagination, newspapers, magazines," replied shirley carelessly. "you know the american millionaire is a very overworked topic just now--and naturally i've read--" "yes, i understand," he said, "but i refer to what you haven't read--what you couldn't have read. for example, here." he turned to a page marked in the book and read aloud: "_as an evidence of his petty vanity, when a youth he had a beautiful indian girl tattooed just above the forearm._" ryder leaned eagerly forward as he asked her searchingly: "now who told you that i had my arm tattooed when i was a boy?" "have you?" laughed shirley nervously. "what a curious coincidence!" "let me read you another coincidence," said ryder meaningly. he turned to another part of the book and read: "_the same eternal long black cigar always between his lips_ ..." "general grant smoked, too," interrupted shirley. "all men who think deeply along material lines seem to smoke." "well, we'll let that go. but how about this?" he turned back a few pages and read: "_john broderick had loved, when a young man, a girl who lived in vermont, but circumstances separated them._" he stopped and stared at shirley a moment and then he said: "i loved a girl when i was a lad and she came from vermont, and circumstances separated us. that isn't coincidence, for presently you make john broderick marry a young woman who had money. i married a girl with money." "lots of men marry for money," remarked shirley. "i said _with_ money, not for money," retorted ryder. then turning again to the book, he said: "now, this is what i can't understand, for no one could have told you this but i myself. listen." he read aloud: "_with all his physical bravery and personal courage, john broderick was intensely afraid of death. it was on his mind constantly._" "who told you that?" he demanded somewhat roughly. "i swear i've never mentioned it to a living soul." "most men who amass money are afraid of death," replied shirley with outward composure, "for death is about the only thing that can separate them from their money." ryder laughed, but it was a hollow, mocking laugh, neither sincere nor hearty. it was a laugh such as the devil may have given when driven out of heaven. "you're quite a character!" he laughed again, and shirley, catching the infection, laughed, too. "it's me and it isn't me," went on ryder flourishing the book. "this fellow broderick is all right; he's successful and he's great, but i don't like his finish." "it's logical," ventured shirley. "it's cruel," insisted ryder. "so is the man who reverses the divine law and hates his neighbour instead of loving him," retorted shirley. she spoke more boldly, beginning to feel more sure of her ground, and it amused her to fence in this way with the man of millions. so far, she thought, he had not got the best of her. she was fast becoming used to him, and her first feeling of intimidation was passing away. "um!" grunted ryder, "you're a curious girl; upon my word you interest me!" he took the mass of papers lying at his elbow and pushed them over to her. "here," he said, "i want you to make as clever a book out of this chaos as you did out of your own imagination." shirley turned the papers over carelessly. "so you think your life is a good example to follow?" she asked with a tinge of irony. "isn't it?" he demanded. the girl looked him square in the face. "suppose," she said, "we all wanted to follow it, suppose we all wanted to be the richest, the most powerful personage in the world?" "well--what then?" he demanded. "i think it would postpone the era of the brotherhood of man indefinitely, don't you?" "i never thought of it from that point of view," admitted the billionaire. "really," he added, "you're an extraordinary girl. why, you can't be more than twenty--or so." "i'm twenty-four--or so," smiled shirley. ryder's face expanded in a broad smile. he admired this girl's pluck and ready wit. he grew more amiable and tried to gain her confidence. in a coaxing tone he said: "come, where did you get those details? take me into your confidence." "i have taken you into my confidence," laughed shirley, pointing at her book. "it cost you $ . !" turning over the papers he had put before her she said presently: "i don't know about this." "you don't think my life would make good reading?" he asked with some asperity. "it might," she replied slowly, as if unwilling to commit herself as to its commercial or literary value. then she said frankly: "to tell you the honest truth, i don't consider mere genius in money-making is sufficient provocation for rushing into print. you see, unless you come to a bad end, it would have no moral." ignoring the not very flattering insinuation contained in this last speech, the plutocrat continued to urge her: "you can name your own price if you will do the work," he said. "two, three or even five thousand dollars. it's only a few months' work." "five thousand dollars?" echoed shirley. "that's a lot of money." smiling, she added: "it appeals to my commercial sense. but i'm afraid the subject does not arouse my enthusiasm from an artistic standpoint." ryder seemed amused at the idea of any one hesitating to make five thousand dollars. he knew that writers do not run across such opportunities every day. "upon my word," he said, "i don't know why i'm so anxious to get you to do the work. i suppose it's because you don't want to. you remind me of my son. ah, he's a problem!" shirley started involuntarily when ryder mentioned his son. but he did not notice it. "why, is he wild?" she asked, as if only mildly interested. "oh, no, i wish he were," said ryder. "fallen in love with the wrong woman, i suppose," she said. "something of the sort--how did you guess?" asked ryder surprised. shirley coughed to hide her embarrassment and replied indifferently. "so many boys do that. besides," she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "i can hardly imagine that any woman would be the right one unless you selected her yourself!" ryder made no answer. he folded his arms and gazed at her. who was this woman who knew him so well, who could read his inmost thoughts, who never made a mistake? after a silence he said: "do you know you say the strangest things?" "truth is strange," replied shirley carelessly. "i don't suppose you hear it very often." "not in that form," admitted ryder. shirley had taken on to her lap some of the letters he had passed her, and was perusing them one after another. "all these letters from washington consulting you on politics and finance--they won't interest the world." "my secretary picked them out," explained ryder. "your artistic sense will tell you what to use." "does your son still love this girl? i mean the one you object to?" inquired shirley as she went on sorting the papers. "oh, no, he does not care for her any more," answered ryder hastily. "yes, he does; he still loves her," said shirley positively. "how do _you_ know?" asked ryder amazed. "from the way you say he doesn't," retorted shirley. ryder gave his caller a look in which admiration was mingled with astonishment. "you are right again," he said. "the idiot does love the girl." "bless his heart," said shirley to herself. aloud she said: "i hope they'll both outwit you." ryder laughed in spite of himself. this young woman certainly interested him more than any other he had ever known. "i don't think i ever met anyone in my life quite like you," he said. "what's the objection to the girl?" demanded shirley. "every objection. i don't want her in my family." "anything against her character?" to better conceal the keen interest she took in the personal turn the conversation had taken, shirley pretended to be more busy than ever with the papers. "yes--that is no--not that i know of," replied ryder. "but because a woman has a good character, that doesn't necessarily make her a desirable match, does it?" "it's a point in her favor, isn't it?" "yes--but--" he hesitated as if uncertain what to say. "you know men well, don't you, mr. ryder?" "i've met enough to know them pretty well," he replied. "why don't you study women for a change?" she asked. "that would enable you to understand a great many things that i don't think are quite clear to you now." ryder laughed good humouredly. it was decidedly a novel sensation to have someone lecturing him. "i'm studying you," he said, "but i don't seem to make much headway. a woman like you whose mind isn't spoiled by the amusement habit has great possibilities--great possibilities. do you know you're the first woman i ever took into my confidence--i mean at sight?" again he fixed her with that keen glance which in his business life had taught him how to read men. he continued: "i'm acting on sentiment--something i rarely do, but i can't help it. i like you, upon my soul i do, and i'm going to introduce you to my wife--my son--" he took the telephone from his desk as if he were going to use it. "what a commander-in-chief you would have made--how natural it is for you to command," exclaimed shirley in a burst of admiration that was half real, half mocking. "i suppose you always tell people what they are to do and how they are to do it. you are a born general. you know i've often thought that napoleon and caesar and alexander must have been great domestic leaders as well as imperial rulers. i'm sure of it now." ryder listened to her in amazement. he was not quite sure if she were making fun of him or not. "well, of all--" he began. then interrupting himself he said amiably: "won't you do me the honour to meet my family?" shirley smiled sweetly and bowed. "thank you, mr. ryder, i will." she rose from her seat and leaned over the manuscripts to conceal the satisfaction this promise of an introduction to the family circle gave her. she was quick to see that it meant more visits to the house, and other and perhaps better opportunities to find the objects of her search. ryder lifted the receiver of his telephone and talked to his secretary in another room, while shirley, who was still standing, continued examining the papers and letters. "is that you, bagley? what's that? general dodge? get rid of him. i can't see him to-day. tell him to come to-morrow. what's that? my son wants to see me? tell him to come to the phone." at that instant shirley gave a little cry, which in vain she tried to suppress. ryder looked up. "what's the matter?" he demanded startled. "nothing--nothing!" she replied in a hoarse whisper. "i pricked myself with a pin. don't mind me." she had just come across her father's missing letters, which had got mixed up, evidently without ryder's knowledge, in the mass of papers he had handed her. prepared as she was to find the letters somewhere in the house, she never dreamed that fate would put them so easily and so quickly into her hands; the suddenness of their appearance and the sight of her father's familiar signature affected her almost like a shock. now she had them, she must not let them go again; yet how could she keep them unobserved? could she conceal them? would he miss them? she tried to slip them in her bosom while ryder was busy at the 'phone, but he suddenly glanced in her direction and caught her eye. she still held the letters in her hand, which shook from nervousness, but he noticed nothing and went on speaking through the 'phone: "hallo, jefferson, boy! you want to see me. can you wait till i'm through? i've got a lady here. going away? nonsense! determined, eh? well, i can't keep you here if you've made up your mind. you want to say good-bye. come up in about five minutes and i'll introduce you to a very interesting person," he laughed and hung up the receiver. shirley was all unstrung, trying to overcome the emotion which her discovery had caused her, and in a strangely altered voice, the result of the nervous strain she was under, she said: "you want me to come here?" she looked up from the letters she was reading across to ryder, who was standing watching her on the other side of the desk. he caught her glance and, leaning over to take some manuscript, he said: "yes, i don't want these papers to get--" his eye suddenly rested on the letters she was holding. he stopped short, and reaching forward he tried to snatch them from her. "what have you got there?" he exclaimed. he took the letters and she made no resistance. it would be folly to force the issue now, she thought. another opportunity would present itself. ryder locked the letters up very carefully in the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk, muttering to himself rather than speaking to shirley: "how on earth did they get among my other papers?" "from judge rossmore, were they not?" said shirley boldly. "how did you know it was judge rossmore?" demanded ryder suspiciously. "i didn't know that his name had been mentioned." "i saw his signature," she said simply. then she added: "he's the father of the girl you don't like, isn't he?" "yes, he's the--" a cloud came over the financier's face; his eyes darkened, his jaws snapped and he clenched his fist. "how you must hate him!" said shirley, who observed the change. "not at all," replied ryder recovering his self-possession and suavity of manner. "i disagree with his politics and his methods, but--i know very little about him except that he is about to be removed from office." "about to be?" echoed shirley. "so his fate is decided even before he is tried?" the girl laughed bitterly. "yes," she went on, "some of the newspapers are beginning to think he is innocent of the things of which he is accused." "do they?" said ryder indifferently. "yes," she persisted, "most people are on his side." she planted her elbows on the desk in front of her, and looking him squarely in the face, she asked him point blank: "whose side are you on--really and truly?" ryder winced. what right had this woman, a stranger both to judge rossmore and himself, to come here and catechise him? he restrained his impatience with difficulty as he replied: "whose side am i on? oh, i don't know that i am on any side. i don't know that i give it much thought. i--" "do you think this man deserves to be punished?" she demanded. she had resumed her seat at the desk and partly regained her self-possession. "why do you ask? what is your interest in this matter?" "i don't know," she replied evasively; "his case interests me, that's all. its rather romantic. your son loves this man's daughter. he is in disgrace--many seem to think unjustly." her voice trembled with emotion as she continued: "i have heard from one source or another--you know i am acquainted with a number of newspaper men--i have heard that life no longer has any interest for him, that he is not only disgraced but beggared, that he is pining away slowly, dying of a broken heart, that his wife and daughter are in despair. tell me, do you think he deserves such a fate?" ryder remained thoughtful a moment, and then he replied: "no, i do not--no--" thinking that she had touched his sympathies, shirley followed up her advantage: "oh, then, why not come to his rescue--you, who are so rich, so powerful; you, who can move the scales of justice at your will--save this man from humiliation and disgrace!" ryder shrugged his shoulders, and his face expressed weariness, as if the subject had begun to bore him. "my dear girl, you don't understand. his removal is necessary." shirley's face became set and hard. there was a contemptuous ring to her words as she retorted: "yet you admit that he may be innocent!" "even if i knew it as a fact, i couldn't move." "do you mean to say that if you had positive proof?" she pointed to the drawer in the desk where he had placed the letters. "if you had absolute proof in that drawer, for instance? wouldn't you help him then?" ryder's face grew cold and inscrutable; he now wore his fighting mask. "not even if i had the absolute proof in that drawer?" he snapped viciously. "have you absolute proof in that drawer?" she demanded. "i repeat that even if i had, i could not expose the men who have been my friends. its _noblesse oblige_ in politics as well as in society, you know." he smiled again at her, as if he had recovered his good humour after their sharp passage at arms. "oh, it's politics--that's what the papers said. and you believe him innocent. well, you must have some grounds for your belief." "not necessarily--" "you said that even if you had the proofs, you could not produce them without sacrificing your friends, showing that your friends are interested in having this man put off the bench--" she stopped and burst into hysterical laughter. "oh, i think you're having a joke at my expense," she went on, "just to see how far you can lead me. i daresay judge rossmore deserves all he gets. oh, yes--i'm sure he deserves it." she rose and walked to the other side of the room to conceal her emotion. ryder watched her curiously. "my dear young lady, how you take this matter to heart!" "please forgive me," laughed shirley, and averting her face to conceal the fact that her eyes were filled with tears. "it's my artistic temperament, i suppose. it's always getting me into trouble. it appealed so strongly to my sympathies--this story of hopeless love between two young people--with the father of the girl hounded by corrupt politicians and unscrupulous financiers. it was too much for me. ah! ah! i forgot where i was!" she leaned against a chair, sick and faint from nervousness, her whole body trembling. at that moment there was a knock at the library door and jefferson ryder appeared. not seeing shirley, whose back was towards him, he advanced to greet his father. "you told me to come up in five minutes," he said. "i just wanted to say--" "miss green," said ryder, sr., addressing shirley and ignoring whatever it was that the young man wanted to say, "this is my son jefferson. jeff--this is miss green." jefferson looked in the direction indicated and stood as if rooted to the floor. he was so surprised that he was struck dumb. finally, recovering himself, he exclaimed: "shirley!" "yes, shirley green, the author," explained ryder, sr., not noticing the note of familiar recognition in his exclamation. shirley advanced, and holding out her hand to jefferson, said demurely: "i am very pleased to meet you, mr. ryder." then quickly, in an undertone, she added: "be careful; don't betray me!" jefferson was so astounded that he did not see the outstretched hand. all he could do was to stand and stare first at her and then at his father. "why don't you shake hands with her?" said ryder, sr. "she won't bite you." then he added: "miss green is going to do some literary work for me, so we shall see a great deal of her. it's too bad you're going away!" he chuckled at his own pleasantry. "father!" blurted out jefferson, "i came to say that i've changed my mind. you did not want me to go, and i feel i ought to do something to please you." "good boy," said ryder pleased. "now you're talking common sense," he turned to shirley, who was getting ready to make her departure: "well, miss green, we may consider the matter settled. you undertake the work at the price i named and finish it as soon as you can. of course, you will have to consult me a good deal as you go along, so i think it would be better for you to come and stay here while the work is progressing. mrs. ryder can give you a suite of rooms to yourself, where you will be undisturbed and you will have all your material close at hand. what do you say?" shirley was silent for a moment. she looked first at ryder and then at his son, and from them her glance went to the little drawer on the left-hand side of the desk. then she said quietly: "as you think best, mr. ryder. i am quite willing to do the work here." ryder, sr., escorted her to the top of the landing and watched her as she passed down the grand staircase, ushered by the gorgeously uniformed flunkies, to the front door and the street. chapter xiii shirley entered upon her new duties in the ryder household two days later. she had returned to her rooms the evening of her meeting with the financier in a state bordering upon hysteria. the day's events had been so extraordinary that it seemed to her they could not be real, and that she must be in a dream. the car ride to seventy-fourth street, the interview in the library, the discovery of her father's letters, the offer to write the biography, and, what to her was still more important, the invitation to go and live in the ryder home--all these incidents were so remarkable and unusual that it was only with difficulty that the girl persuaded herself that they were not figments of a disordered brain. but it was all true enough. the next morning's mail brought a letter from mrs. ryder, who wrote to the effect that mr. ryder would like the work to begin at once, and adding that a suite of rooms would be ready for her the following afternoon. shirley did not hesitate. everything was to be gained by making the ryder residence her headquarters, her father's very life depended upon the successful outcome of her present mission, and this unhoped for opportunity practically ensured success. she immediately wrote to massapequa. one letter was to her mother, saying that she was extending her visit beyond the time originally planned. the other letter was to stott. she told him all about the interview with ryder, informed him of the discovery of the letters, and after explaining the nature of the work offered to her, said that her address for the next few weeks would be in care of john burkett ryder. all was going better than she had dared to hope. everything seemed to favour their plan. her first step, of course, while in the ryder home, would be to secure possession of her father's letters, and these she would dispatch at once to massapequa, so they could be laid before the senate without delay. so, after settling accounts with her landlady and packing up her few belongings, shirley lost no time in transferring herself to the more luxurious quarters provided for her in the ten-million-dollar mansion uptown. at the ryder house she was received cordially and with every mark of consideration. the housekeeper came down to the main hall to greet her when she arrived and escorted her to the suite of rooms, comprising a small working library, a bedroom simply but daintily furnished in pink and white and a private bathroom, which had been specially prepared for her convenience and comfort, and here presently she was joined by mrs. ryder. "dear me," exclaimed the financier's wife, staring curiously at shirley, "what a young girl you are to have made such a stir with a book! how did you do it? i'm sure i couldn't. it's as much as i can do to write a letter, and half the time that's not legible." "oh, it wasn't so hard," laughed shirley. "it was the subject that appealed rather than any special skill of mine. the trusts and their misdeeds are the favourite topics of the hour. the whole country is talking about nothing else. my book came at the right time, that's all." although "the american octopus" was a direct attack on her own husband, mrs. ryder secretly admired this young woman, who had dared to speak a few blunt truths. it was a courage which, alas! she had always lacked herself, but there was a certain satisfaction in knowing there were women in the world not entirely cowed by the tyrant man. "i have always wanted a daughter," went on mrs. ryder, becoming confidential, while shirley removed her things and made herself at home; "girls of your age are so companionable." then, abruptly, she asked: "do your parents live in new york?" shirley's face flushed and she stooped over her trunk to hide her embarrassment. "no--not at present," she answered evasively. "my mother and father are in the country." she was afraid that more questions of a personal nature would follow, but apparently mrs. ryder was not in an inquisitive mood, for she asked nothing further. she only said: "i have a son, but i don't see much of him. you must meet my jefferson. he is such a nice boy." shirley tried to look unconcerned as she replied: "i met him yesterday. mr. ryder introduced him to me." "poor lad, he has his troubles too," went on mrs. ryder. "he's in love with a girl, but his father wants him to marry someone else. they're quarrelling over it all the time." "parents shouldn't interfere in matters of the heart," said shirley decisively. "what is more serious than the choosing of a life companion, and who are better entitled to make a free selection than they who are going to spend the rest of their days together? of course, it is a father's duty to give his son the benefit of his riper experience, but to insist on a marriage based only on business interests is little less than a crime. there are considerations more important if the union is to be a happy or a lasting one. the chief thing is that the man should feel real attachment for the woman he marries. two people who are to live together as man and wife must be compatible in tastes and temper. you cannot mix oil and water. it is these selfish marriages which keep our divorce courts busy. money alone won't buy happiness in marriage." "no," sighed mrs. ryder, "no one knows that better than i." the financier's wife was already most favourably impressed with her guest, and she chatted on as if she had known shirley for years. it was rarely that she had heard so young a woman express such common-sense views, and the more she talked with her the less surprised she was that she was the author of a much-discussed book. finally, thinking that shirley might prefer to be alone, she rose to go, bidding her make herself thoroughly at home and to ring for anything she might wish. a maid had been assigned to look exclusively after her wants, and she could have her meals served in her room or else have them with the family as she liked. but shirley, not caring to encounter mr. ryder's cold, searching stare more often than necessary, said she would prefer to take her meals alone. left to herself, shirley settled down to work in earnest. mr. ryder had sent to her room all the material for the biography, and soon she was completely absorbed in the task of sorting and arranging letters, making extracts from records, compiling data, etc., laying the foundations for the important book she was to write. she wondered what they would call it, and she smiled as a peculiarly appropriate title flashed through her mind--"the history of a crime." yet she thought they could hardly infringe on victor hugo; perhaps the best title was the simplest "the history of the empire trading company." everyone would understand that it told the story of john burkett ryder's remarkable career from his earliest beginnings to the present time. she worked feverishly all that evening getting the material into shape, and the following day found her early at her desk. no one disturbed her and she wrote steadily on until noon, mrs. ryder only once putting her head in the door to wish her good morning. after luncheon, shirley decided that the weather was too glorious to remain indoors. her health must not be jeopardized even to advance the interests of the colossus, so she put on her hat and left the house to go for a walk. the air smelled sweet to her after being confined so long indoor, and she walked with a more elastic and buoyant step than she had since her return home. turning down fifth avenue, she entered the park at seventy-second street, following the pathway until she came to the bend in the driveway opposite the casino. the park was almost deserted at that hour, and there was a delightful sense of solitude and a sweet scent of new-mown hay from the freshly cut lawns. she found an empty bench, well shaded by an overspreading tree, and she sat down, grateful for the rest and quiet. she wondered what jefferson thought of her action in coming to his father's house practically in disguise and under an assumed name. she must see him at once, for in him lay her hope of obtaining possession of the letters. certainly she felt no delicacy or compunction in asking jefferson to do her this service. the letters belonged to her father and they were being wrongfully withheld with the deliberate purpose of doing him an injury. she had a moral if not a legal right to recover the letters in any way that she could. she was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that she had not noticed a hansom cab which suddenly drew up with a jerk at the curb opposite her bench. a man jumped out. it was jefferson. "hello, shirley," he cried gaily; "who would have expected to find you rusticating on a bench here? i pictured you grinding away at home doing literary stunts for the governor." he grinned and then added: "come for a drive. i want to talk to you." shirley demurred. no, she could not spare the time. yet, she thought to herself, why was not this a good opportunity to explain to jefferson how he came to find her in his father's library masquerading under another name, and also to ask him to secure the letters for her? while she pondered jefferson insisted, and a few minutes later she found herself sitting beside him in the cab. they started off at a brisk pace, shirley sitting with her head back, enjoying the strong breeze caused by the rapid motion. "now tell me," he said, "what does it all mean? i was so startled at seeing you in the library the other day that i almost betrayed you. how did you come to call on father?" briefly shirley explained everything. she told him how mr. ryder had written to her asking her to call and see him, and how she had eagerly seized at this last straw in the hope of helping her father. she told him about the letters, explaining how necessary they were for her father's defence and how she had discovered them. mr. ryder, she said, had seemed to take a fancy to her and had asked her to remain in the house as his guest while she was compiling his biography, and she had accepted the offer, not so much for the amount of money involved as for the splendid opportunity it afforded her to gain possession of the letters. "so that is the mysterious work you spoke of--to get those letters?" said jefferson. "yes, that is my mission. it was a secret. i couldn't tell you; i couldn't tell anyone. only judge stott knows. he is aware i have found them and is hourly expecting to receive them from me. and now," she said, "i want your help." his only answer was to grasp tighter the hand she had laid in his. she knew that she would not have to explain the nature of the service she wanted. he understood. "where are the letters?" he demanded. "in the left-hand drawer of your father's desk," she answered. he was silent for a few moments, and then he said simply: "i will get them." the cab by this time had got as far as claremont, and from the hill summit they had a splendid view of the broad sweep of the majestic hudson and the towering walls of the blue palisades. the day was so beautiful and the air so invigorating that jefferson suggested a ramble along the banks of the river. they could leave the cab at claremont and drive back to the city later. shirley was too grateful to him for his promise of coöperation to make any further opposition, and soon they were far away from beaten highways, down on the banks of the historic stream, picking flowers and laughing merrily like two truant children bent on a self-made holiday. the place they had reached was just outside the northern boundaries of harlem, a sylvan spot still unspoiled by the rude invasion of the flat-house builder. the land, thickly wooded, sloped down sharply to the water, and the perfect quiet was broken only by the washing of the tiny surf against the river bank and the shrill notes of the birds in the trees. although it was late in october the day was warm, and shirley soon tired of climbing over bramble-entangled verdure. the rich grass underfoot looked cool and inviting, and the natural slope of the ground affording an ideal resting-place, she sat there, with jefferson stretched out at her feet, both watching idly the dancing waters of the broad hudson, spangled with gleams of light, as they swept swiftly by on their journey to the sea. "shirley," said jefferson suddenly, "i suppose you saw that ridiculous story about my alleged engagement to miss roberts. i hope you understood that it was done without my consent." "if i did not guess it, jeff," she answered, "your assurance would be sufficient. besides," she added, "what right have i to object?" "but i want you to have the right," he replied earnestly. "i'm going to stop this roberts nonsense in a way my father hardly anticipates. i'm just waiting a chance to talk to him. i'll show him the absurdity of announcing me engaged to a girl who is about to elope with his private secretary!" "elope with the secretary?" exclaimed shirley. jefferson told her all about the letter he had found on the staircase, and the hon. fitzroy bagley's plans for a runaway marriage with the senator's wealthy daughter. "it's a godsend to me," he said gleefully. "their plan is to get married next wednesday. i'll see my father on tuesday; i'll put the evidence in his hands, and i don't think," he added grimly, "he'll bother me any more about miss roberts." "so you're not going away now?" said shirley, smiling down at him. he sat up and leaned over towards her. "i can't, shirley, i simply can't," he replied, his voice trembling. "you are more to me than i dreamed a woman could ever be. i realize it more forcibly every day. there is no use fighting against it. without you, my work, my life means nothing." shirley shook her head and averted her eyes. "don't let us speak of that, jeff," she pleaded gently. "i told you i did not belong to myself while my father was in peril." "but i must speak of it," he interrupted. "shirley, you do yourself an injustice as well as me. you are not indifferent to me--i feel that. then why raise this barrier between us?" a soft light stole into the girl's eyes. ah, it was good to feel there was someone to whom she was everything in the world! "don't ask me to betray my trust, jeff," she faltered. "you know i am not indifferent to you--far from it. but i--" he came closer until his face nearly touched hers. "i love you--i want you," he murmured feverishly. "give me the right to claim you before all the world as my future wife!" every note of his rich, manly voice, vibrating with impetuous passion, sounded in shirley's ear like a soft caress. she closed her eyes. a strange feeling of languor was stealing over her, a mysterious thrill passed through her whole body. the eternal, inevitable sex instinct was disturbing, for the first time, a woman whose life had been singularly free from such influences, putting to flight all the calculations and resolves her cooler judgment had made. the sensuous charm of the place--the distant splash of the water, the singing of the birds, the fragrance of the trees and grass--all these symbols of the joy of life conspired to arouse the love-hunger of the woman. why, after all, should she not know happiness like other women? she had a sacred duty to perform, it was true; but would it be less well done because she declined to stifle the natural leanings of her womanhood? both her soul and her body called out: "let this man love you, give yourself to him, he is worthy of your love." half unconsciously, she listened to his ardent wooing, her eyes shut, as he spoke quickly, passionately, his breath warm upon her cheek: "shirley, i offer you all the devotion a man can give a woman. say the one word that will make me the happiest or the most wretched of men. yes or no! only think well before you wreck my life. i love you--i love you! i will wait for you if need be until the crack of doom. say--say you will be my wife!" she opened her eyes. his face was bent close over hers. their lips almost touched. "yes, jefferson," she murmured, "i do love you!" his lips met hers in a long, passionate kiss. her eyes closed and an ecstatic thrill seemed to convulse her entire being. the birds in the trees overhead sang in more joyful chorus in celebration of the betrothal. chapter xiv it was nearly seven o'clock when shirley got back to seventy-fourth street. no one saw her come in, and she went direct to her room, and after a hasty dinner, worked until late into the night on her book to make up for lost time. the events of the afternoon caused her considerable uneasiness. she reproached herself for her weakness and for having yielded so readily to the impulse of the moment. she had said only what was the truth when she admitted she loved jefferson, but what right had she to dispose of her future while her father's fate was still uncertain? her conscience troubled her, and when she came to reason it out calmly, the more impossible seemed their union from every point of view. how could she become the daughter-in-law of the man who had ruined her own father? the idea was preposterous, and hard as the sacrifice would be, jefferson must be made to see it in that light. their engagement was the greatest folly; it bound each of them when nothing but unhappiness could possibly come of it. she was sure now that she loved jefferson. it would be hard to give him up, but there are times and circumstances when duty and principle must prevail over all other considerations, and this she felt was one of them. the following morning she received a letter from stott. he was delighted to hear the good news regarding her important discovery, and he urged her to lose no time in securing the letters and forwarding them to massapequa, when he would immediately go to washington and lay them before the senate. documentary evidence of that conclusive nature, he went on to say, would prove of the very highest value in clearing her father's name. he added that the judge and her mother were as well as circumstances would permit, and that they were not in the least worried about her protracted absence. her aunt milly had already returned to europe, and eudoxia was still threatening to leave daily. shirley needed no urging. she quite realized the importance of acting quickly, but it was not easy to get at the letters. the library was usually kept locked when the great man was away, and on the few occasions when access to it was possible, the lynx-eyed mr. bagley was always on guard. short as had been her stay in the ryder household, shirley already shared jefferson's antipathy to the english secretary, whose manner grew more supercilious and overbearing as he drew nearer the date when he expected to run off with one of the richest catches of the season. he had not sought the acquaintance of his employer's biographer since her arrival, and, with the exception of a rude stare, had not deigned to notice her, which attitude of haughty indifference was all the more remarkable in view of the fact that the hon. fitzroy usually left nothing unturned to cultivate a flirtatious intimacy with every attractive female he met. the truth was that what with mr. ryder's demands upon his services and his own preparations for his coming matrimonial venture, in which he had so much at stake, he had neither time nor inclination to indulge his customary amorous diversions. miss roberts had called at the house several times, ostensibly to see mrs. ryder, and when introduced to shirley she had condescended to give the latter a supercilious nod. her conversation was generally of the silly, vacuous sort, concerning chiefly new dresses or bonnets, and shirley at once read her character--frivolous, amusement-loving, empty-headed, irresponsible--just the kind of girl to do something foolish without weighing the consequences. after chatting a few moments with mrs. ryder she would usually vanish, and one day, after one of these mysterious disappearances, shirley happened to pass the library and caught sight of her and mr. bagley conversing in subdued and eager tones. it was very evident that the elopement scheme was fast maturing. if the scandal was to be prevented, jefferson ought to see his father and acquaint him with the facts without delay. it was probable that at the same time he would make an effort to secure the letters. meantime she must be patient. too much hurry might spoil everything. so the days passed, shirley devoting almost all her time to the history she had undertaken. she saw nothing of ryder, sr., but a good deal of his wife, to whom she soon became much attached. she found her an amiable, good-natured woman, entirely free from that offensive arrogance and patronizing condescension which usually marks the parvenue as distinct from the thoroughbred. mrs. ryder had no claims to distinguished lineage; on the contrary, she was the daughter of a country grocer when the then rising oil man married her, and of educational advantages she had had little or none. it was purely by accident that she was the wife of the richest man in the world, and while she enjoyed the prestige her husband's prominence gave her, she never allowed it to turn her head. she gave away large sums for charitable purposes and, strange to say, when the gift came direct from her, the money was never returned on the plea that it was "tainted." she shared her husband's dislike for entertaining, and led practically the life of a recluse. the advent of shirley, therefore, into her quiet and uneventful existence was as welcome as sunshine when it breaks through the clouds after days of gloom. quite a friendship sprang up between the two women, and when tired of writing, shirley would go into mrs. ryder's room and chat until the financier's wife began to look forward to these little impromptu visits, so much she enjoyed them. nothing more had been said concerning jefferson and miss roberts. the young man had not yet seen his father, but his mother knew he was only waiting an opportunity to demand an explanation of the engagement announcements. her husband, on the other hand, desired the match more than ever, owing to the continued importunities of senator roberts. as usual, mrs. ryder confided these little domestic troubles to shirley. "jefferson," she said, "is very angry. he is determined not to marry the girl, and when he and his father do meet there'll be another scene." "what objection has your son to miss roberts?" inquired shirley innocently. "oh, the usual reason," sighed the mother, "and i've no doubt he knows best. he's in love with another girl--a miss rossmore." "oh, yes," answered shirley simply. "mr. ryder spoke of her." mrs. ryder was silent, and presently she left the girl alone with her work. the next afternoon shirley was in her room busy writing when there came a tap at her door. thinking it was another visit from mrs. ryder, she did not look up, but cried out pleasantly: "come in." john ryder entered. he smiled cordially and, as if apologizing for the intrusion, said amiably: "i thought i'd run up to see how you were getting along." his coming was so unexpected that for a moment shirley was startled, but she quickly regained her composure and asked him to take a seat. he seemed pleased to find her making such good progress, and he stopped to answer a number of questions she put to him. shirley tried to be cordial, but when she looked well at him and noted the keen, hawk-like eyes, the cruel, vindictive lines about the mouth, the square-set, relentless jaw--wall street had gone wrong with the colossus that day and he was still wearing his war paint--she recalled the wrong this man had done her father and she felt how bitterly she hated him. the more her mind dwelt upon it, the more exasperated she was to think she should be there, a guest, under his roof, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she remained civil. "what is the moral of your life?" she demanded bluntly. he was quick to note the contemptuous tone in her voice, and he gave her a keen, searching look as if he were trying to read her thoughts and fathom the reason for her very evident hostility towards him. "what do you mean?" he asked. "i mean, what can you show as your life work? most men whose lives are big enough to call for biographies have done something useful--they have been famous statesmen, eminent scientists, celebrated authors, great inventors. what have you done?" the question appeared to stagger him. the audacity of any one putting such a question to a man in his own house was incredible. he squared his jaws and his clenched fist descended heavily on the table. "what have i done?" he cried. "i have built up the greatest fortune ever accumulated by one man. my fabulous wealth has caused my name to spread to the four corners of the earth. is that not an achievement to relate to future generations?" shirley gave a little shrug of her shoulders. "future generations will take no interest in you or your millions," she said calmly. "our civilization will have made such progress by that time that people will merely wonder why we, in our day, tolerated men of your class so long. now it is different. the world is money-mad. you are a person of importance in the eyes of the unthinking multitude, but it only envies you your fortune; it does not admire you personally. when you die people will count your millions, not your good deeds." he laughed cynically and drew up a chair near her desk. as a general thing, john ryder never wasted words on women. he had but a poor opinion of their mentality, and considered it beneath the dignity of any man to enter into serious argument with a woman. in fact, it was seldom he condescended to argue with anyone. he gave orders and talked to people; he had no patience to be talked to. yet he found himself listening with interest to this young woman who expressed herself so frankly. it was a decided novelty for him to hear the truth. [photo, from the play, of mr. ryder discussing his son with miss green.] "marry jefferson yourself."--act iii. "what do i care what the world says when i'm dead?" he asked with a forced laugh. "you do care," replied shirley gravely. "you may school yourself to believe that you are indifferent to the good opinion of your fellow man, but right down in your heart you do care--every man does, whether he be multi-millionaire or a sneak thief." "you class the two together, i notice," he said bitterly. "it is often a distinction without a difference," she rejoined promptly. he remained silent for a moment or two toying nervously with a paper knife. then, arrogantly, and as if anxious to impress her with his importance, he said: "most men would be satisfied if they had accomplished what i have. do you realize that my wealth is so vast that i scarcely know myself what i am worth? what my fortune will be in another fifty years staggers the imagination. yet i started with nothing. i made it all myself. surely i should get credit for that." "_how_ did you make it?" retorted shirley. "in america we don't ask how a man makes his money; we ask if he has got any." "you are mistaken," replied shirley earnestly. "america is waking up. the conscience of the nation is being aroused. we are coming to realize that the scandals of the last few years were only the fruit of public indifference to sharp business practice. the people will soon ask the dishonest rich man where he got it, and there will have to be an accounting. what account will you be able to give?" he bit his lip and looked at her for a moment without replying. then, with a faint suspicion of a sneer, he said: "you are a socialist--perhaps an anarchist!" "only the ignorant commit the blunder of confounding the two," she retorted. "anarchy is a disease; socialism is a science." "indeed!" he exclaimed mockingly, "i thought the terms were synonymous. the world regards them both as insane." herself an enthusiastic convert to the new political faith that was rising like a flood tide all over the world, the contemptuous tone in which this plutocrat spoke of the coming reorganization of society which was destined to destroy him and his kind spurred her on to renewed argument. "i imagine," she said sarcastically, "that you would hardly approve any social reform which threatened to interfere with your own business methods. but no matter how you disapprove of socialism on general principles, as a leader of the capitalist class you should understand what socialism is, and not confuse one of the most important movements in modern world-history with the crazy theories of irresponsible cranks. the anarchists are the natural enemies of the entire human family, and would destroy it were their dangerous doctrines permitted to prevail; the socialists, on the contrary, are seeking to save mankind from the degradation, the crime and the folly into which such men as you have driven it." she spoke impetuously, with the inspired exaltation of a prophet delivering a message to the people. ryder listened, concealing his impatience with uneasy little coughs. "yes," she went on, "i am a socialist and i am proud of it. the whole world is slowly drifting toward socialism as the only remedy for the actual intolerable conditions. it may not come in our time, but it will come as surely as the sun will rise and set tomorrow. has not the flag of socialism waved recently from the white house? has not a president of the united states declared that the state must eventually curb the great fortunes? what is that but socialism?" "true," retorted ryder grimly, "and that little speech intended for the benefit of the gallery will cost him the nomination at the next presidential election. we don't want in the white house a president who stirs up class hatred. our rich men have a right to what is their own; that is guaranteed them by the constitution." "is it their own?" interrupted shirley. ryder ignored the insinuation and proceeded: "what of our boasted free institutions if a man is to be restricted in what he may and may not do? if i am clever enough to accumulate millions who can stop me?" "the people will stop you," said shirley calmly. "it is only a question of time. their patience is about exhausted. put your ear to the ground and listen to the distant rumbling of the tempest which, sooner or later, will be unchained in this land, provoked by the iniquitous practices of organized capital. the people have had enough of the extortions of the trusts. one day they will rise in their wrath and seize by the throat this knavish plutocracy which, confident in the power of its wealth to procure legal immunity and reckless of its danger, persists in robbing the public daily. but retribution is at hand. the growing discontent of the proletariat, the ever-increasing strikes and labour disputes of all kinds, the clamour against the railroads and the trusts, the evidence of collusion between both--all this is the writing on the wall. the capitalistic system is doomed; socialism will succeed it." "what is socialism?" he demanded scornfully. "what will it give the public that it has not got already?" shirley, who never neglected an opportunity to make a convert, no matter how hardened he might be, picked up a little pamphlet printed for propaganda purposes which she had that morning received by mail. "here," she said, "is one of the best and clearest definitions of socialism i have ever read: "socialism is common ownership of natural resources and public utilities, and the common operation of all industries for the general good. socialism is opposed to monopoly, that is, to private ownership of land and the instruments of labor, which is indirect ownership of men; to the wages system, by which labor is legally robbed of a large part of the product of labor; to competition with its enormous waste of effort and its opportunities for the spoliation of the weak by the strong. socialism is industrial democracy. it is the government of the people by the people and for the people, not in the present restricted sense, but as regards all the common interests of men. socialism is opposed to oligarchy and monarchy, and therefore to the tyrannies of business cliques and money kings. socialism is for freedom, not only from the fear of force, but from the fear of want. socialism proposes real liberty, not merely the right to vote, but the liberty to live for something more than meat and drink. "socialism is righteousness in the relations of men. it is based on the fundamentals of religion, the fatherhood of god and the brotherhood of men. it seeks through association and equality to realize fraternity. socialism will destroy the motives which make for cheap manufacturers, poor workmanship and adulterations; it will secure the real utility of things. use, not exchange, will be the object of labour. things will be made to serve, not to sell. socialism will banish war, for private ownership is back of strife between men. socialism will purify politics, for private capitalism is the great source of political corruption. socialism will make for education, invention and discovery; it will stimulate the moral development of men. crime will have lost most of its motive and pauperism will have no excuse. that," said shirley, as she concluded, "is socialism!" ryder shrugged his shoulders and rose to go. "delightful," he said ironically, "but in my judgment wholly utopian and impracticable. it's nothing but a gigantic pipe dream. it won't come in this generation nor in ten generations if, indeed, it is ever taken seriously by a majority big enough to put its theories to the test. socialism does not take into account two great factors that move the world--men's passions and human ambition. if you eliminate ambition you remove the strongest incentive to individual effort. from your own account a socialistic world would be a dreadfully tame place to live in--everybody depressingly good, without any of the feverish turmoil of life as we know it. such a world would not appeal to me at all. i love the fray--the daily battle of gain and loss, the excitement of making or losing millions. that is my life!" "yet what good is your money to you?" insisted shirley. "you are able to spend only an infinitesimal part of it. you cannot even give it away, for nobody will have any of it." "money!" he hissed rather than spoke, "i hate money. it means nothing to me. i have so much that i have lost all idea of its value. i go on accumulating it for only one purpose. it buys power. i love power--that is my passion, my ambition, to rule the world with my gold. do you know," he went on and leaning over the desk in a dramatic attitude, "that if i chose i could start a panic in wall street to-morrow that would shake to their foundations every financial institution in the country? do you know that i practically control the congress of the united states and that no legislative measure becomes law unless it has my approval?" "the public has long suspected as much," replied shirley. "that is why you are looked upon as a menace to the stability and honesty of our political and commercial life." an angry answer rose to his lips when the door opened and mrs. ryder entered. "i've been looking for you, john," she said peevishly. "mr. bagley told me you were somewhere in the house. senator roberts is downstairs." "he's come about jefferson and his daughter, i suppose," muttered ryder. "well, i'll see him. where is he?" "in the library. kate came with him. she's in my room." they left shirley to her writing, and when he had closed the door the financier turned to his wife and said impatiently: "now, what are we going to do about jefferson and kate? the senator insists on the matter of their marriage being settled one way or another. where is jefferson?" "he came in about half an hour ago. he was upstairs to see me, and i thought he was looking for you," answered the wife. "well," replied ryder determinedly, "he and i have got to understand each other. this can't go on. it shan't." mrs. ryder put her hand on his arm, and said pleadingly: "don't be impatient with the boy, john. remember he is all we have. he is so unhappy. he wants to please us, but--" "but he insists on pleasing himself," said ryder completing the sentence. "i'm afraid, john, that his liking for that miss rossmore is more serious than you realize--" the financier stamped his foot and replied angrily: "miss rossmore! that name seems to confront me at every turn--for years the father, now the daughter! i'm sorry, my dear," he went on more calmly, "that you seem inclined to listen to jefferson. it only encourages him in his attitude towards me. kate would make him an excellent wife, while what do we know about the other woman? are you willing to sacrifice your son's future to a mere boyish whim?" mrs. ryder sighed. "it's very hard," she said, "for a mother to know what to advise. miss green says--" "what!" exclaimed her husband, "you have consulted miss green on the subject?" "yes," answered his wife, "i don't know how i came to tell her, but i did. i seem to tell her everything. i find her such a comfort, john. i haven't had an attack of nerves since that girl has been in the house." "she is certainly a superior woman," admitted ryder. "i wish she'd ward that rossmore girl off. i wish she--" he stopped abruptly as if not venturing to give expression to his thoughts, even to his wife. then he said: "if she were kate roberts she wouldn't let jeff slip through her fingers." "i have often wished," went on mrs. ryder, "that kate were more like shirley green. i don't think we would have any difficulty with jeff then." "kate is the daughter of senator roberts, and if this marriage is broken off in any way without the senator's consent, he is in a position to injure my interests materially. if you see jefferson send him to me in the library. i'll go and keep roberts in good humour until he comes." he went downstairs and mrs. ryder proceeded to her apartments, where she found jefferson chatting with kate. she at once delivered ryder sr.'s message. "jeff, your father wants to see you in the library." "yes, i want to see him," answered the young man grimly, and after a few moments more badinage with kate he left the room. it was not a mere coincidence that had brought senator roberts and his daughter and the financier's son all together under the ryder roof at the same time. it was part of jefferson's well-prepared plan to expose the rascality of his father's secretary, and at the same time rid himself of the embarrassing entanglement with kate roberts. if the senator were confronted publicly with the fact that his daughter, while keeping up the fiction of being engaged to ryder jr., was really preparing to run off with the hon. fitzroy bagley, he would have no alternative but to retire gracefully under fire and relinquish all idea of a marriage alliance with the house of ryder. the critical moment had arrived. to-morrow, wednesday, was the day fixed for the elopement. the secretary's little game had gone far enough. the time had come for action. so jefferson had written to senator roberts, who was in washington, asking him if it would be convenient for him to come at once to new york and meet himself and his father on a matter of importance. the senator naturally jumped to the conclusion that jefferson and ryder had reached an amicable understanding, and he immediately hurried to new york and with his daughter came round to seventy-fourth street. when ryder sr. entered the library, senator roberts was striding nervously up and down the room. this, he felt, was an important day. the ambition of his life seemed on the point of being attained. "hello, roberts," was ryder's cheerful greeting. "what's brought you from washington at a critical time like this? the rossmore impeachment needs every friend we have." "just as if you didn't know," smiled the senator uneasily, "that i am here by appointment to meet you and your son!" "to meet me and my son?" echoed ryder astonished. the senator, perplexed and beginning to feel real alarm, showed the financier jefferson's letter. ryder read it and he looked pleased. "that's all right," he said, "if the lad asked you to meet us here it can mean only one thing--that at last he has made up his mind to this marriage." "that's what i thought," replied the senator, breathing more freely. "i was sorry to leave washington at such a time, but i'm a father, and kate is more to me than the rossmore impeachment. besides, to see her married to your son jefferson is one of the dearest wishes of my life." "you can rest easy," said ryder; "that is practically settled. jefferson's sending for you proves that he is now ready to meet my wishes. he'll be here any minute. how is the rossmore case progressing?" "not so well as it might," growled the senator. "there's a lot of maudlin sympathy for the judge. he's a pretty sick man by all accounts, and the newspapers seem to be taking his part. one or two of the western senators are talking corporate influence and trust legislation, but when it comes to a vote the matter will be settled on party lines." "that means that judge rossmore will be removed?" demanded ryder sternly. "yes, with five votes to spare," answered the senator. "that's not enough," insisted ryder. "there must be at least twenty. let there be no blunders, roberts. the man is a menace to all the big commercial interests. this thing must go through." the door opened and jefferson appeared. on seeing the senator talking with his father, he hesitated on the threshold. "come in, jeff," said his father pleasantly. "you expected to see senator roberts, didn't you?" "yes, sir. how do you do, senator?" said the young man, advancing into the room. "i got your letter, my boy, and here i am," said the senator smiling affably. "i suppose we can guess what the business is, eh?" "that he's going to marry kate, of course," chimed in ryder sr. "jeff, my lad, i'm glad you are beginning to see my way of looking at things. you're doing more to please me lately, and i appreciate it. you stayed at home when i asked you to, and now you've made up your mind regarding this marriage." jefferson let his father finish his speech, and then he said calmly: "i think there must be some misapprehension as to the reason for my summoning senator roberts to new york. it had nothing to do with my marrying miss roberts, but to prevent her marriage with someone else." "what!" exclaimed ryder, sr. "marriage with someone else?" echoed the senator. he thought he had not heard aright, yet at the same time he had grave misgivings. "what do you mean, sir?" taking from his pocket a copy of the letter he had picked up on the staircase, jefferson held it out to the girl's father. "your daughter is preparing to run away with my father's secretary. to-morrow would have been too late. that is why i summoned you. read this." the senator took the letter, and as he read his face grew ashen and his hand trembled violently. at one blow all his ambitious projects for his daughter had been swept away. the inconsiderate act of a silly, thoughtless girl had spoiled the carefully laid plans of a lifetime. the only consolation which remained was that the calamity might have been still more serious. this timely warning had saved his family from perhaps an even greater scandal. he passed the letter in silence to ryder, sr. the financier was a man of few words when the situation called for prompt action. after he had read the letter through, there was an ominous silence. then he rang a bell. the butler appeared. "tell mr. bagley i want him." the man bowed and disappeared. "who the devil is this bagley?" demanded the senator. "english--blue blood--no money," was ryder's laconic answer. "that's the only kind we seem to get over here," growled the senator. "we furnish the money--they furnish the blood--damn his blue blood! i don't want any in mine." turning to jefferson, he said: "jefferson, whatever the motives that actuated you, i can only thank you for this warning. i think it would have broken my heart if my girl had gone away with that scoundrel. of course, under the circumstances, i must abandon all idea of your becoming my son-in-law. i release you from all obligations you may have felt yourself bound by." jefferson bowed and remained silent. ryder, sr. eyed his son closely, an amused expression hovering on his face. after all, it was not so much he who had desired this match as roberts, and as long as the senator was willing to withdraw, he could make no objection. he wondered what part, if any, his son had played in bringing about this sensational denouement to a match which had been so distasteful to him, and it gratified his paternal vanity to think that jefferson after all might be smarter than he had given him credit for. at this juncture mr. bagley entered the room. he was a little taken aback on seeing the senator, but like most men of his class, his self-conceit made him confident of his ability to handle any emergency which might arise, and he had no reason to suspect that this hasty summons to the library had anything to do with his matrimonial plans. "did you ask for me, sir?" he demanded, addressing his employer. "yes, mr. bagley," replied ryder, fixing the secretary with a look that filled the latter with misgivings. "what steamers leave to-morrow for england?" "to-morrow?" echoed mr. bagley. "i said to-morrow," repeated ryder, slightly raising his voice. "let me see," stammered the secretary, "there is the white star, the north german lloyd, the atlantic transport--" "have you any preference?" inquired the financier. "no, sir, none at all." "then you'll go on board one of the ships to-night," said ryder. "your things will be packed and sent to you before the steamer sails to-morrow." the hon. fitzroy bagley, third son of a british peer, did not understand even yet that he was discharged as one dismisses a housemaid caught kissing the policeman. he could not think what mr. ryder wanted him to go abroad for unless it were on some matter of business, and it was decidedly inconvenient for him to sail at this time. "but, sir," he stammered. "i'm afraid--i'm afraid--" "yes," rejoined ryder promptly, "i notice that--your hand is shaking." "i mean that i--" "you mean that you have other engagements!" said ryder sternly. "oh no--no but--" "no engagement at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning?" insisted ryder. "with my daughter?" chimed in the senator. mr. bagley now understood. he broke out in a cold perspiration and he paled visibly. in the hope that the full extent of his plans were not known, he attempted to brazen it out. "no, certainly not, under no circumstances," he said. ryder, sr. rang a bell. "perhaps she has an engagement with you. we'll ask her." to the butler, who entered, he said: "tell miss roberts that her father would like to see her here." the man disappeared and the senator took a hand in cross-examining the now thoroughly uncomfortable secretary. "so you thought my daughter looked pale and that a little excursion to buffalo would be a good thing for her? well, it won't be a good thing for you, young man, i can assure you of that!" the english aristocrat began to wilt. his assurance of manner quite deserted him and he stammered painfully as he floundered about in excuses. "not with me--oh dear, no," he said. "you never proposed to run away with my daughter?" cried the irate father. "run away with her?" stammered bagley. "and marry her?" shouted the senator, shaking his fist at him. "oh say--this is hardly fair--three against one--really--i'm awfully sorry, eh, what?" the door opened and kate roberts bounced in. she was smiling and full of animal spirits, but on seeing the stern face of her father and the pitiable picture presented by her faithful fitz she was intelligent enough to immediately scent danger. "did you want to see me, father?" she inquired boldly. "yes, kate," answered the senator gravely, "we have just been having a talk with mr. bagley, in which you were one of the subjects of conversation. can you guess what it was?" the girl looked from her father to bagley and from him to the ryders. her aristocratic lover made a movement forward as if to exculpate himself, but he caught ryder's eye and remained where he was. "well?" she said, with a nervous laugh. "is it true" asked the senator, "that you were about to marry this man secretly?" she cast down her eyes and answered: "i suppose you know everything." "have you anything to add?" asked her father sternly. "no," said kate shaking her head. "it's true. we intended to run away, didn't we fitz?" "never mind about mr. bagley," thundered her father. "haven't you a word of shame for this disgrace you have brought upon me?" "oh papa, don't be so cross. jefferson did not care for me. i couldn't be an old maid. mr. bagley has a lovely castle in england, and one day he'll sit in the house of lords. he'll explain everything to you." "he'll explain nothing," rejoined the senator grimly. "mr. bagley returns to england to-night. he won't have time to explain anything." "returns to england?" echoed kate dismayed. "yes, and you go with me to washington at once." the senator turned to ryder. "good-bye ryder. the little domestic comedy is ended. i'm grateful it didn't turn out a drama. the next time i pick out a son-in-law i hope i'll have better luck." he shook hands with jefferson, and left the room followed by his crestfallen daughter. ryder, who had gone to write something at his desk, strode over to where mr. bagley was standing and handed him a cheque. "here, sir, this settles everything to date. good-day." "but i--i--" stammered the secretary helplessly. "good-day, sir." ryder turned his back on him and conversed with, his son, while mr. bagley slowly, and as if regretfully, made his exit. chapter xv it was now december and the senate had been in session for over a week. jefferson had not forgotten his promise, and one day, about two weeks after mr. bagley's spectacular dismissal from the ryder residence, he had brought shirley the two letters. she did not ask him how he got them, if he forced the drawer or procured the key. it sufficed for her that the precious letters--the absolute proof of her father's innocence--were at last in her possession. she at once sent them off by registered mail to stott, who immediately acknowledged receipt and at the same time announced his departure for washington that night. he promised to keep her constantly informed of what he was doing and how her father's case was going. it could, he thought, be only a matter of a few days now before the result of the proceedings would be known. the approach of the crisis made shirley exceedingly nervous, and it was only by the exercise of the greatest self-control that she did not betray the terrible anxiety she felt. the ryder biography was nearly finished and her stay in seventy-fourth street would soon come to an end. she had a serious talk with jefferson, who contrived to see a good deal of her, entirely unsuspected by his parents, for mr. and mrs. ryder had no reason to believe that their son had any more than a mere bowing acquaintance with the clever young authoress. now that mr. bagley was no longer there to spy upon their actions these clandestine interviews had been comparatively easy. shirley brought to bear all the arguments she could think of to convince jefferson of the hopelessness of their engagement. she insisted that she could never be his wife; circumstances over which they had no control made that dream impossible. it were better, she said, to part now rather than incur the risk of being unhappy later. but jefferson refused to be convinced. he argued and pleaded and he even swore--strange, desperate words that shirley had never heard before and which alarmed her not a little--and the discussion ended usually by a kiss which put shirley completely _hors de combat_. meantime, john ryder had not ceased worrying about his son. the removal of kate roberts as a factor in his future had not eliminated the danger of jefferson taking the bit between his teeth one day and contracting a secret marriage with the daughter of his enemy, and when he thought of the mere possibility of such a thing happening he stormed and raved until his wife, accustomed as she was to his choleric outbursts, was thoroughly frightened. for some time after bagley's departure, father and son got along together fairly amicably, but ryder, sr. was quick to see that jefferson had something on his mind which was worrying him, and he rightly attributed it to his infatuation for miss rossmore. he was convinced that his son knew where the judge's daughter was, although his own efforts to discover her whereabouts had been unsuccessful. sergeant ellison had confessed absolute failure; miss rossmore, he reported, had disappeared as completely as if the earth had swallowed her, and further search was futile. knowing well his son's impulsive, headstrong disposition, ryder, sr. believed him quite capable of marrying the girl secretly any time. the only thing that john ryder did not know was that shirley rossmore was not the kind of a girl to allow any man to inveigle her into a secret marriage. the colossus, who judged the world's morals by his own, was not of course aware of this, and he worried night and day thinking what he could do to prevent his son from marrying the daughter of the man he had wronged. the more he pondered over it, the more he regretted that there was not some other girl with whom jefferson could fall in love and marry. he need not seek a rich girl--there was certainly enough money in the ryder family to provide for both. he wished they knew a girl, for example, as attractive and clever as miss green. ah! he thought, there was a girl who would make a man of jefferson--brainy, ambitious, active! and the more he thought of it the more the idea grew on him that miss green would be an ideal daughter-in-law, and at the same time snatch his son from the clutches of the rossmore woman. jefferson, during all these weeks, was growing more and more impatient. he knew that any day now shirley might take her departure from their house and return to massapequa. if the impeachment proceedings went against her father it was more than likely that he would lose her forever, and if, on the contrary, the judge were acquitted, shirley never would be willing to marry him without his father's consent; and this, he felt, he would never obtain. he resolved, therefore, to have a final interview with his father and declare boldly his intention of making miss rossmore his wife, regardless of the consequences. the opportunity came one evening after dinner. ryder, sr. was sitting alone in the library, reading, mrs. ryder had gone to the theatre with a friend, shirley as usual was writing in her room, giving the final touches to her now completed "history of the empire trading company." jefferson took the bull by the horns and boldly accosted his redoubtable parent. "may i have a few minutes of your time, father?" ryder, sr. laid aside the paper he was reading and looked up. it was unusual for his son to come to him on any errand, and he liked to encourage it. "certainly, jefferson. what is it?" "i want to appeal to you, sir. i want you to use your influence, before it is too late, to save judge rossmore. a word from you at this time would do wonders in washington." the financier swung half-round in his chair, the smile of greeting faded out of his face, and his voice was hard as he replied coldly: "again? i thought we had agreed not to discuss judge rossmore any further?" "i can't help it, sir," rejoined jefferson undeterred by his sire's hostile attitude, "that poor old man is practically on trial for his life. he is as innocent of wrongdoing as a child unborn, and you know it. you could save him if you would." "jefferson," answered ryder, sr., biting his lip to restrain his impatience, "i told you before that i could not interfere even if i would; and i won't, because that man is my enemy. important business interests, which you cannot possibly know anything about, demand his dismissal from the bench." "surely your business interests don't demand the sacrifice of a man's life!" retorted jefferson. "i know modern business methods are none too squeamish, but i should think you'd draw the line at deliberate murder!" ryder sprang to his feet and for a moment stood glaring at the young man. his lips moved, but no sound came from them. suppressed wrath rendered him speechless. what was the world coming to when a son could talk to his father in this manner? "how dare you presume to judge my actions or to criticise my methods?" he burst out; finally. "you force me to do so," answered jefferson hotly. "i want to tell you that i am heartily ashamed of this whole affair and your connection with it, and since you refuse to make reparation in the only way possible for the wrong you and your associates have done judge rossmore--that is by saving him in the senate--i think it only fair to warn you that i take back my word in regard to not marrying without your consent. i want you to know that i intend to marry miss rossmore as soon as she will consent to become my wife, that is," he added with bitterness, "if i can succeed in overcoming her prejudices against my family--" ryder, sr. laughed contemptuously. "prejudices against a thousand million dollars?" he exclaimed sceptically. "yes," replied jefferson decisively, "prejudices against our family, against you and your business practices. money is not everything. one day you will find that out. i tell you definitely that i intend to make miss rossmore my wife." ryder, sr. made no reply, and as jefferson had expected an explosion, this unnatural calm rather startled him. he was sorry he had spoken so harshly. it was his father, after all. "you've forced me to defy you, father," he added. "i'm sorry--" ryder, sr. shrugged his shoulders and resumed his seat. he lit another cigar, and with affected carelessness he said: "all right, jeff, my boy, we'll let it go at that you're sorry--so am i. you've shown me your cards--i'll show you mine." his composed unruffled manner vanished. he suddenly threw off the mask and revealed the tempest that was raging within. he leaned across the desk, his face convulsed with uncontrollable passion, a terrifying picture of human wrath. shaking his fist at his son he shouted: "when i get through with judge rossmore at washington, i'll start after his daughter. this time to-morrow he'll be a disgraced man. a week later she will be a notorious woman. then we'll see if you'll be so eager to marry her!" "father!" cried jefferson. "there is sure to be something in her life that won't bear inspection," sneered ryder. "there is in everybody's life. i'll find out what it is. where is she to-day? she can't be found. no one knows where she is--not even her own mother. something is wrong--the girl's no good!" jefferson started forward as if to resent these insults to the woman he loved, but, realizing that it was his own father, he stopped short and his hands fell powerless at his side. "well, is that all?" inquired ryder, sr. with a sneer. "that's all," replied jefferson, "i'm going. good-bye." "good-bye," answered his father indifferently; "leave your address with your mother." jefferson left the room, and ryder, sr., as if exhausted by the violence of his own outburst, sank back limp in his chair. the crisis he dreaded had come at last. his son had openly defied his authority and was going to marry the daughter of his enemy. he must do something to prevent it; the marriage must not take place, but what could he do? the boy was of age and legally his own master. he could do nothing to restrain his actions unless they put him in an insane asylum. he would rather see his son there, he mused, than married to the rossmore woman. presently there was a timid knock at the library door. ryder rose from his seat and went to see who was there. to his surprise it was miss green. "may i come in?" asked shirley. "certainly, by all means. sit down." he drew up a chair for her, and his manner was so cordial that it was easy to see she was a welcome visitor. "mr. ryder," she began in a low, tremulous voice, "i have come to see you on a very important matter. i've been waiting to see you all evening--and as i shall be here only a short time longer i--want to ask you a great favour--perhaps the greatest you were ever asked--i want to ask you for mercy--for mercy to--" she stopped and glanced nervously at him, but she saw he was paying no attention to what she was saying. he was puffing heavily at his cigar, entirely preoccupied with his own thoughts. her sudden silence aroused him. he apologized: "oh, excuse me--i didn't quite catch what you were saying." she said nothing, wondering what had happened to render him so absent-minded. he read the question in her face, for, turning towards her, he exclaimed: "for the first time in my life i am face to face with defeat--defeat of the most ignominious kind--incapacity--inability to regulate my own internal affairs. i can rule a government, but i can't manage my own family--my own son. i'm a failure. tell me," he added, appealing to her, "why can't i rule my own household, why can't i govern my own child?" "why can't you govern yourself?" said shirley quietly. ryder looked keenly at her for a moment without answering her question; then, as if prompted by a sudden inspiration, he said: "you can help me, but not by preaching at me. this is the first time in my life i ever called on a living soul for help. i'm only accustomed to deal with men. this time there's a woman in the case--and i need your woman's wit--" "how can i help you?" asked shirley. "i don't know," he answered with suppressed excitement. "as i told you, i am up against a blank wall. i can't see my way." he gave a nervous little laugh and went on: "god! i'm ashamed of myself--ashamed! did you ever read the fable of the lion and the mouse? well, i want you to gnaw with your sharp woman's teeth at the cords which bind the son of john burkett ryder to this rossmore woman. i want you to be the mouse--to set me free of this disgraceful entanglement." "how?" asked shirley calmly. "ah, that's just it--how?" he replied. "can't you think--you're a woman--you have youth, beauty--brains." he stopped and eyed her closely until she reddened from the embarrassing scrutiny. then he blurted out: "by george! marry him yourself--force him to let go of this other woman! why not? come, what do you say?" this unexpected suggestion came upon shirley with all the force of a violent shock. she immediately saw the falseness of her position. this man was asking for her hand for his son under the impression that she was another woman. it would be dishonorable of her to keep up the deception any longer. she passed her hand over her face to conceal her confusion. "you--you must give me time to think," she stammered. "suppose i don't love your son--i should want something--something to compensate." "something to compensate?" echoed ryder surprised and a little disconcerted. "why, the boy will inherit millions--i don't know how many." "no--no, not money," rejoined shirley; "money only compensates those who love money. it's something else--a man's honour--a man's life! it means nothing to you." he gazed at her, not understanding. full of his own project, he had mind for nothing else. ignoring therefore the question of compensation, whatever she might mean by that, he continued: "you can win him if you make up your mind to. a woman with your resources can blind him to any other woman." "but if--he loves judge rossmore's daughter?" objected shirley. "it's for you to make him forget her--and you can," replied the financier confidently. "my desire is to separate him from this rossmore woman at any cost. you must help me." his sternness relaxed somewhat and his eyes rested on her kindly. "do you know, i should be glad to think you won't have to leave us. mrs. ryder has taken a fancy to you, and i myself shall miss you when you go." "you ask me to be your son's wife and you know nothing of my family," said shirley. "i know you--that is sufficient," he replied. "no--no you don't," returned shirley, "nor do you know your son. he has more constancy--more strength of character than you think--and far more principle than you have." "so much the greater the victory for you," he answered good humouredly. "ah," she said reproachfully, "you do not love your son." "i do love him," replied ryder warmly. "it's because i love him that i'm such a fool in this matter. don't you see that if he marries this girl it would separate us, and i should lose him. i don't want to lose him. if i welcomed her to my house it would make me the laughing-stock of all my friends and business associates. come, will you join forces with me?" shirley shook her head and was about to reply when the telephone bell rang. ryder took up the receiver and spoke to the butler downstairs: "who's that? judge stott? tell him i'm too busy to see anyone. what's that? a man's life at stake? what's that to do with me? tell him--" on hearing stott's name, shirley nearly betrayed herself. she turned pale and half-started up from her chair. something serious must have happened to bring her father's legal adviser to the ryder residence at such an hour! she thought he was in washington. could it be that the proceedings in the senate were ended and the result known? she could hardly conceal her anxiety, and instinctively she placed her hand on ryder's arm. "no, mr. ryder, do see judge stott! you must see him. i know who he is. your son has told me. judge stott is one of judge rossmore's advisers. see him. you may find out something about the girl. you may find out where she is. if jefferson finds out you have refused to see her father's friend at such a critical time it will only make him sympathize more deeply with the rossmores, and you know sympathy is akin to love. that's what you want to avoid, isn't it?" ryder still held the telephone, hesitating what to do. what she said sounded like good sense. "upon my word--" he said. "you may be right and yet--" "am i to help you or not?" demanded shirley. "you said you wanted a woman's wit." "yes," said ryder, "but still--" "then you had better see him," she said emphatically. ryder turned to the telephone. "hello, jorkins, are you there? show judge stott up here." he laid the receiver down and turned again to shirley. "that's one thing i don't like about you," he said. "i allow you to decide against me and then i agree with you." she said nothing and he went on looking at her admiringly. "i predict that you'll bring that boy to your feet within a month. i don't know why, but i seem to feel that he is attracted to you already. thank heaven! you haven't a lot of troublesome relations. i think you said you were almost alone in the world. don't look so serious," he added laughing. "jeff is a fine fellow, and believe me an excellent catch as the world goes." shirley raised her hand as if entreating him to desist. "oh, don't--don't--please! my position is so false! you don't know how false it is!" she cried. at that instant the library door was thrown open and the butler appeared, ushering in stott. the lawyer looked anxious, and his dishevelled appearance indicated that he had come direct from the train. shirley scanned his face narrowly in the hope that she might read there what had happened. he walked right past her, giving no sign of recognition, and advanced direct towards ryder, who had risen and remained standing at his desk. "perhaps i had better go?" ventured shirley, although tortured by anxiety to hear the news from washington. "no," said ryder quickly, "judge stott will detain me but a very few moments." having delivered himself of this delicate hint, he looked towards his visitor as if inviting him to come to the point as rapidly as possible. "i must apologize for intruding at this unseemly hour, sir," said stott, "but time is precious. the senate meets to-morrow to vote. if anything is to be done for judge rossmore it must be done to-night." "i fail to see why you address yourself to me in this matter, sir," replied ryder with asperity. "as judge rossmore's friend and counsel," answered stott, "i am impelled to ask your help at this critical moment." "the matter is in the hands of the united states senate, sir," replied ryder coldly. "they are against him!" cried stott; "not one senator i've spoken to holds out any hope for him. if he is convicted it will mean his death. inch by inch his life is leaving him. the only thing that can save him is the good news of the senate's refusal to find him guilty." stott was talking so excitedly and loudly that neither he nor ryder heard the low moan that came from the corner of the room where shirley was standing listening. "i can do nothing," repeated ryder coldly, and he turned his back and began to examine some papers lying on his desk as if to notify the caller that the interview was ended. but stott was not so easily discouraged. he went on: "as i understand it, they will vote on strictly party lines, and the party in power is against him. he's a marked man. you have the power to help him." heedless of ryder's gesture of impatience he continued: "when i left his bedside to-night, sir, i promised to return to him with good news; i have told him that the senate ridicules the charges against him. i must return to him with good news. he is very ill to-night, sir." he halted for a moment and glanced in shirley's direction, and slightly raising his voice so she might hear, he added: "if he gets worse we shall send for his daughter." "where is his daughter?" demanded ryder, suddenly interested. "she is working in her father's interests," replied stott, and, he added significantly, "i believe with some hope of success." he gave shirley a quick, questioning look. she nodded affirmatively. ryder, who had seen nothing of this by-play, said with a sneer: "surely you didn't come here to-night to tell me this?" "no, sir, i did not." he took from his pocket two letters--the two which shirley had sent him--and held them out for ryder's inspection. "these letters from judge rossmore to you," he said, "show you to be acquainted with the fact that he bought those shares as an investment--and did not receive them as a bribe." when he caught sight of the letters and he realized what they were, ryder changed colour. instinctively his eyes sought the drawer on the left-hand side of his desk. in a voice that was unnaturally calm, he asked: "why don't you produce them before the senate?" "it was too late," explained stott, handing them to the financier. "i received them only two days ago. but if you come forward and declare--" ryder made an effort to control himself. "i'll do nothing of the kind. i refuse to move in the matter. that is final. and now, sir," he added, raising his voice and pointing to the letters, "i wish to know how comes it that you had in your possession private correspondence addressed to me?" "that i cannot answer," replied stott promptly. "from whom did you receive these letters?" demanded ryder. stott was dumb, while shirley clutched at her chair as if she would fall. the financier repeated the question. "i must decline to answer," replied stott finally. shirley left her place and came slowly forward. addressing ryder, she said: "i wish to make a statement." the financier gazed at her in astonishment. what could she know about it, he wondered, and he waited with curiosity to hear what she was going to say. but stott instantly realized that she was about to take the blame upon herself, regardless of the consequences to the success of their cause. this must be prevented at all hazards, even if another must be sacrificed, so interrupting her he said hastily to ryder: "judge rossmore's life and honour are at stake and no false sense of delicacy must cause the failure of my object to save him. these letters were sent to me by--your son." "from my son!" exclaimed ryder, starting. for a moment he staggered as if he had received a blow; he was too much overcome to speak or act. then recovering himself, he rang a bell, and turned to stott with renewed fury: "so," he cried, "this man, this judge whose honour is at stake and his daughter, who most likely has no honour at stake, between them have made a thief and a liar of my son! false to his father, false to his party; and you, sir, have the presumption to come here and ask me to intercede for him!" to the butler, who entered, he said: "see if mr. jefferson is still in the house. if he is, tell him i would like to see him here at once." the man disappeared, and ryder strode angrily up and down the room with the letters in his hand. then, turning abruptly on stott, he said: "and now, sir, i think nothing more remains to be said. i shall keep these letters, as they are my property." "as you please. good night, sir." "good night," replied ryder, not looking up. with a significant glance at shirley, who motioned to him that she might yet succeed where he had failed, stott left the room. ryder turned to shirley. his fierceness of manner softened down as he addressed the girl: "you see what they have done to my son--" "yes," replied shirley, "it's the girl's fault. if jefferson hadn't loved her you would have helped the judge. ah, why did they ever meet! she has worked on his sympathy and he--he took these letters for her sake, not to injure you. oh, you must make some allowance for him! one's sympathy gets aroused in spite of oneself; even i feel sorry for--these people." "don't," replied ryder grimly, "sympathy is often weakness. ah, there you are!" turning to jefferson, who entered the room at that moment. "you sent for me, father?" "yes," said ryder, sr., holding up the letters. "have you ever seen these letters before?" jefferson took the letters and examined them, then he passed them back to his father and said frankly: "yes, i took them out of your desk and sent them to mr. stott in the hope they would help judge rossmore's case." ryder restrained himself from proceeding to actual violence only with the greatest difficulty. his face grew white as death, his lips were compressed, his hands twitched convulsively, his eyes flashed dangerously. he took another cigar to give the impression that he had himself well under control, but the violent trembling of his hands as he lit it betrayed the terrific strain he was under. "so!" he said, "you deliberately sacrificed my interests to save this woman's father--you hear him, miss green? jefferson, my boy, i think it's time you and i had a final accounting." shirley made a motion as if about to withdraw. he stopped her with a gesture. "please don't go, miss green. as the writer of my biography you are sufficiently well acquainted with my family affairs to warrant your being present at the epilogue. besides, i want an excuse for keeping my temper. sit down, miss green." turning to jefferson, he went on: "for your mother's sake, my boy, i have overlooked your little eccentricities of character. but now we have arrived at the parting of the ways--you have gone too far. the one aspect of this business i cannot overlook is your willingness to sell, your own father for the sake of a woman." "my own father," interrupted jefferson bitterly, "would not hesitate to sell me if his business and political interests warranted the sacrifice!" shirley attempted the rôle of peacemaker. appealing to the younger man, she said: "please don't talk like that, mr. jefferson." then she turned to ryder, sr.: "i don't think your son quite understands you, mr. ryder, and, if you will pardon me, i don't think you quite understand him. do you realize that there is a man's life at stake--that judge rossmore is almost at the point of death and that favourable news from the senate to-morrow is perhaps the only thing that can save him?" "ah, i see," sneered ryder, sr. "judge stott's story has aroused your sympathy." "yes, i--i confess my sympathy is aroused. i do feel for this father whose life is slowly ebbing away--whose strength is being sapped hourly by the thought of the disgrace--the injustice that is being done him! i do feel for the wife of this suffering man!" "ah, its a complete picture!" cried ryder mockingly. "the dying father, the sorrowing mother--and the daughter, what is she supposed to be doing?" "she is fighting for her father's life," cried shirley, "and you, mr. jefferson, should have pleaded--pleaded--not demanded. it's no use trying to combat your father's will." "she is quite right, father. i should have implored you. i do so now. i ask you for god's sake to help us!" ryder was grim and silent. he rose from his seat and paced the room, puffing savagely at his cigar. then he turned and said: "his removal is a political necessity. if he goes back on the bench every paltry justice of the peace, every petty official will think he has a special mission to tear down the structure that hard work and capital have erected. no, this man has been especially conspicuous in his efforts to block the progress of amalgamated interests." "and so he must be sacrificed?" cried shirley indignantly. "he is a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and--" "he is innocent of the charges brought against him," urged jefferson. "mr. ryder is not considering that point," said shirley bitterly. "all he can see is that it is necessary to put this poor old man in the public pillory, to set him up as a warning to others of his class not to act in accordance with the principles of truth and justice--not to dare to obstruct the car of juggernaut set in motion by the money gods of the country!" "it's the survival of the fittest, my dear," said ryder coldly. "oh!" cried shirley, making a last appeal to the financier's heart of stone, "use your great influence with this governing body for good, not evil! urge them to vote not in accordance with party policy and personal interest, but in accordance with their consciences--in accordance with truth and justice! ah, for god's sake, mr. ryder! don't permit this foul injustice to blot the name of the highest tribunal in the western world!" ryder laughed cynically. "by jove! jefferson, i give you credit for having secured an eloquent advocate!" "suppose," went on shirley, ignoring his taunting comments, "suppose this daughter promises that she will never--never see your son again--that she will go away to some foreign country!" "no!" burst in jefferson, "why should she? if my father is not man enough to do a simple act of justice without bartering a woman's happiness and his son's happiness, let him find comfort in his self-justification!" shirley, completely unnerved, made a move towards the door, unable longer to bear the strain she was under. she tottered as though she would fall. ryder made a quick movement towards his son and took him by the arm. pointing to shirley he said in a low tone: "you see how that girl pleads your cause for you! she loves you, my boy!" jefferson started. "yes, she does," pursued ryder, sr. "she's worth a thousand of the rossmore woman. make her your wife and i'll--" "make her my wife!" cried jefferson joyously. he stared at his parent as if he thought he had suddenly been bereft of his senses. "make her my wife?" he repeated incredulously. "well, what do you say?" demanded ryder, sr. the young man advanced towards shirley, hands outstretched. "yes, yes, shir--miss green, will you?" seeing that shirley made no sign, he said: "not now, father; i will speak to her later." "no, no, to-night, at once!" insisted ryder. addressing shirley, he went on: "miss green, my son is much affected by your disinterested appeal in his behalf. he--he--you can save him from himself--my son wishes you--he asks you to become his wife! is it not so, jefferson?" "yes, yes, my wife!" advancing again towards shirley. the girl shrank back in alarm. "no, no, no, mr. ryder, i cannot, i cannot!" she cried. "why not?" demanded ryder, sr. appealingly. "ah, don't--don't decide hastily--" shirley, her face set and drawn and keen mental distress showing in every line of it, faced the two men, pale and determined. the time had come to reveal the truth. this masquerade could go on no longer. it was not honourable either to her father or to herself. her self-respect demanded that she inform the financier of her true identity. "i cannot marry your son with these lies upon my lips!" she cried. "i cannot go on with this deception. i told you you did not know who i was, who my people were. my story about them, my name, everything about me is false, every word i have uttered is a lie, a fraud, a cheat! i would not tell you now, but you trusted me and are willing to entrust your son's future, your family honour in my keeping, and i can't keep back the truth from you. mr. ryder, i am the daughter of the man you hate. i am the woman your son loves. i am shirley rossmore!" ryder took his cigar from his lips and rose slowly to his feet. "you? you?" he stammered. [photo, from the play, of jefferson and shirley appealing to mr. ryder] "for god's sake, mr. ryder, don't permit this foul injustice."--act iii. "yes--yes, i am the rossmore woman! listen, mr. ryder. don't turn away from me. go to washington on behalf of my father, and i promise you i will never see your son again--never, never!" "ah, shirley!" cried jefferson, "you don't love me!" "yes, jeff, i do; god knows i do! but if i must break my own heart to save my father i will do it." "would you sacrifice my happiness and your own?" "no happiness can be built on lies, jeff. we must build on truth or our whole house will crumble and fall. we have deceived your father, but he will forgive that, won't you?" she said, appealing to ryder, "and you will go to washington, you will save my father's honour, his life, you will--?" they stood face to face--this slim, delicate girl battling for her father's life, arrayed against a cold-blooded, heartless, unscrupulous man, deaf to every impulse of human sympathy or pity. since this woman had deceived him, fooled him, he would deal with her as with everyone else who crossed his will. she laid her hand on his arm, pleading with him. brutally, savagely, he thrust her aside. "no, no, i will not!" he thundered. "you have wormed yourself into my confidence by means of lies and deceit. you have tricked me, fooled me to the very limit! oh, it is easy to see how you have beguiled my son into the folly of loving you! and you--you have the brazen effrontery to ask me to plead for your father? no! no! no! let the law take its course, and now miss rossmore--you will please leave my house to-morrow morning!" shirley stood listening to what he had to say, her face white, her mouth quivering. at last the crisis had come. it was a fight to the finish between this man, the incarnation of corporate greed and herself, representing the fundamental principles of right and justice. she turned on him in a fury: "yes, i will leave your house to-night! do you think i would remain another hour beneath the roof of a man who is as blind to justice, as deaf to mercy, as incapable of human sympathy as you are!" she raised her voice; and as she stood there denouncing the man of money, her eyes flashing and her head thrown back, she looked like some avenging angel defying one of the powers of evil. "leave the room!" shouted ryder, beside himself, and pointing to the door. "father!" cried jefferson, starting forward to protect the girl he loved. "you have tricked him as you have me!" thundered ryder. "it is your own vanity that has tricked you!" cried shirley contemptuously. "you lay traps for yourself and walk into them. you compel everyone around you to lie to you, to cajole you, to praise you, to deceive you! at least, you cannot accuse me of flattering you. i have never fawned upon you as you compel your family and your friends and your dependents to do. i have always appealed to your better nature by telling you the truth, and in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth now." "go!" he commanded. "yes, let us go, shirley!" said jefferson. "no, jeff, i came here alone and i'm going alone!" "you are not. i shall go with you. i intend to make you my wife!" ryder laughed scornfully. "no," cried shirley. "do you think i'd marry a man whose father is as deep a discredit to the human race as your father is? no, i wouldn't marry the son of such a merciless tyrant! he refuses to lift his voice to save my father. i refuse to marry his son!" she turned on ryder with all the fury of a tiger: "you think if you lived in the olden days you'd be a caesar or an alexander. but you wouldn't! you'd be a nero--a nero! sink my self-respect to the extent of marrying into your family!" she exclaimed contemptuously. "never! i am going to washington without your aid. i am going to save my father if i have to go on my knees to every united states senator. i'll go to the white house; i'll tell the president what you are! marry your son--no, thank you! no, thank you!" exhausted by the vehemence of her passionate outburst, shirley hurried from the room, leaving ryder speechless, staring at his son. chapter xvi when shirley reached her rooms she broke down completely, she threw herself upon a sofa and burst into a fit of violent sobbing. after all, she was only a woman and the ordeal through which she had passed would have taxed the strongest powers of endurance. she had borne up courageously while there remained the faintest chance that she might succeed in moving the financier to pity, but now that all hopes in that direction were shattered and she herself had been ordered harshly from the house like any ordinary malefactor, the reaction set in, and she gave way freely to her long pent-up anguish and distress. nothing now could save her father--not even this journey to washington which she determined to take nevertheless, for, according to what stott had said, the senate was to take a vote that very night. she looked at the time--eleven o'clock. she had told mr. ryder that she would leave his house at once, but on reflection it was impossible for a girl alone to seek a room at that hour. it would be midnight before she could get her things packed. no, she would stay under this hated roof until morning and then take the first train to washington. there was still a chance that the vote might be delayed, in which case she might yet succeed in winning over some of the senators. she began to gather her things together and was thus engaged when she, heard a knock at her door. "who's there?" she called out. "it's i," replied a familiar voice. shirley went to the door and opening it found jefferson on the threshold. he made no attempt to enter, nor did she invite him in. he looked tired and careworn. "of course, you're not going to-night?" he asked anxiously. "my father did not mean to-night." "no, jeff," she said wearily; "not to-night. it's a little too late. i did not realize it. to-morrow morning, early." he seemed reassured and held out his hand: "good-night, dearest--you're a brave girl. you made a splendid fight." "it didn't do much good," she replied in a disheartened, listless way. "but it set him thinking," rejoined jefferson. "no one ever spoke to my father like that before. it did him good. he's still marching up and down the library, chewing the cud--" noticing shirley's tired face and her eyes, with great black circles underneath, he stopped short. "now don't do any more packing to-night," he said. "go to bed and in the morning i'll come up and help you. good night!" "good night, jeff," she smiled. he went downstairs, and after doing some more packing she went to bed. but it was hours before she got to sleep, and then she dreamed that she was in the senate chamber and that she saw ryder suddenly rise and denounce himself before the astonished senators as a perjurer and traitor to his country, while she returned to massapequa with the glad news that her father was acquitted. meantime, a solitary figure remained in the library, pacing to and fro like a lost soul in purgatory. mrs. ryder had returned from the play and gone to bed, serenely oblivious of the drama in real life that had been enacted at home, the servants locked the house up for the night and still john burkett ryder walked the floor of his sanctum, and late into the small hours of the morning the watchman going his lonely rounds, saw a light in the library and the restless figure of his employer sharply silhouetted against the white blinds. for the first time in his life john ryder realized that there was something in the world beyond self. he had seen with his own eyes the sacrifice a daughter will make for the father she loves, and he asked himself what manner of a man that father could be to inspire such devotion in his child. he probed into his own heart and conscience and reviewed his past career. he had been phenomenally successful, but he had not been happy. he had more money than he knew what to do with, but the pleasures of the domestic circle, which he saw other men enjoy, had been denied to him. was he himself to blame? had his insensate craving for gold and power led him to neglect those other things in life which contribute more truly to man's happiness? in other words, was his life a mistake? yes, it was true what this girl charged, he had been merciless and unscrupulous in his dealings with his fellow man. it was true that hardly a dollar of his vast fortune had been honestly earned. it was true that it had been wrung from the people by fraud and trickery. he had craved for power, yet now he had tasted it, what a hollow joy it was, after all! the public hated and despised him; even his so-called friends and business associates toadied to him merely because they feared him. and this judge--this father he had persecuted and ruined, what a better man and citizen he was, how much more worthy of a child's love and of the esteem of the world! what had judge rossmore done, after all, to deserve the frightful punishment the amalgamated interests had caused him to suffer? if he had blocked their game, he had done only what his oath, his duty commanded him to do. such a girl as shirley rossmore could not have had any other kind of a father. ah, if he had had such a daughter he might have been a better man, if only to win his child's respect and affection. john ryder pondered long and deeply and the more he ruminated the stronger the conviction grew upon him that the girl was right and he was wrong. suddenly, he looked at his watch. it was one o'clock. roberts had told him that it would be an all night session and that a vote would probably not be taken until very late. he unhooked the telephone and calling "central" asked for "long distance" and connection with washington. it was seven o'clock when the maid entered shirley's room with her breakfast and she found its occupant up and dressed. "why you haven't been to bed, miss!" exclaimed the girl, looking at the bed in the inner room which seemed scarcely disturbed. "no, theresa i--i couldn't sleep." hastily pouring out a cup of tea she added. "i must catch that nine o'clock train to washington. i didn't finish packing until nearly three." "can i do anything for you, miss?" inquired the maid. shirley was as popular with the servants as with the rest of the household. "no," answered shirley, "there are only a few things to go in my suit case. will you please have a cab here in half an hour?" the maid was about to go when she suddenly thought of something she had forgotten. she held out an envelope which she had left lying on the tray. "oh, miss, mr. jorkins said to give you this and master wanted to see you as soon as you had finished your breakfast." shirley tore open the envelope and took out the contents. it was a cheque, payable to her order for $ , and signed "john burkett ryder." a deep flush covered the girl's face as she saw the money--a flush of annoyance rather than of pleasure. this man who had insulted her, who had wronged her father, who had driven her from his home, thought he could throw his gold at her and insolently send her her pay as one settles haughtily with a servant discharged for impertinence. she would have none of his money--the work she had done she would make him a present of. she replaced the cheque in the envelope and passed it back to theresa. "give this to mr. ryder and tell him i cannot see him." "but mr. ryder said--" insisted the girl. "please deliver my message as i give it," commanded shirley with authority. "i cannot see mr. ryder." the maid withdrew, but she had barely closed the door when it was opened again and mrs. ryder rushed in, without knocking. she was all flustered with excitement and in such a hurry that she had not even stopped to arrange her toilet. "my dear miss green," she gasped; "what's this i hear--going away suddenly without giving me warning?" "i wasn't engaged by the month," replied shirley drily. "i know, dear, i know. i was thinking of myself. i've grown so used to you--how shall i get on without you--no one understands me the way you do. dear me! the whole house is upset. mr. ryder never went to bed at all last night. jefferson is going away, too--forever, he threatens. if he hadn't come and woke me up to say good-bye, i should never have known you intended to leave us. my boy's going--you're going--everyone's deserting me!" mrs. ryder was not accustomed to such prolonged flights of oratory and she sank exhausted on a chair, her eyes filling with tears. "did they tell you who i am--the daughter of judge rossmore?" demanded shirley. it had been a shock to mrs. ryder that morning when jefferson burst into his mother's room before she was up and acquainted her with the events of the previous evening. the news that the miss green whom she had grown to love, was really the miss rossmore of whose relations with jefferson her husband stood in such dread, was far from affecting the financier's wife as it had ryder himself. to the mother's simple and ingenuous mind, free from prejudice and ulterior motive, the girl's character was more important than her name, and certainly she could not blame her son for loving such a woman as shirley. of course, it was unfortunate for jefferson that his father felt this bitterness towards judge rossmore, for she herself could hardly have wished for a more sympathetic daughter-in-law. she had not seen her husband since the previous evening at dinner so was in complete ignorance as to what he thought of this new development, but the mother sighed as she thought how happy it would make her to see jefferson happily married to the girl of his own choice, and in her heart she still entertained the hope that her husband would see it that way and thus prevent their son from leaving them as he threatened. "that's not your fault, my dear," she replied answering shirley's question. "you are yourself--that's the main thing. you mustn't mind what mr. ryder says? business and worry makes him irritable at times. if you must go, of course you must--you are the best judge of that, but jefferson wants to see you before you leave." she kissed shirley in motherly fashion, and added: "he has told me everything, dear. nothing would make me happier than to see you become his wife. he's downstairs now waiting for me to tell him to come up." "it's better that i should not see him," replied shirley slowly and gravely. "i can only tell him what i have already told him. my father comes first. i have still a duty to perform." "that's right, dear," answered mrs. ryder. "you're a good, noble girl and i admire you all the more for it. i'll let jefferson be his own advocate. you'll see him for my sake!" she gave shirley another affectionate embrace and left the room while the girl proceeded with her final preparations for departure. presently there was a quick, heavy step in the corridor outside and jefferson appeared in the doorway. he stood there waiting for her to invite him in. she looked up and greeted him cordially, yet it was hardly the kind of reception he looked for or that he considered he had a right to expect. he advanced sulkily into the room. "mother said she had put everything right," he began. "i guess she was mistaken." "your mother does not understand, neither do you," she replied seriously. "nothing can be put right until my father is restored to honour and position." "but why should you punish me because my father fails to regard the matter as we do?" demanded jefferson rebelliously. "why should i punish myself--why should we punish those nearest and dearest?" answered shirley gently, "the victims of human injustice always suffer where their loved ones are tortured. why are things as they are--i don't know. i know they are--that's all." the young man strode nervously up and down the room while she gazed listlessly out of the window, looking for the cab that was to carry her away from this house of disappointment. he pleaded with her: "i have tried honourably and failed--you have tried honourably and failed. isn't the sting of impotent failure enough to meet without striving against a hopeless love?" he approached her and said softly: "i love you shirley--don't drive me to desperation. must i be punished because you have failed? it's unfair. the sins of the fathers should not be visited upon the children." "but they are--it's the law," said shirley with resignation. "the law?" he echoed. "yes, the law," insisted the girl; "man's law, not god's, the same unjust law that punishes my father--man's law which is put into the hands of the powerful of the earth to strike at the weak." she sank into a chair and, covering up her face, wept bitterly. between her sobs she cried brokenly: "i believed in the power of love to soften your father's heart, i believed that with god's help i could bring him to see the truth. i believed that truth and love would make him see the light, but it hasn't. i stayed on and on, hoping against hope until the time has gone by and it's too late to save him, too late! what can i do now? my going to washington is a forlorn hope, a last, miserable, forlorn hope and in this hour, the darkest of all, you ask me to think of myself--my love, your love, your happiness, your future, my future! ah, wouldn't it be sublime selfishness?" jefferson kneeled down beside the chair and taking her hand in his, tried to reason with her and comfort her: "listen, shirley," he said, "do not do something you will surely regret. you are punishing me not only because i have failed but because you have failed too. it seems to me that if you believed it possible to accomplish so much, if you had so much faith--that you have lost your faith rather quickly. i believed in nothing, i had no faith and yet i have not lost hope." she shook her head and gently withdrew her hand. "it is useless to insist, jefferson--until my father is cleared of this stain our lives--yours and mine--must lie apart." someone coughed and, startled, they both looked up. mr. ryder had entered the room unobserved and stood watching them. shirley immediately rose to her feet indignant, resenting this intrusion on her privacy after she had declined to receive the financier. yet, she reflected quickly, how could she prevent it? he was at home, free to come and go as he pleased, but she was not compelled to remain in the same room with him. she picked up the few things that lay about and with a contemptuous toss of her head, retreated into the inner apartment, leaving father and son alone together. "hum," grunted ryder, sr. "i rather thought i should find you here, but i didn't quite expect to find you on your knees--dragging our pride in the mud." "that's where our pride ought to be," retorted jefferson savagely. he felt in the humor to say anything, no matter what the consequences. "so she has refused you again, eh?" said ryder, sr. with a grin. "yes," rejoined jefferson with growing irritation, "she objects to my family. i don't blame her." the financier smiled grimly as he answered: "your family in general--me in particular, eh? i gleaned that much when i came in." he looked towards the door of the room in which shirley had taken refuge and as if talking to himself he added: "a curious girl with an inverted point of view--sees everything different to others--i want to see her before she goes." he walked over to the door and raised his hand as if he were about to knock. then he stopped as if he had changed his mind and turning towards his son he demanded: "do you mean to say that she has done with you?" "yes," answered jefferson bitterly. "finally?" "yes, finally--forever!" "does she mean it?" asked ryder, sr., sceptically. "yes--she will not listen to me while her father is still in peril." there was an expression of half amusement, half admiration on the financier's face as he again turned towards the door. "it's like her, damn it, just like her!" he muttered. he knocked boldly at the door. "who's there?" cried shirley from within. "it is i--mr. ryder. i wish to speak to you." "i must beg you to excuse me," came the answer, "i cannot see you." jefferson interfered. "why do you want to add to the girl's misery? don't you think she has suffered enough?" "do you know what she has done?" said ryder with pretended indignation. "she has insulted me grossly. i never was so humiliated in my life. she has returned the cheque i sent her last night in payment for her work on my biography. i mean to make her take that money. it's hers, she needs it, her father's a beggar. she must take it back. it's only flaunting her contempt for me in my face and i won't permit it." [photo, from the play, of mr. ryder holding out a cheque to shirley.] "so i contaminate even good money?"--act iv. "i don't think her object in refusing that money was to flaunt contempt in your face, or in any way humiliate you," answered jefferson. "she feels she has been sailing under false colours and desires to make some reparation." "and so she sends me back my money, feeling that will pacify me, perhaps repair the injury she has done me, perhaps buy me into entering into her plan of helping her father, but it won't. it only increases my determination to see her and her--" suddenly changing the topic he asked: "when do you leave us?" "now--at once--that is--i--don't know," answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact is my faculties are numbed--i seem to have lost my power of thinking. father," he exclaimed, "you see what a wreck you have made of our lives!" "now, don't moralize," replied his father testily, "as if your own selfishness in desiring to possess that girl wasn't the mainspring of all your actions!" waving his son out of the room he added: "now leave me alone with her for a few moments. perhaps i can make her listen to reason." jefferson stared at his father as if he feared he were out of his mind. "what do you mean? are you--?" he ejaculated. "go--go leave her to me," commanded the financier. "slam the door when you go out and she'll think we've both gone. then come up again presently." the stratagem succeeded admirably. jefferson gave the door a vigorous pull and john ryder stood quiet, waiting for the girl to emerge from sanctuary. he did not have to wait long. the door soon opened and shirley came out slowly. she had her hat on and was drawing on her gloves, for through her window she had caught a glimpse of the cab standing at the curb. she started on seeing ryder standing there motionless, and she would have retreated had he not intercepted her. "i wish to speak to you miss--rossmore," he began. "i have nothing to say," answered shirley frigidly. "why did you do this?" he asked, holding out the cheque. "because i do not want your money," she replied with hauteur. "it was yours--you earned it," he said. "no, i came here hoping to influence you to help my father. the work i did was part of the plan. it happened to fall my way. i took it as a means to get to your heart." "but it is yours, please take it. it will be useful." "no," she said scornfully, "i can't tell you how low i should fall in my own estimation if i took your money! money," she added, with ringing contempt, "why, that's all there is to _you!_ it's your god! shall i make your god my god? no, thank you, mr. ryder!" "am i as bad as that?" he asked wistfully. "you are as bad as that!" she answered decisively. "so bad that i contaminate even good money?" he spoke lightly but she noticed that he winced. "money itself is nothing," replied the girl, "it's the spirit that gives it--the spirit that receives it, the spirit that earns it, the spirit that spends it. money helps to create happiness. it also creates misery. it's an engine of destruction when not properly used, it destroys individuals as it does nations. it has destroyed you, for it has warped your soul!" "go on," he laughed bitterly, "i like to hear you!" "no, you don't, mr. ryder, no you don't, for deep down in your heart you know that i am speaking the truth. money and the power it gives you, has dried up the well-springs of your heart." he affected to be highly amused at her words, but behind the mask of callous indifference the man suffered. her words seared him as with a red hot iron. she went on: "in the barbaric ages they fought for possession, but they fought openly. the feudal barons fought for what they stole, but it was a fair fight. they didn't strike in the dark. at least, they gave a man a chance for his life. but when you modern barons of industry don't like legislation you destroy it, when you don't like your judges you remove them, when a competitor outbids you you squeeze him out of commercial existence! you have no hearts, you are machines, and you are cowards, for you fight unfairly." "it is not true, it is not true," he protested. "it is true," she insisted hotly, "a few hours ago in cold blood you doomed my father to what is certain death because you decided it was a political necessity. in other words he interfered with your personal interests--your financial interests--you, with so many millions you can't count them!" scornfully she added: "come out into the light--fight in the open! at least, let him know who his enemy is!" "stop--stop--not another word," he cried impatiently, "you have diagnosed the disease. what of the remedy? are you prepared to reconstruct human nature?" confronting each other, their eyes met and he regarded her without resentment, almost with tenderness. he felt strangely drawn towards this woman who had defied and accused him, and made him see the world in a new light. "i don't deny," he admitted reluctantly, "that things seem to be as you describe them, but it is part of the process of evolution." "no," she protested, "it is the work of god!" "it is evolution!" he insisted. "ah, that's it," she retorted, "you evolve new ideas, new schemes, new tricks--you all worship different gods--gods of your own making!" he was about to reply when there was a commotion at the door and theresa entered, followed by a man servant to carry down the trunk. "the cab is downstairs, miss," said the maid. ryder waved them away imperiously. he had something further to say which he did not care for servants to hear. theresa and the man precipitately withdrew, not understanding, but obeying with alacrity a master who never brooked delay in the execution of his orders. shirley, indignant, looked to him for an explanation. "you don't need them," he exclaimed with a quiet smile in which was a shade of embarrassment. "i--i came here to tell you that i--" he stopped as if unable to find words, while shirley gazed at him in utter astonishment. "ah," he went on finally, "you have made it very hard for me to speak." again he paused and then with an effort he said slowly: "an hour ago i had senator roberts on the long distance telephone, and i'm going to washington. it's all right about your father. the matter will be dropped. you've beaten me. i acknowledge it. you're the first living soul who ever has beaten john burkett ryder." shirley started forward with a cry of mingled joy and surprise. could she believe her ears? was it possible that the dreaded colossus had capitulated and that she had saved her father? had the forces of right and justice prevailed, after all? her face transfigured, radiant she exclaimed breathlessly: "what, mr. ryder, you mean that you are going to help my father?" "not for his sake--for yours," he answered frankly. shirley hung her head. in her moment of triumph, she was sorry for all the hard things she had said to this man. she held out her hand to him. "forgive me," she said gently, "it was for my father. i had no faith. i thought your heart was of stone." impulsively ryder drew her to him, he clasped her two hands in his and looking down at her kindly he said, awkwardly: "so it was--so it was! you accomplished the miracle. it's the first time i've acted on pure sentiment. let me tell you something. good sentiment is bad business and good business is bad sentiment--that's why a rich man is generally supposed to have such a hard time getting into the kingdom of heaven." he laughed and went on, "i've given ten millions apiece to three universities. do you think i'm fool enough to suppose i can buy my way? but that's another matter. i'm going to washington on behalf of your father because i--want you to marry my son. yes, i want you in the family, close to us. i want your respect, my girl. i want your love. i want to earn it. i know i can't buy it. there's a weak spot in every man's armour and this is mine--i always want what i can't get and i can't get your love unless i earn it." shirley remained pensive. her thoughts were out on long island, at massapequa. she was thinking of their joy when they heard the news--her father, her mother and stott. she was thinking of the future, bright and glorious with promise again, now that the dark clouds were passing away. she thought of jefferson and a soft light came into her eyes as she foresaw a happy wifehood shared with him. "why so sober," demanded ryder, "you've gained your point, your father is to be restored to you, you'll marry the man you love?" "i'm so happy!" murmured shirley. "i don't deserve it. i had no faith." ryder released her and took out his watch. "i leave in fifteen minutes for washington," he said. "will you trust me to go alone?" "i trust you gladly," she answered smiling at him. "i shall always be grateful to you for letting me convert you." "you won me over last night," he rejoined, "when you put up that fight for your father. i made up my mind that a girl so loyal to her father would be loyal to her husband. you think," he went on, "that i do not love my son--you are mistaken. i do love him and i want him to be happy. i am capable of more affection than people think. it is wall street," he added bitterly, "that has crushed all sentiment out of me." shirley laughed nervously, almost hysterically. "i want to laugh and i feel like crying," she cried. "what will jefferson say--how happy he will be!" "how are you going to tell him?" inquired ryder uneasily. "i shall tell him that his dear, good father has relented and--" "no, my dear," he interrupted, "you will say nothing of the sort. i draw the line at the dear, good father act. i don't want him to think that it comes from me at all." "but," said shirley puzzled, "i shall have to tell him that you--" "what?" exclaimed ryder, "acknowledge to my son that i was in the wrong, that i've seen the error of my ways and wish to repent? excuse me," he added grimly, "it's got to come from him. he must see the error of _his_ ways." "but the error of his way," laughed the girl, "was falling in love with me. i can never prove to him that that was wrong!" the financier refused to be convinced. he shook his head and said stubbornly: "well, he must be put in the wrong somehow or other! why, my dear child," he went on, "that boy has been waiting all his life for an opportunity to say to me: 'father, i knew i was in the right, and i knew you were wrong,' can't you see," he asked, "what a false position it places me in? just picture his triumph!" "he'll be too happy to triumph," objected shirley. feeling a little ashamed of his attitude, he said: "i suppose you think i'm very obstinate." then, as she made no reply, he added: "i wish i didn't care what you thought." shirley looked at him gravely for a moment and then she replied seriously: "mr. ryder, you're a great man--you're a genius--your life is full of action, energy, achievement. but it appears to be only the good, the noble and the true that you are ashamed of. when your money triumphs over principle, when your political power defeats the ends of justice, you glory in your victory. but when you do a kindly, generous, fatherly act, when you win a grand and noble victory over yourself, you are ashamed of it. it was a kind, generous impulse that has prompted you to save my father and take your son and myself to your heart. why are you ashamed to let him see it? are you afraid he will love you? are you afraid i shall love you? open your heart wide to us--let us love you." ryder, completely vanquished, opened his arms and shirley sprang forward and embraced him as she would have embraced her own father. a solitary tear coursed down the financier's cheek. in thirty years he had not felt, or been touched by, the emotion of human affection. the door suddenly opened and jefferson entered. he started on seeing shirley in his father's arms. "jeff, my boy," said the financier, releasing shirley and putting her hand in his son's, "i've done something you couldn't do--i've convinced miss green--i mean miss rossmore--that we are not so bad after all!" jefferson, beaming, grasped his father's hand. "father!" he exclaimed. "that's what i say--father!" echoed shirley. they both embraced the financier until, overcome with emotion, ryder, sr., struggled to free himself and made his escape from the room crying: "good-bye, children--i'm off for washington!" the end transcriber's notes: the following words used an 'ae' or 'oe' ligature in the original: croesus, manoeuvre, subpoena, _coeur_, vertebrae, caesar. there were a number of faded/missing letters and some transposition errors in the edition this ebook was taken from. the following corrections were made: chapter headers standardised: v-vii previously had a trailing full-stop. opening quote inserted: "yes, and it was worth it to him... typo "determinatioin": ...arriving at this determination. opening quote inserted: "tell me, what do the papers say?" single quote moved: "you sent him a copy of 'the american octopus'?" single quote doubled: ...hatred of the hero of your book." acute accent inserted: ...proceeded to the hotel de l'athénée... typo "i'ts": ...life to my father. it's no use... quote moved/reversed: ...said shirley decisively. "what is more... closing quote inserted: ...what account will you be able to give?" typo "rosmore": ...judge rossmore--that is by saving him... closing quote inserted: "how?" asked shirley calmly. closing quote inserted: "upon my word--" he said. opening quote inserted: "the dying father, the sorrowing mother... opening quote inserted: ...a meddlesome man," insisted ryder "and... opening quote inserted: ...she replied seriously. "nothing can be... closing quote inserted: ...a hopeless love?" he approached her... quote moved/reversed: ...answered jefferson embarrassed. "the fact... the devourers by a. vivanti chartres g. p. putnam's sons new york and london the knickerbocker press copyright, , by a. vivanti chartres. to my wonderchild vivien to read when she has wonderchildren of her own preface there was a man, and he had a canary. he said, "what a dear little canary! i wish it were an eagle." god said to him: "if you give your heart to it to feed on, it will become an eagle." so the man gave his heart to it to feed on. and it became an eagle, and plucked his eyes out. there was a woman, and she had a kitten. she said: "what a dear little kitten! i wish it were a tiger." god said to her: "if you give your life's blood to it to drink, it will become a tiger." so the woman gave her life's blood to it to drink. and it became a tiger, and tore her to pieces. there was a man and a woman, and they had a child. they said: "what a dear little child! we wish it were a genius."... book i i the baby opened its eyes and said: "i am hungry." nothing moved in the silent, shadowy room, and the baby repeated its brief inarticulate cry. there were hurrying footsteps; light arms raised it, and a laughing voice soothed it with senseless, sweet-sounding words. then its cheek was laid on a cool young breast, and all was tepid tenderness and mild delight. soon, on the wave of a light-swinging breath, it drooped into sleep again. * * * * * edith avory had hurried home across the meadow from the children's party at the vicarage, her pendant plaits flying, her straw hat aslant, and now she entered the dining-room of the grey house fluttered and breathless. "have they come?" she asked of florence, who was laying the cloth for tea. "yes, dear," answered the maid. "where are they? where is the baby?" and, without waiting for an answer, the child ran out of the room and helter-skeltered upstairs. in front of the nursery she stopped. it was her own room, but through the closed door she had heard a weak, shrill cry that plucked at her heart. slowly she opened the door, then paused on the threshold, startled and disappointed. near the window, gazing out across the verdant hertfordshire fields, sat a large, square-faced woman in pink print, and on her lap, face downward, wrapped in flannel, lay a baby. the nurse was slapping it on the back with quick, regular pats. edith saw the soles of two little red feet, and at the other end a small, oblong head, covered with soft black hair. "oh dear!" said edith. "is _that_ the baby?" "please shut the door, miss," said the nurse. "i thought babies had yellow hair, with long muslin dresses and blue bows," faltered edith. the square-faced nurse did not answer, but continued pat--pat--pat with her large hand on the small round back. edith stepped a little nearer. "why do you do that?" she asked. the woman looked the little girl up and down before she answered. then she said, "wind," and went on patting. edith wondered what that meant. did it refer to the weather? or was it, perhaps, a slangy servant's way of saying, "leave me alone" or "hold your tongue"? "has the baby's mother come too?" she asked. "yes," said the nurse; "and when you go out, will you please shut the door behind you?" edith did so. she heard voices in her mother's room, and looked in. sitting near her mother on the sofa was a girl dressed in black, with black hair, like the baby's. she was crying bitterly into a small black-edged handkerchief. "oh, edith dear," said her mother, "that's right! come here. this is your sister valeria. kiss her, and tell her not to cry." "but where is the baby's mother?" said edith, glad to gain time before kissing the wet, unknown face. the girl in mourning lifted her eyes, dark and swimming, from the handkerchief. "it is me," she said, with a swift, shining smile, and one of her tears rolled into a dimple and stopped there. "what a dear little girl for my baby to play with!" she added, and kissed edith on both cheeks. "that size baby cannot play," said edith, drying her face with the back of her hand. "and the woman was hitting it!" "hitting it!" cried the girl in black, jumping up. "hitting it!" cried edith's mother. and they both hurried out. edith, left alone, looked round the familiar room. on her mother's bed lay a little flannel blanket like the one the baby was wearing, and a baby's cap, and some knitted socks, and a rubber rattle. on a chair was a black jacket and a hat trimmed with crape and dull black cherries. edith squeezed one of the cherries, which broke stickily. then she went to the looking-glass and tried the hat on. her long small face looked back at her gravely under the caliginous head-dress, as she shook her head from side to side, to make it totter and tilt. "when i am a widow i shall wear a thing like this," she said to herself, and then dropped it from her head upon the chair. she quickly squeezed another cherry, and went out to look at the baby. it was in the nursery in its grandmother's arms, being danced up and down; its fist was in its mouth, and its large eyes stared at nothing. its mother, the girl in black, was on her knees before it, clapping her hands and saying: "cara! cara! cara! bella! bella! bella!" wilson, the nurse, with her back to them, was emptying edith's chest of drawers, and putting all edith's things neatly folded upon the table, ready to be taken to a little room upstairs that was henceforth to be hers. for the baby needed edith's room. the little girl soon tired of looking, and went down to the garden. passing the verandah, she could hear the gardener laughing and talking with florence. he was saying: "now, of course, miss edith's nose is quite put out of joint." florence said: "i'm afraid so, poor lamb!" edith ran to the shrubbery, and put her hand to her nose. it did not hurt her; it felt much the same as usual. still, she was anxious and vaguely disturbed. "i must tell the brown boy," she said, and went to the kitchen-garden to look for him. there he was, on his knees, patting mould round the strawberry-plants; a good deal of earth was on his face and in his rusty hair. "good-evening," said edith, stopping near him, with her hands behind her. "hullo!" said the gardener's boy, looking up. "they've come," said edith. "have they?" and jim brown sat back on his heels and cleaned his fingers on his trousers. "the baby is black," said edith. "sakes alive!" said jim, opening large light eyes that seemed to have dropped into his face by mistake. "it has got black hair," continued edith, "and a red face." "oh, miss edith, you are a goose!" said the brown boy. "that's all right. i thought you meant it was all black, because of its mother being a foreigner." edith shook her head. "it's not all right. babies should have golden hair." "what is the mother like?" asked jim. "she's black, too; and the nurse is horrid. and what is the matter with my nose?" "eh?" said jim brown. "yes. look at my nose. what's wrong with it?" the brown boy looked at it. then he looked closer. little by little an expression of horror came over his face. "oh!" he exclaimed. "oh my! just think of it!" "what? what is it?" cried edith. "it was all right just now." and as the boy kept staring at her nose with growing amazement, she screamed: "tell me what it is! tell me, or i'll hit you!" then the brown boy got up and danced round her in a frenzy of horror at what was the matter with her nose; so she took a small stone and threw it at him. whereupon he went back to his strawberry-plants, and declined to speak to her any more. when he saw her walking forlornly away with her hand to her nose, and her two plaits dangling despondently behind, he felt sorry, and called her back. "i was only larking, miss edith. your nose is all right." so she was comforted, and sat down on the grass to talk to him. "valeria speaks italian to the baby, and they have come to stay always," she said. "the baby is going to have my room, and i am going to be upstairs near florence. we are all going to dress in black, because of my brother tom having died. and mamma has been crying about it for the last four days. and that baby is my niece." "your brother, master tom, was the favourite with them all, wasn't he?" said jim. "oh, yes," said edith. "there were so many of us that, of course, the middle ones were liked best." "i don't quite see that," said jim. "oh, well," explained edith, "i suppose they were tired of the old ones, and did not want the new ones, so that's why. anyhow," she added, "it doesn't matter. they're all dead now." then she helped him with the strawberry-plants until it was time for tea. her grandfather came to call her in--a tall, stately figure, shuffling slowly down the gravel path. edith ran to meet him, and put her warm fingers into his cool, shrivelled hand. together they walked towards the house. "have you seen them, grandpapa?" she asked, curvetting round him, as he proceeded at gentle pace across the lawn. "seen whom, my dear?" asked the old gentleman. "valeria and the baby." "what baby?" said the grandfather, stopping to rest and listen. "why, tom's baby, grandpapa," said edith. "you know--the baby of tom who is dead. it has come to stay here with its mother and nurse. her name is wilson." "dear me!" said the grandfather, and walked on a few steps. then he paused again. "so tom is dead." "oh, you knew that long ago. i told you so." "so you did," said the old gentleman. he took off his skullcap, and passed his hand over his soft white hair. "which tom is that--my son tom or his son tom?" "both toms," said edith. "they're both dead. one died four days ago, and the other died six years ago, and you oughtn't to mix them up like that. one was my papa and your son, and the other was his son and the baby's papa. now don't forget that again." "no, my dear," said the grandfather. then, after a while: "and you say his name is wilson?" "whose name?" exclaimed edith. "why, my dear, how should i know?" said the grandfather. then edith laughed, and the old gentleman laughed with her. "never mind," said edith. "come in and see the baby--your son tom's son's baby." "your son's tom's sons," murmured the grandfather, stopping again to think. "tom's sons your son's tom's sons ... where do i put in the baby?" edith awoke in the middle of the night, listening and alert. "what is that?" she said, sitting up in bed. florence's voice came from the adjoining room: "go to sleep, my lamb. it's only the baby." "why does it scream like that?" "it must have got turned round like," explained florence sleepily. "then why don't they turn it straight again?" asked edith. "oh, miss edith," replied florence impatiently, "do go to sleep. when a baby gets 'turned round,' it means that it sleeps all day and screams all night." and so it did. ii a gentle blue february was slipping out when march tore in with screaming winds and rushing rains. he pushed the diffident greenness back, and went whistling rudely across the lands. the chilly drenched season stood still. one morning spring peeped round the corner and dropped a crocus or two and a primrose or two. she whisked off again, with the wind after her, but looked in later between two showers. and suddenly, one day, there she was, enthroned and garlanded. frost-spangles melted at her feet, and the larks rose. valeria borrowed edith's garden-hat, tied it under her chin with a black ribbon, and went out into the young sunshine across the fields. around her was the gloss of recent green, pushing upwards to the immature blue of the sky. and tom, her husband, was dead. tom lay in the dark, away from it all, under it all, in the distant little cemetery of nervi, where the sea that he loved shone and danced within a stone's-throw of his folded hands. tom's folded hands! that was all she could see of him when she closed her eyes and tried to recall him. she could not remember his face. try as she would, shutting her eyes with concentrated will, the well-known features wavered and slipped away; and nothing remained before her but those dull white hands as she had seen them last--terrible, unapproachable hands! were those the hands tom was so particular about and rather vain of--the hands she had patted and laid her cheek against? were those hands--fixed, cessated, all-relinquishing--the hands that had painted the italian landscapes she loved, and the other pictures she hated, because in them all stood carlotta of trastevere, rippling-haired, bare, and deliberate? were those the hands that had rowed her and uncle giacomo in the little boat _luisa_ on the lake maggiore?--the hands that had grasped hers suddenly at the madonna del monte the day she had put on her light blue dress, with the sailor collar and scarlet tie? she seemed to hear him say, with his droll english accent: "volete essere sposina mia?" and she had laughed and answered him in the only two english words she knew, and which he himself had taught her across the table d'hôte: "please! thank you!" then they had both laughed, until zio giacomo had said that the madonna would punish them. the madonna had punished them. she had struck him down in his twenty-sixth year, a few months after they were married, shattering his youth like a bubble of glass. valeria had heard him, day after day, night after night, coughing his life away in little hard coughs and clearings of his throat; then in racking paroxysms that left him breathless and spent; then in a loose, easy cough that he scarcely noticed. they had gone from florence, where it was too windy, to nervi, where it was too hot; from nice, where it was too noisy, to airolo, where it was too dull; then, with a rush of hope, with hurried packing of coats and shawls, of paintbrushes and colours, of skates and snowshoes, they had journeyed up to davos. and there the sun shone, and the baby was born; and tom avory went skating and bob-sleighing, and gained six pounds in eight weeks. then one day an american woman, whose son was dying, said to valeria: "it is bad for your baby to stay up here. send her away, or when she is fifteen she will start coughing too." "send her away!" yes, the baby must be sent away. the deadly swarm of germs from all the stricken lungs seemed to valeria to envelope her and her child like a cloud--the cloud of death. she could feel it, see it, taste it. the smell of it was on her pillow at night; the sheets and blankets exhaled it; her food was impregnated with it. she herself was full-grown, and strong and sound; but her baby--her fragile, rose-bud baby--was tom's child, too! all tom's brothers and sisters, except one little girl called edith, who was in england, had died in their adolescence--one in bournemouth; one in torquay; one in cannes; one, tom's favourite sister, sally, in nervi--all fleeing from the death they carried within them. now davos had saved tom. but the baby must be sent away. they consulted three doctors. one said there was no hurry; another said there was no danger; the third said there was no knowing. valeria and tom determined that they would not take risks. one snowy day they travelled down to landquart. there tom was to leave them and return to davos. but the baby was crying, and valeria was crying; so tom jumped into the train after them, and said he would see them as far as zürich, where uncle giacomo would be waiting to take them to italy. "then you will be all right, helpless ones," he said, putting his arm round them both, as the little train carried them down towards the mists. and he gave his baby-girl a finger to clutch. but tom never reached zürich. what reached zürich was stern and awful, with limp, falling limbs and blood-stained mouth. the baby cried, and valeria cried, and crowds and officials gathered round them. but tom could help his helpless ones no more. his will was found in his breast-pocket. "sposina mia, with all my worldly goods i thee endow. take our baby to england. bury me in nervi, near sally. i have been very happy.--tom." these things valeria avory remembered as she walked in the soft english sunshine, crying under edith's garden-hat. when she reached a little bridge across an angry stream, she leaned over the parapet to look at the water, and the borrowed hat fell off and floated away. valeria ran down the bank after it, but it was in midstream, resting lightly against a protruding stone. she threw sticks and pebbles at it, and it moved off and sailed on, with one black ribbon, like a thin arm, stretched behind it. valeria ran along the sloping bank, sliding on slippery grass and wet stones; and the hat quivered and curtseyed away buoyantly on the miniature waves. when the stream elbowed off towards the wood, the hat bobbed along with it, and so did valeria. as she and the stream and the hat turned the corner, she heard an exclamation of surprise, and, raising her flushed face, she saw a young man, in grey tweeds, fishing on the other side of the water. the young man said: "hang it all! good-bye, trout!" and valeria said: "can you catch my hat?" he caught it with great difficulty, holding it with the thick end of his rod, and flattering it towards him with patient man[oe]uvres. "my trout!" he murmured. "i had been after that fat fellow for three days." then he dragged the large splashing hat out of the water and held it up. "here's your hat." it had never been a beautiful hat; it was a dreary-looking thing that edith had had much wear out of. it had not the appearance of a hat worth fishing three days for. "oh, thank you so much! how shall i reach it?" said valeria, extending a small muddy hand from her side of the stream. "i suppose i must bring it across," said the young man, still holding the dripping adornment at arm's length. "oh no!" said valeria. "throw it." the young man laughed, and said: "don't try to catch! it will give you a cold." he flung the hat across, and it fell flat and sodden at valeria's feet. "oh dear!" she said, picking it up, with puckered brows, while the black tulle ruffles fell from it, soft and soaking. "what shall i do with it now? i can't put it on. and i don't think i can carry it, walking along these slippery banks." "well, throw it back again," said the young man, "and i'll carry it for you." so she threw the heavy melancholy thing at him, and they walked along, with the water between them, smiling at each other. on the bridge they met, and shook hands. "i am sorry about your fishes," she said. "my fishes?" he laughed. "oh, never mind them. i am sorry about your hat." then, noting the damp ringlets on her forehead and the dimple in her cheek, he added: "what will you put on when you come to-morrow?" "to-morrow?" she asked, raising simple eyes. "yes; will you?" he said, blushing a little, for he was very young. "at this time"--he looked at his watch--"about eleven o'clock?" valeria blushed, too--a sudden crimson flush that left her face white and waxen. "is it eleven o'clock?" she exclaimed. "are you sure?" "yes; what is the matter?" "the baby!" gasped valeria. "i had forgotten the baby!" and she turned and ran down the bridge and across the fields, her black gown flying, the wet hat flapping at her side. she reached home breathless. the nurse was on the verandah, waiting. "am i late, wilson?" she panted. "yes, madam," said the nurse, with tight and acid lips. "how is baby?" gasped valeria. "the baby," said the woman, gazing at her, sphinx-like and severe, "is hungry." iii the young man went to fish in the little stream every day, but he only caught his fat trout. the dimpled girl in mourning did not come again. his holiday was ended, and he returned to his rooms in london, but he left a love-letter for valeria on the bank, pinned to the crumpled black ruffle that had fallen off her hat, and with a stone on it to keep it down. valeria found the love-letter. she had stayed indoors a week, repenting. then spring and her youth joined hands, and drew her out of doors and across the fields again. she went, blushing and faltering, with a bunch of violets pinned at her belt. no one saw her but a tail-flicking, windy-haired pony in a meadow, who frisked suddenly after her and made her shiver. close to the stream her eye caught the tattered black ruffle and the note pinned to it. the young man wrote that his name was frederick allen; that he was reading for the bar and writing for newspapers. he said that she had haunting eyes, and that they would probably never meet again. he wondered whether she had found the baby, and where she had forgotten it, and what baby it was. and she _might_ have turned round just once to wave him farewell! he hoped she would not be displeased if he said that he loved her, and would never forget her. would she tell him her name? only her name! please, please! he was hers in utter devotion, frederick. valeria went back in a dream and looked up the word "haunting" in her english-italian dictionary. she did not remember his eyes: they were blue, she thought, or perhaps brown. but his face was clear and sunburnt, and his smooth-parted hair was bright when he took off his hat on the bridge. she thought she would simply return his letter. then she decided that she would add a few words of rebuke. finally one rainy day, when everybody had seemed cross, and edith had answered rudely, and the baby had screamed for wilson who was not there, valeria, with qualms and twinges, took a sheet of paper and wrote her name on it. the paper had a black border. valeria suddenly fell on her knees and kissed the black border, and prayed that tom might forgive her. then she burned it, and went to her baby, who was quarrelling with everything and trying to kill an india-rubber sheep. yet one day in april--an april swooning with soft suggestions, urging its own evanescence and the fleeting sweetness of life--mr. frederick allen, in his london lodgings, received two letters instead of one. hannah, the pert maid who brought them to his room, lingered while he opened them. in the first was a cheque for six guineas from a periodical; in the other was a visiting-card: valeria nina avory. "who the dickens...?" he said, turning the card over. "here!" and he threw it across to hannah. "here's a french modiste, or something, if you want falals!" then, as he had received six guineas when he had only expected four, he shut up his law-book, pinched hannah's cheek _en passant_, and went out for a day up the river with the man next door. the card was thrown into the coal-box, and the kitchen-maid burnt it. and that is all. * * * * * april brought the baby a tooth. may brought it another tooth, and gave a wave to its hair. june took away its bibs, and gave it a smile with a dimple copied from valeria's. july brought it short lace frocks and a word or two. august stood it upright and exultant, with its back to the wall; and september sent it tottering and trilling into its mother's arms. its name was giovanna desiderata felicita. "i cannot remember that," said the grandfather. "call him tom." "but, grandpapa, it is a girl," said edith. "i know, my dear. you have told me so before," said the old gentleman testily. he had become very irritable since there had been so much noise in the house. "well, what girl's name can you remember?" asked mrs. avory, patting her old father's hand, and frowning at her daughter, edith. "none--none at all," said the old man. "come now, come now, dear!" said mrs. avory. "can you remember annie, or mary?" "no, i cannot," said her father. then edith suggested "jane," and valeria "camilla." and florence, who was laying the cloth, said: "try him with 'nellie' or 'katy.'" but the old gentleman peevishly refused to remember any of those names. and for months he called the baby tom. * * * * * one day at dinner he said: "where is nancy?" mrs. avory and edith glanced at each other, and valeria looked up in surprise. "where is nancy?" repeated the grandfather impatiently. mrs. avory coughed. then she laid her hand gently on his sleeve. "nancy is in heaven," she said softly. _"what!"_ cried the old gentleman, throwing down his table-napkin and glaring round the table. "your dear little daughter nancy died many, many years ago," said mrs. avory. the old gentleman rose. "it is not true!" he said with shaking voice. "she was here this morning. i saw her." then his lips trembled, and he began to cry. valeria suddenly started up and ran from the room. in a moment she was back again, with her baby in its pink nightdress, kicking and crowing in her arms. "here's nancy!" she said, with a little break in her voice. "why, of course!" cried edith, clapping her hands. "don't cry, grandpapa. here's nancy." "yes," said mrs. avory. "see, father dear, here's nancy!" the old man looked up, and his dim blue eyes met and held the sparkling eyes of the child. long and deeply he looked into the limpid depths that returned his unwavering gaze. "yes, here's nancy," said the old man. so the baby was nancy ever after. iv when nancy had three candles round her birthday-cake, and was pulling crackers with her eyes shut, and her mother's hands pressed tightly over her ears, edith put her elbows on the table, and said: "what is nancy going to be?" "good," answered nancy quickly--"veddy good. another cwacker." so she got another cracker, and edith repeated her question. mrs. avory said: "what do you mean?" "well," said edith, whose two plaits had melted into one, with a large black bow fastened irrelevantly to the wrong end of it, "you don't want her to be just a girl, do you?" valeria blushed, and said: "i have often thought i should like her to be a genius." edith nodded approval, and mrs. avory looked dubiously at the little figure, now discreetly dragging the tablecloth down in an attempt to reach the crackers. nancy noted the soft look, and sidled round to her grandmother. "hold my ears," she said, "and give me a cwacker." mrs. avory patted the small head, and smoothed out the blue ribbon that tied up the tuft of black curls. "why do you want me to hold your ears?" "because i am afwaid of the cwackers." "then why do you want the crackers?" "because i like them." "but why do you like them?" "because i am afwaid of them!" and nancy smiled bewitchingly. everybody found this an astonishingly profound reply, and the question of nancy's genius recurred constantly in the conversation. edith said: "of course, it will be painting. her father, poor dear tom, was such a wonderful landscape-painter. and i believe he did some splendid figures, too." mrs. avory concurred; but valeria shook her head and changed colour. "oh, i hope not!" she said, instant tears gathering in her eyes. mrs. avory looked hurt. "why not, valeria?" she said. "oh, the smell," sobbed valeria; "and the models ... and i could not bear it. oh, my tom--my dear tom!" and she sobbed convulsively, with her head on mrs. avory's shoulder, and with edith's arm round her. nancy screamed loud, and had to be taken away to the nursery, where fräulein müller, the german successor of wilson, shook her. "could it not be music?" said valeria, after a while, drying her eyes dejectedly. "my mother was a great musician; she played the harp, and composed lovely songs. when she died, and i went to live in milan with uncle giacomo, i used to play all chopin's mazurkas and impromptus to him, although he said he hated music if anyone else played.... and, then, when i married ..."--valeria's sobs burst forth again--"dear tom ... said ..." edith intervened quickly. "i certainly think it ought to be music;" and she kissed valeria's hot face. "the kiddy sings 'onward, christian soldiers,' and 'schlaf, kindchen' in perfect tune. fräulein was telling me so, and said how remarkable it was." so nancy was sent for again, and was brought in by fräulein, who had a scratch on her cheek. nancy was told to sing, "schlaf, kindchen, schlaf, da draussen steht ein schaf," and she did so with very bad grace and not much voice. but loud and servile applause from everyone, including fräulein, gratified her, and she volunteered her entire repertoire, comprising "there'll be razors a-flyin' in the air," which she had learned incidentally from the attractive and supercilious gardener's boy, jim brown. so it was decided that nancy should be a great musician, and a piano with a small keyboard was obtained for her at once. a number of books on theory and harmony were bought, and edith said valeria was to read them carefully, and to teach nancy without letting her notice it. but nancy noticed it. and at last she used to cry and stamp her feet as soon as she saw her mother come into the room. fräulein, with much diplomacy, and according to a german book on education, taught her her notes and her alphabet at the same time; but the result was confusion. nancy insisted on spelling words at the piano, and could find no "o" for dog, and no "t" for cat, and no anything; while the italian valeria added obscurity and bewilderment by calling "d" _re_, and "g" _sol_, and "b" _c_. nancy became sour and suspicious. in everything that was said to her she scented a trap for the conveying of musical knowledge, and she trusted no one, and would speak to no one but jim brown and the grandfather. at last she lit upon a device that afflicted and horrified her tormentors. one day, when her mother was drawing little men, that turned out to be semibreves, nancy, speechless with anger, put her hand to her soft hair, and dragged out a handful of it. valeria gave a cry; she opened the little fist, and saw the soft black fluff lying there. "oh, baby, baby! how could you!" she cried. "what a dreadful thing! how can you grieve your poor mother so!" that ended the musical education. every time that a note lifted its black head over nancy's horizon, up went her hand, and she pulled out a tuft of her hair. then she opened her fist and showed it. books on harmony were put away; the piano was locked. no more beethoven or schumann was sung to her in the guise of lullabies by fräulein at night; but her old friend, "baby bunting," returned, and accompanied her, as of old, when she sailed down the stream of sleep, afloat on the darkness. "bye, baby bunting, father's gone a-hunting, to shoot a rabbit for its skin, to wrap little baby bunting in." * * * * * ... nancy sat on the grass, nursing her doll, and watching three small rampant feathers on fräulein müller's hat, nodding, like little plumes on a hearse, in time with something she was reading. "what are you reading?" asked nancy. fräulein müller went on nodding, and read aloud: "'shine out, little het, sunning over with gurls.'" _"what?"_ said nancy. "'shine out, little het, sunning over with gurls,'" repeated fräulein müller. "what does mean 'sunning over with girls'?" cried nancy, frowning. "gurls, gurls--hair-gurls!" explained fräulein. "_curls!_ are you sure it is curls?" said nancy, dropping her doll in the grass, and folding her hands. "read it again. slowly." "'shine out, little het,'" repeated fräulein. and nancy said it after her. "'shine out, little head, shine out, little head ... sunning over with curls.'" then she said to her governess: "say that over and over and over again, until i tell you not to;" and she shut her eyes. "aber warum?" asked fräulein müller. nancy did not open her eyes nor answer. "komische kleine," said fräulein; and added, in order to practise her english, "comic small!" then she did as she was told. that night nancy quarrelled with "baby bunting." she sat up in bed with flushed cheeks and small, tight fists, and said to fräulein müller: "do not tell me that any more." fräulein, who had been droning on in the dusk over her knitting, and thinking that at this hour in düsseldorf her sister and mother were eating _belegte brödchen_, looked up in surprise. "what it is, mein liebchen?" "do not tell me any more about that rabbit. i cannot hear about him any more. you keep on--you keep on till i am ill." fräulein müller was much troubled in suggesting other songs. she tried one or two with scant success. nancy sat up again. "all those silly words tease me. sing without saying them." so fräulein hummed uncertain tunes with her lips closed, and she was just drifting into beethoven, when nancy sat up once more: "oh, don't do that!" she said. "say words without those silly noises. say pretty words until i go to sleep." so fräulein, after she had tried all the words she could think of, took lenau's poems from her own bookshelf, and read nancy to sleep. on the following evenings she read the "waldlieder," and then "mischka," until it was finished. then she started uhland; and after uhland, körner, and freiligrath, and lessing. who knows what nancy heard? who knows what visions and fancies she took with her to her dreams? in the little sleep-boat where baby bunting used to be with her, now sat a row of german poets, long of hair, wild of eye, fulgent of epithet. night after night, for months and years, little nancy drifted off to her slumber with lyric and lay, with ode and epic, lulled by cadenced rhythm and resonant rhyme. on one of these nights the poets cast a spell over her. they rowed her little boat out so far that it never quite touched shore again. and nancy never quite awoke from her dreams. v in milan the cross-grained old architect, giacomo tirindelli, valeria's "zio giacomo," stout of figure and short of leg, got up in the middle of the night and went to his son antonio's room. the room was empty. he had expected this, but he was none the less incensed. he went to the window and threw the shutters open. milan slept. silent and deserted, via principe amedeo lay at his feet. every alternate lamp already extinguished showed that it was past twelve o'clock; and a dreary cat wandered across the road, making the street emptier for its presence. zio giacomo closed the window, and walked angrily up and down his son's room. on the walls, on the mantelpiece, on the desk, were photographs--nunziata villari as theodora, in stiff regal robes; nunziata villari as cleopatra, clad in jewels; nunziata villari as marguerite gautier, in her nightdress, or so it appeared to zio giacomo's angry eyes; villari as norah; villari as sappho; villari as francesca. then, in a corner, in an old frame, the portrait of a little girl: _"my cousin valeria, twelve years old."_ zio giacomo stopped with a short angry sigh before the picture of his favourite niece, whom he had hoped one day to call his daughter. "foolish girl," he grumbled, "to marry that idiotic englishman instead of my stupid, disobedient son----" then another profile of nunziata villari caught his eye, and then again nunziata villari, all hair and smile.... zio giacomo had time to learn the strange, strong face by heart before he heard the street-door fall to, and his son's footsteps on the stairs. antonio, who from the street had seen the light in his room, entered with a cheerful smile. "well, father," he said, "why are you not asleep?" he received the inevitable counter-question with a little latin gesture of both hands (the gesture that theodora specially liked!). "well, father dear, i am twenty-three, and you are--you are not;" and he patted his father's small shoulder and laughed (his best laugh--the laugh that cleopatra could not resist). "jeune homme qui veille, vieillard qui dort, sont tous deux près de la mort," quoted his father, in deep stern tones. "eh! father mine, if life is to be short, let it be pleasant," said antonio, lighting a cigarette. giacomo sat very straight; his dressing-gown was tight, and his feet were chilly. his good-looking, good-tempered son irritated him. "are you not ashamed?" he said, pointing a dramatic forefinger at the row of portraits. "she is an old woman of fifty!" "thirty-eight," said antonio, seating himself in the armchair. "an actress! a masquerading mountebank, whom every porter with a franc in his pocket can see when he will; a creature whose husband has run away from her to the ends of the earth----" "to south america," interpolated antonio. --"with the cook." and zio giacomo snorted with indignation. "i am afraid her cooking _is_ bad," said antonio; and he blew rings of smoke and puckered up his young red mouth in the way that made phædra flutter and droop her passion-shaded lids. "i have enough of it," said his father, "and we leave for england to-morrow." "for england? to-morrow?" antonio started up. "you don't mean it! you can't mean it, father! why to england?" "i telegraphed yesterday to hertfordshire. i told your cousin valeria we should come to see them; and she has answered that she is delighted, and her mother is delighted, and everybody is delighted." zio giacomo nodded a stubborn head. "we shall stay in england three months, six months, until you have recovered from your folly." "ah! because of cousin valeria. i see!" and antonio laughed. "oh, father, father! you dear old dreamer! are you at the old dream again? it cannot be, believe me; it was a foolish idea of yours years ago. valeria was all eyes for her englishman then, and is probably all tears for him now. stay here and be comfortable, father!" but his father would not stay there, and he would not be comfortable. he went away shaking his head, and losing his slipper on the way, and dropping candle-grease all over the carpet in stooping to pick it up. a sore and angry zio giacomo got into bed, and tried to read the _secolo_, and listened to hear if the street-door banged again. it banged again. one o'clock struck as antonio turned down via monte napoleone, and when he rang the bell at no. , the _portinaio_ kept him waiting ten minutes. then marietta, the maid, kept him waiting fifteen minutes on the landing before she opened the door; and then the signora kept him waiting fifteen eternities until she appeared, white-faced and frightened, draped in white satin, with her hair bundled up anyhow--or nearly anyhow--on the top of her head. antonio took both her hands and kissed them, and pressed them to his eyes, and told her he was leaving to-morrow--no, to-day--to-day! in a few hours! for ever! for england! and what would she do? she would be false! she would betray him! she was infamous! he knew it! and would she die with him now? she gave the little tosca scream, and turned from him with the second act "dame aux camelias" shiver, and stepped back like fedora, and finally flung herself, like francesca, upon his breast. then she whispered five words to him, and sent him home. she called marietta, who loosened her hair again, and plaited it, and put away what was not wanted, and gave her the lanoline; and she greased her face and went to bed like nunziata villari, aged thirty-eight. but antonio went through the nocturnal streets, repeating the five words: "london. in may. twelve performances." and this was march. enough! he would live through it somehow. "aber fragt mich nur nicht wie," he said to himself, for he knew enough german to quote heine's "buch der lieder," and he had read "die jungfrau von orleans" in the original, in order to discuss it with la villari. la villari liked to discuss her rôles with him. she also practised her attitudes and tried her gestures on him without his knowing it. he always responded, as a violin that one holds in one's hand thrills and responds when another violin is played. when she was studying giovanna d'arco, he felt that he was le chevalier bayard, and he dreamed of an heroic life and an epic death. when she was preparing herself for the rôle of clelia, and practising the attitudes of that famous adventuress, he became a sceptic and a _noceur_, and gave zio giacomo qualms for three weeks by keeping late hours and gambling all night at the patriottica. when she took up the rôle of messalina, and for purposes of practice assumed messalina attitudes and expounded messalina views, he drifted into a period of extreme demoralization, and became perverted and blasphemous. but during the six weeks in which she arrayed her mind in the candid lines of la samaritana, he became once more spiritual and pure: he gave up the patriottica and the café biffi, and went to early mass every morning. "you funny boy!" said villari to him one day. "you will do foolish things in your life. why don't you work?" "i don't know," said antonio. "i am in the wrong set, i suppose. and, besides, there is no time. after a canter on the bastioni in the morning, it is lunch-time; and after luncheon one reads or goes out; and then it is visiting-time--the marchesa adda expects one every monday, and the della rocca every tuesday, and somebody else every wednesday.... then it is dinner-time and theatre-time and bed-time. and there you are!" "it is a pity," said la villari, kindly maternal, forgetting to be messalina, or giovanna, or anyone else. "you have no character. you are nice; you are good to look at; you are not stupid. but your nose is, as one would say, a nose of putty--yes, of putty! and anyone can twist it here and there. take care! you will suffer much, or you will make other people suffer. noses of putty," she added thoughtfully, "are fountains of grief." zio giacomo was one whose nose was not of putty. much as he hated journeys, many as were the things that he always lost on them, sorely as his presence was needed in his office, where the drawings for a new town hall were lying in expectant heaps on his desk, he had made up his mind to start for england, and start they should. he packed off his motherless daughter, the tall and flippant clarissa, to a convent school in paris, bade good-bye to his sister carlotta and to his niece adèle, and scrambled wrathfully into the train for chiasso, followed by the unruffled antonio. antonio seemed to enjoy the trip; and soon zio giacomo found himself wondering why they had taken it. was the tale that his niece adèle had told him about antonio's infatuation for the actress all foolish nonsense? adèle was always exaggerating. zio giacomo watched his son with growing anger. antonio was cheerful and debonair. antonio slept when his father was awake; antonio ate when his father was sick. by the time they reached dover giacomo, who knew no word of english but _rosbif_ and the _times_, was utterly broken. but antonio twisted up his young moustache, and ran his fingers through his tight black curls, and made long eyes at the english girls, who smiled, and then passed hurriedly, pretending they had not seen him. vi at charing cross to meet them were valeria and edith--both charming, small-waisted, and self-conscious. valeria flung herself with latin demonstrativeness into her old uncle's arms, while edith tried not to be ashamed of the noise the italian new-comers made and of the attention they attracted. when, later, they were all four in the train on their way to wareside, she gave herself up entirely to the rapture of watching uncle giacomo's gestures and cousin antonio's eyes. cousin antonio, whom valeria addressed as nino, spoke to her in what he called "banana-english," and was so amusing that she laughed until she coughed, and coughed until she cried; and then they all said they would not laugh any more. and altogether it was a delightful journey. when they alighted at the peaceful country station, there was mrs. avory and little nancy and the grandfather awaiting them; and there were more greetings and more noise. and when the carriage reached the grey house, fräulein stood at the door step, all blushes and confusion, with a little talcum-powder sketchily distributed over her face, and her newly-refreshed italian vocabulary issuing jerkily from her. they were a very cheerful party at tea; everybody spoke at once, even the old grandfather, who kept on inquiring, "who are they--who are they?"--addressing himself chiefly to zio giacomo--at intervals during the entire afternoon. towards evening nancy became excited and unmanageable, and mrs. avory went to bed with a headache. but fräulein entertained zio giacomo, and nino sat at the piano and sang neapolitan songs to valeria and edith, who listened, sitting on one stool, with arms interlaced. then followed days of tennis and croquet, of picnics and teas with the vicar's pretty daughters and the squire's awkward sons. mrs. avory had only brief glimpses of valeria and edith darting indoors and out again; running up to their rooms to change their skirts; calling through the house for their racquets. zio giacomo walked about the garden, giving advice to fräulein about the cultivation of tomatoes, and wondering why english people never ate macaroni. "nor _knodel_," said fräulein. "nor _risotto_," said zio giacomo. "nor _leberwurst_," said fräulein. "nor _cappelletti al sugo_," said zio giacomo. "it is so as with the etucation," said fräulein. "the etucation is again already quite wrong; not only the eating and the cooking of the foot...." and so they rambled along. and zio giacomo was homesick. suddenly valeria was homesick too. it began on the first day of the tennis tournament--a resplendent light-blue day. nino said that the sky matched edith's dress and also her eyes, which reminded him of lake como. their partnership was very successful; edith, airy and swift, darted and flashed across the court, playing almost impossible balls. in the evening, as she lay back in the rocking-chair, pale and sweet, with her shimmering hair about her, nino called her a tired butterfly, and sang "la farfalla" to her. valeria was miserable. she said it was homesickness. she felt that she was homesick for the sun of italy and the language of italy; homesick for people with loud voices and easy gesticulations and excitable temperaments; homesick for people with dark eyes and dark hair. on the second day of the tournament, at tea on the vicar's lawn, she became still more homesick. her partner was offering her cress-sandwiches, and telling her that it was very warm for april, and that last year in april it had been much colder. meanwhile, she could see nino at the other side of the lawn tuning a guitar that had been brought to him; he was laughing and playing chords on it with his teaspoon. edith and two other girls stood near him; their three fair heads shone in the sunlight. suddenly valeria felt as if she could not breathe in england any more. she said to herself that it must be the well-bred voices, the conversation about the weather, the trimness, the tidiness, the tea, the tennis, that were insufferable to her chagrined heart. meanwhile her dark eyes rested upon nino and upon the three blonde heads, inclined towards him, and glistening in different sheens of gold. she felt hot tears pricking her eyes. that evening in her room, as they were preparing for bed, edith talked to her sister-in-law through the open door. "what fun everything is, val, isn't it?" she said, shaking out her light locks, and brushing them until they crackled and flew, and stood out like pale fire round her face. "life is a delightful institution!" as no answer came from valeria's room, edith looked in. valeria was lying on her bed, still in her pink evening dress, with her face hidden in the pillow. "why? what has happened, dear?" asked edith, bending over the dark bowed head. "oh, i hate everything!" murmured valeria. "that horrid tennis, and those horrid girls, always laughing, always laughing, always laughing." edith sat down beside her. "but we laughed, too--at least, i know _i_ did! and as for nino, he laughed all the time." "that is it," cried valeria, sitting up, tearful and indignant. "in italy nino never laughed. in italy we do not laugh for nothing, just to show our teeth and pretend we are vivacious." edith was astonished. she sat for a long while looking at valeria's disconsolate figure, and thinking matters over. quite suddenly she bent down and kissed valeria, and said: "don't cry." so valeria, who had left off crying, began to cry again. and still more she cried when she raised her head and saw edith's shower of scintillant hair, and the two little lakes of como brimming over with limpid tears. they kissed each other, and called themselves silly and goose-like; and then they laughed and kissed each other again, and went to bed. valeria fell asleep. but edith lay thinking in the dark. she got up quite early, and took little nancy primrosing in the woods; so nino and valeria went to the tennis tournament alone. a fat, torpid girl took edith's place, and valeria laughed all the morning. edith and nancy came in from the woods late for luncheon. when they appeared, nino looked up at edith in surprise. mrs. avory said: "edith, my dear, what have you done? you look a sight!" "do i?" said edith. "why, this is the famous north-german coiffure fräulein has made me." valeria's face had flushed. "you ought not to have let her drag your hair back so tight," she said. and mrs. avory added: "i thought you had given that ugly brown dress away long ago." then nancy spoke of the primroses and nino of the tennis; and edith kept and adopted the north-german coiffure. she dropped out of the tournament because it gave her a pain in her shoulders, and she went for long walks with nancy. nancy was good company. edith grew to look forward to the walks and to the warm clasp of nancy's little hand in hers, and the sound of nancy's treble voice beside her. nancy asked few questions. she preferred not to know what things were. she had never liked fireworks after she had seen them in the day-time packed in a box. what! they were not baby stars? all fräulein's definitions of things and of phenomena were painful to her mind as to her ear. but the seventeen years of edith and the eight springtimes of the child kept step harmoniously. nancy's dawning spirit, urged by a presaging flame, pressed forward to its morning; while edith's early day, chilled by an unseen blight, turned back, and stopped before its noon. her springtide faded before its flowering. thus the two girl-souls met, and their love bloomed upwards in concord like two flames. on easter sunday fräulein entered late for luncheon, and nancy did not come at all. fräulein apologized for her: "nancy is in the summer-house writing a poetry. she says she will not have any lunch." mrs. avory laughed, and nino said: "what is the poetry about?" "i think," replied fräulein, shaking out her table-napkin, and tucking it carefully into her collar, "it is about her broken doll and her dead canary." "is the canary dead?" exclaimed valeria. "why did you not tell me?" "she shall have a new doll," said mrs. avory, "at once." "but it isn't--she hasn't--they are not!" explained fräulein, much confused. "only she says she cannot write a poetry about things that are not broken and dead." the old grandfather, who now rarely spoke, raised his head, and said mournfully, "broken and dead--broken and dead," and went on repeating the words all through lunch, until he was coaxed and scolded into silence. there was much excitement over nancy's poem that afternoon. it was read aloud by edith, and then by valeria, and then by fräulein, and then again by edith. valeria improvised a translation of it into italian for zio giacomo and nino; and then it was read aloud once more by edith. everybody laughed and wept; and then valeria kissed everybody. nancy was a genius! they had always known it. zio giacomo said that it was in his brother's family; whereupon mrs. avory said, "indeed?" and raised her eyebrows and felt hurt. but how--said valeria--had it come into nancy's head to write a poem? and what if she were never to be able to write another? such things had happened. could she try again and write something else? just now! oh, anything!... saying how she wrote this poem, for instance! so little nancy, all flushed and wild and charming, extemporized in fräulein's note-book: "this morning in the orchard i chased the fluttering birds: the winging, singing things i caught-- were words! "this morning in the garden where the red creeper climbs, the vagrant, fragrant things i plucked-- were rhymes! "this morning in the...." nancy looked up and bit her lip. "this morning--in the what?" "in the garden," suggested valeria. "i have already said that," frowned nancy. zio giacomo suggested "kitchen," and was told to keep quiet. edith said "woodlands," and that was adopted. then nancy found out that she wanted something quite different, and could they give her a rhyme for "verse"? "curse," said nino. "disburse," said fräulein. "oh, that is not poetic, but rather the reverse!" cried nancy. "terse," said edith. "purse," said nino. "hearse," said the old grandfather gloomily. nancy laughed. "we go from bad to worse," she exclaimed, dimpling and blushing. "wait a minute." "and if i cage the birdlings...." "what birdlings?" said fräulein. "why, the words that i caught in the orchard," said nancy hurriedly. everybody looked vague. "why do you want to cage them?" asked fräulein, who had a tidy mind. "because," said nancy excitedly, making her reasons while she spoke, "words must not be allowed to fly about anyhow as they like--they must be caught, and shut in lines; they must be caged by the--by the----" "the rhythm," suggested edith. "what is that?" said nancy. "the measure, the time, as in music." "yes, that's it!" said nancy. "and if the flowers i nurse...." "the flowers are the rhymes, of course," explained nancy, flourishing her pencil triumphantly. "and if the flowers i nurse, the rambling, scrambling things i write-- are verse!" "beautiful! wonderful!" cried everybody; and uncle giacomo and nino clapped their hands a long time, as if they were at the theatre. when they left off, mrs. avory said: "i do not quite like those last lines. they are not clear. but, of course, they are quite good enough for poetry!" she added. and everyone agreed. mrs. avory said she thought they ought to have somebody, some poet, down from london at once to teach the child seriously. and fräulein went into long details about publishers in berlin, and how careful one must be if one prints a volume of poems not to let them cheat you. from that day onward the spirit of nancy's inspiration ruled the house. everybody was silent when she came into the room, lest her ideas should be disturbed; meals must wait until nancy had finished thinking. when nancy frowned and passed her hand across her forehead in a little quick gesture she often used, edith would quietly shut the windows and the doors, so that nothing should disturb the little poetess, and no butterfly-thought of hers should fly away. valeria hovered round, usually followed by nino; and fräulein, in the library, read long chapters of dante to zio giacomo, whether he slept or not, in order, as she put it in her diary: "(_a_) to practise my italian; (_b_) to keep in the house the atmosphere of the spirit of poetry." but the grandfather, who could not understand the silence and the irregular meals, thought that somebody had died, and wandered drearily about, opening doors to see if he could find out who it was. and he frequently made mrs. avory turn sick and chilly by asking her suddenly, when she sat at her work, "who is dead in the house?" vii meanwhile nunziata villari in milan was flustering the maid marietta over the packing of her trunks, and getting ready to leave for her twelve performances in england. nino had written to her twice a day during the first week of his absence; every two days during the second week; only once in the third week; and in this, the fourth week, not at all. "some stupid english girl has turned his nose of putty from me," mused la villari, and scolded marietta for what she had packed, and for what she had not packed, and for how she had packed it. but la villari was mistaken. no stupid english girl had turned nino's nose of putty from her. edith, who might have done so had she willed, had chosen to stab his nascent passion with the hairpins that fixed the north-german coiffure at its most unbecoming angle half-way up her head. she had left him to himself, and gone off primrosing with nancy, whose love--the blind, far-seeing love of a child--depended not on a tendril of hair, or the tint of a cheek, or the glance of an eye. nino, standing alone, looking vaguely round for adoration, met valeria's deep eyes fixed on him; and, suddenly remembering that this little cousin of his had been destined to his arms since both their childhood, he let his heart respond to her timid call. as she bent her head over a letter to her cousin adèle, nino watched her with narrowing eyes. had fate not sent tom avory, the tall and leisurely englishman, bronzed and fair, sauntering into her life and his years ago, painting pictures, quoting poets, rowing her and zio giacomo about the lake, this dark, graceful head, thought nino would have found its resting-place against his own breast; the little dimpled hand, the slender shoulders--all would belong to him. had he not always loved her? he asked himself the question in all sincerity, quite forgetting his brief and violent fancy for cousin adèle, and his longer and more violent passion for nunziata villari. true, he would never have noticed adèle had she not sighed at him first. and he would certainly never have loved la villari had she not looked at him first. but now--adèle was nowhere; and la villari was in milan packing her trunks; and here was valeria, with her dark head and her dimples. "valerietta!" he said; and she raised her eyes. "it is may-day. come out into the fields." so valeria put away her letter, and went to look for her hat. as she passed the schoolroom she heard voices, and peeped in. there was her little nancy, pen in hand, wild-eyed and happy, and edith bending over her, reading half-aloud what the inspired child-poet had just written. "i am going into the fields with nino," said valeria. "edith dear, won't you come, too?" "oh no! it is too windy," said her sister-in-law. "the wind takes my breath away and makes me cough. besides, nancy could not spare me." "no!" said nancy, laying her pink cheek against edith's arm and smiling, "i could not spare her!" valeria laughed, and blew a kiss to them both. then she ran upstairs for her hat, and went out across the fields with nino. adjoining the schoolroom was the drawing-room where mrs. avory and the grandfather were sitting together in silence. "sally's cough is worse," said the grandfather suddenly. (the fates were spinning. _"here is a black thread,"_ said one. _"weave it in,"_ said the other. and the third sharpened her scissors.) "sally's cough is worse," said the grandfather again. mrs. avory looked up from her crocheting. "hush, father dear!" she said. "i said sally's cough is worse," repeated the old man. "i hear it every night." "no, dear; no, dear," said mrs. avory. "not poor sally. sally has been at rest many years. perhaps you mean edith. she has a little cold." "i know sally's cough," said the old man. mrs. avory put her work down and folded her hands. a slow, icy shiver crept over her and enveloped her like a wet sheet. "sally is my favourite grandchild," continued her father, shaking his white head. "poor little sally--poor little sally!" mrs. avory sat still. terror, heavy and cold, crawled like a snake into her heart. "edith! it is edith!" she said. _"it is sally!"_ cried the old man, rising to his feet. "i remember sally's cough, and in the night i hear it." there was a moment's silence. then in the schoolroom edith coughed. the grandfather came close to his daughter. "there," he whispered, "that is sally. and you told me she was dead." mrs. avory rose tremblingly to her feet. in her eyes was the vision of her tragic children, all torn to death by the shuddering and insidious ill that crouched in their breasts and clutched at their throats, and sprang upon them and strangled them when they reached the threshold of their youth. and now edith, too? edith, her last-born! she raised her eyes of madre dolorosa to her father's face. then she fell fainting before him, her grey head at his feet. * * * * * out in the fields, that were alight with daisies, nino took valeria's hand and drew her arm through his. "little cousin," he said, "do you remember how i loved you when you were twelve years old, and scorned me?" "yes," laughed valeria; "and how i loved you when you were sixteen, and had forgotten me." "but, again," said nino, "how i loved you when you were eighteen, and refused me." valeria looked at him with timorous eyes. "and now i am twenty-seven and a half, and you are only twenty-three." "true," said nino. "how young you are! the woman i love is thirty-eight years old." valeria's face paled; then it flushed rose-pink, and she laughed. "thirty-eight! nearly forty? i don't believe it!" all her pretty teeth shone, and the dimple dipped in her cheek. "i hardly believe it myself," said nino, laughing. "perhaps it is not true, after all." did zio giacomo in the library hear with his astral ear his son's gratifying assertion? fräulein certainly thought that she saw him smile in his sleep, while through her careful lips "conte ukolino," in the thirty-third canto of the "inferno," gnawed noisomely at the archbishop's ravaged skull. "are you sure that she is not seventeen?" asked valeria, biting a blade of grass, and glancing up sideways at her cousin's face. nino stopped. "'she?' who? why? who is seventeen?" he asked. "edith," breathed valeria. nino shook his head. "no, not edith, poor little thing!" then he bent forward and kissed valeria decisively and authoritatively long before she expected it. "why did you call edith a poor little thing?" asked valeria, when she had forgiven him, and been kissed again. nino looked grave, and tapped his chest with his finger. _"È tisica!"_ he said. valeria started back, and dragged her hands from his. "tisica!" her heart stopped beating, and then galloped off like a bolting horse. "tisica!" in the terrible half-forgotten word the memory of tom and the tragic past flamed up again. yes; edith had a cough. but everybody in england coughed. edith--edith, with her fair hair and pink cheeks! it was not true! it could not be true. sweet, darling edith, with the hideous north-german coiffure that she had made for valeria's sake! edith, little nancy's best friend! ah, _nancy!_... valeria's thought, like some maddened quarry, darted off in another direction. nancy! nancy! she was with edith now! she was always with edith, laughing, talking, bending over the same book, kissing her good-night and good-morning. "i must go back," said valeria suddenly, with a face grown pinched and small. nino held her tight. "what is it, love of mine?" he said. "the baby!" gasped valeria, with a sob. nancy was the baby again. the baby that had to be taken away from danger--from tom first, and now from edith. it was the baby for whom she had run across these fields one morning years ago, tripping and stumbling in her haste, leaving what perhaps was love behind her, lest the baby should be hungry, lest the baby should cry. and now again she ran, tripping and stumbling in her haste, leaving what perhaps was love behind her. nancy must be saved. what if it were too late! what if nancy had already breathed the blight? if nancy, too, were soon to begin to cough ... to cough, and clear her throat, and perspire in the night, and have her temperature taken twice a day, and then one day--one day her eyes frightened, her fists clenched, and her mouth full of blood.... valeria held her hands to her cheeks, crying aloud, as she tottered and ran across the flowering fields. when she reached the garden there was nancy, standing on the swing, alone--swinging and singing, with her curls all ablow. "fräulein came out and called edith away," said the child, with a little pout. "she said i was not to come. perhaps somebody has arrived. could it be the poet from london?" "not yet, dear," said valeria, voiceless, and with hammering heart. she embraced the little black legs standing on the swing, and laid her throbbing temple against the child's pinafore. "ave maria, mater dei, ora pro nobis," she murmured. "go out of the way, mother dear, and see how high i swing," said nancy. valeria stepped aside; then she saw fräulein's face appear at the drawing-room window and fräulein's hand beckoning to her to come in. "i must go indoors for a moment. don't swing too high, darling," cried valeria, and hurried into the house. when she entered the drawing-room her heart stood still. mrs. avory was on the sofa, with grey lips and trembling hands. fräulein stood by her, holding smelling-salts and a saucer of vinegar; while edith, kneeling beside her, was crying: "mother darling! mother darling! are you better?" in a corner stood the grandfather and zio giacomo, looking bewildered and alarmed. "what has happened?" cried valeria. "she fainted," whispered edith, with a sob, as she kissed and chafed the cold hands. then her mother's arm went round her neck, and her mother's tears rained on her. "edith, my little girl, my own little girl!" she cried. valeria wept with her, and edith wept too, little knowing the reason of her mother's tears. ... out in the garden nancy was alone, swinging and singing, with her curls all ablow, when the german poet's spell came over her. "die linden lüfte sind erwacht, sie säuseln und wehen tag und nacht, sie kommen von allen enden...." the poets murmured it in her ear. through the darkening trees beyond the lawn she could see a gilt line where the sunset struck its light in the sky. "die welt wird schöner mit jeden tag, man weiss nicht was noch werden mag, das blühen will nicht enden!" nancy slipped from the swing. the poets were whispering and urging. had not fräulein in yesterday's lessons taught her the wonderful fact that the world was a round star, swinging in the blue, with other stars above it and below it? if one walked to the edge of the world, just to where it curves downward into roundness, and if one bent forward--holding to a tree, perhaps, so as not to fall--surely one would be able to look down into the sky and see the stars circling beneath one's feet! nancy felt that she must go to the edge of the world and look down. the edge of the world! she could see it! it was behind the trees beyond millpond farm, where the sun had dipped down and left the horizon ablaze. so nancy went out of her garden to go to the edge of the world. when mrs. avory had been tenderly helped to a seat in the garden, and had had a footstool and a pillow, and some eau de cologne, edith said: "where is nancy?" "where is nancy?" said valeria. fräulein called through the garden and through the house. then valeria called through the house and through the garden, and edith ran upstairs, and through all the rooms and into the attics, and down again into the garden and to the summer-house and the shrubbery. nino came in, and was sent to the village to see if nancy was there. but nancy was not there, nor had anyone seen her. zio giacomo and the stable-boy set out in one direction, and jim brown in another. nino went across the fields towards the station--you could hear his call and his whistle for miles--and florence went out and past the chapel along the road to fern glen. valeria, wringing her hands, ran out after florence, telling edith to stay in, and mind and take care of mrs. avory and the grandfather. but edith put on her hat, and said to mrs. avory: "i shall be back directly. stay here quite quietly, mother dear, and mind you get fräulein to look after you and grandfather." but her mother would not let her go alone. no, no; she would go, too! so they both started out towards baker's end, telling fräulein to mind and stay indoors, and look after grandfather. but fräulein, who had recently read "misunderstood," was suddenly seized by a horrible thought regarding the water-lilies on castlebury pond, and she went out quickly, just stopping to tell the cook to prepare dinner and to mind and look after the grandfather. but the cook ran across to smith's farm, and the scullery-maid went with her. the grandfather remained alone in the silent house. (the fates were spinning. _"here is a black thread. weave it in."_) the grandfather was alone in the silent house. he called his daughter; he called valeria, and edith, and nancy. then he remembered that nancy was lost. he called sally; he called tom; he rang the bells. nobody came; nobody answered. then again he remembered that nancy was lost, and that everyone had gone to look for her. he opened the front-door and walked down the avenue; he opened the gate and looked up and down the deserted road. then he stepped out and turned to the left, away from the village, and went towards the cross-roads at heather's farm; but before he reached them he crossed the field to the left, and went past wakeley's ditch towards the heath. the sun had dropped out of sight, and night, soft-footed and grey, was stealing like a cat across the meadows; and jim brown had found nancy on three cedars hill when the old grandfather left the heath and turned his slow footsteps into the dark and silent fields. he saw something waving and moving against the sky. "that is nancy," he said, and called her. but it was a threshing-machine, covered with black cloths that moved in the wind. and the grandfather hurried a little when he passed it. he said aloud: "i am eighty-seven years old." he felt that nothing would hurt him that knew this, and the threshing-machine let him pass, and did not follow with its waving rags, as he had feared. then some sheep penned in a fold startled him, running towards him with soft hoofs, bleating and standing still suddenly, with black faces turned towards him. as he tottered on something started up and ran away from him, and then it ran after him and darted past him. he was chilled with fear. "i am eighty-seven years old. it is not right that i should be alone in the night," he said; and he began to cry whiningly like a little child. but nobody heard him, and he was afraid of the noises he made. he turned to go home, and passed the shrouded machine again, and then in a field to the right he saw someone standing and moving. "have you seen nancy?" he cried. "hullo! good-evening! is nancy there?" the figure in the field beckoned to him, and he went stumbling in the ruts. when he got near, he said: "i am eighty-seven years old." the figure waved both arms, greatly impressed; and the grandfather sat down on the ground, for he was tired. nancy had reached home, and the lights were lit and voices rang through the house; but the grandfather sat on the hill-side in the dark, and talked to the scarecrow. "when you go home, sir, i shall go with you," said the grandfather, and the scarecrow made no objection. "you will tell me when you are ready to go." but as the figure waved to him to wait, the grandfather tried not to be cross. "all right, all right," he said. "i am in no hurry." but it was very cold. suddenly across the hill, with long light steps, came tom, and tom's son tom; and all his dead grandchildren came down the hill with long, light steps and sat around him. and the darker it grew the closer they sat. sally, who was the favourite, laid her head against his arm, and he could touch her cool face with his hand. he asked if they had seen nancy, but they had not; and he asked sally how her cough was. but they all laughed softly, and did not answer. the threshing-machine passed, waving its wings, and his dead children sat with him through the night. before dawn they rose up and left him, crossing the hill again with light, long steps. but the scarecrow stayed with him till he slept. (_"cut the thread,"_ said fate.) viii a fortnight after the funeral nino twisted up his moustache and went to london. his father had made no objection; indeed, zio giacomo himself found everything exaggeratedly doleful, and valeria, in her black dress, going about the house with the expression of a hunted cat, annoyed him exceedingly. she was always jumping up in the midst of any conversation, and running out to look for nancy. what if fräulein happened to be busy with mrs. avory or with the servants? said her uncle angrily. surely there was edith always with the child, petting her and spoiling her. valeria need not worry so! but valeria worried. she paid no attention to zio giacomo, never even gave him the promised _minestrone freddo_ on his birthday, and nino might have ceased to exist so far as she was concerned. she seemed to be always looking at nancy or looking at edith. when the two sat happily together, reading or talking, she would call nancy with a rough strained voice, hurriedly sending the child on some useless errand, or keeping her by her side and making long foolish talk with her. edith sometimes looked up in surprise when valeria called the child away from her so suddenly and so sternly; but seeing valeria's pale and anxious face, then glancing over to nino, who usually looked bored and absent-minded, edith thought of lovers' quarrels, and asked no questions. but there was no lovers' quarrel between nino and valeria. in valeria's terror-stricken heart maternal love had pushed all else aside, and only one thought possessed her--the thought of keeping nancy out of danger, out of reach of edith's light breath, out of reach of edith's tender kisses; while nino, seeing her with little nancy on her lap or at her side all day, gradually grew to look upon her in the light of valeria the mother, and lost sight of her as valeria the betrothed. a child on its mother's breast forbids and restrains passion. one evening he took up a paper and improved his english by reading the news. the news interested him. it was on the following day that he twisted up his moustache and went to london. he had dinner at pagani's. there he met carlo fioretti, an old fellow-student of his at pavia, who was dining with a golden-haired englishwoman at a table near to his. they invited him to drink coffee and _pousse-café_ with them, and fioretti told nino that he was doctor to the italian colony in london, and getting on splendidly. and would he join them at the comedy later on? nino was sorry--he was really desolated!--but he could not. he was going to the garrick. "oh," cried the fair lady, "to be sure! la villari is playing there to-night, isn't she? wonderful creature!" then she shook an arch forefinger at fioretti. "why did you not think of taking me to hear her?" fioretti promised to take her the next day, and the day after, and every day, and for ever! then nino took his leave with much bowing and hand-kissing, and fioretti accompanied him as far as the door. "who is she?" said nino. "a lady of title," said fioretti. "divorced." _"deliziosa,"_ said nino. _"milionaria,"_ said fioretti. and having quickly shaken hands with nino, he hurried back to her. * * * * * the seven mourning women in cossa's tragedy were already chanting their woes when nino entered the theatre and took his seat in the fourth row of the stalls. his heart opened to the swing and cadence of the italian words, to the loud sweetness of the italian voices, to the graceful violence of the italian gestures. his latin blood thrilled in understanding and response. suddenly villari was on the stage, and no one else existed. fervid and lovely, keen and lithe, soon she held in her small, hot hands the hearts of the cool english audience, tightening their nerves, swaying and drawing them into paths of unaccustomed passion. nino sat still with quick heart-beats, wondering if she would see him. he remembered the first time that her eyes had met his at the manzoni in milan four years ago. she was playing sappho. he was with his cousin adèle and aunt carlotta in one of the front rows, and they were laughing at the vehemence of the love-scene in the second act, when suddenly he saw that villari was looking at him. yes, at him! she gazed at him long and deliberately, while jean was sobbing at her feet, and she said daudet's famous words, "toi tu ne marchais pas encore, que moi déjà je roulais dans les bras des hommes," with her deep and steadfast eyes fixed on nino's face. she had said the words in french in the midst of the italian play, for she was whimsical and wilful, and did as she pleased. then she had turned away, and gone on with her part without noticing him any more. cousin adèle had been acid and sarcastic all the evening. the next day--how well he remembered it all!--he had sent villari flowers, as she intended that he should, and a week after that he had sent her a bracelet, having sold aunt carlotta and adèle's piano during their absence in order to do so. now she was before him once more, fervid and lovely, keen and lithe, and nino sat motionless, with quick heart-beats, wondering if she would see him. suddenly she looked straight at him, with long and deliberate gaze--so long, indeed, that he thought everyone must notice it, and he could hardly breathe for the violence of his rushing veins. when the curtain fell he sent his card to her dressing-room, but she did not receive him, nor did she do so at the end of the play. the next day he sent her flowers, as she had intended that he should, but when he called at her hotel she was out. he sat through nine of her twelve performances, and still she would not see him, for she was thirty-eight and wily, and knew men's hearts. she also knew her own, and had more than once thought that she detected symptoms of what she called a _grande passion_, a _toquade_, for this curly-headed, vehement young nino with the light laugh and the violent eyes. nunziata villari dreaded her grand passions. she knew of old how disastrous they were, how unbecoming to her complexion, how ruinous to her affairs, how gnawing during their process, how painful at their end. and she especially dreaded a grand passion for nino, remembering that he was one who had a nose of putty, and would probably be a fountain of grief. so night after night nino sat in his stall and watched her, and counted the days that remained before she would go away again. every night she was different--she was sappho and magdalen; she was norah and fedora; she was phædra and desdemona. every night she was before him, laughing or weeping, loving or hating, dying delicate deaths. she was terrible and sweet, fierce and alluring; she embraced and she killed; she was resplendent purity, she was emblazoned sin; she was _das ewig weibliche_, the immortal mistress of all lovers, the ever-desiring and the ever-desired. when, after her tenth performance, he was allowed to see her in her dressing-room, he could not speak. without a word of greeting, without responding to her smile, he dropped into a chair and hid his face in his hands, to the great amusement of marietta the maid. but nunziata villari was not amused. she suddenly realized that she had been acting for this nino every night, that especially for him she had sobbed and raved, she had laughed and languished; and as she saw him sitting there with his face in his hands, she felt in her heart the intermittent throb that she recognized and dreaded. it was the _grande passion;_ it was the _toquade._ "Ça y est!" she said. "now i am in love again." and she was. ix in wareside fräulein still read dante to the unwitting uncle giacomo. the apple-blossoms fluttered and the sun shone. butterflies, like blow-away flowers, flitted past edith as she lay on a couch in the sunshine, too lazy to move, and too peaceful to read; while little nancy ruffled up her hair and puckered her brow, frightened and gladdened at once by the luxuriance of words and ideas that sang in her brain, that romped out in lines and paired off in rhymes, like children dancing. and the two mothers sat in the shade and watched. when edith called nancy, and the child ran to her, valeria's lips tightened, and soon she would call the little girl to her side and keep her. then mrs. avory's face grew hard, and her heart was bitter with grief. she would rise quickly and go to edith, trying to divert her thoughts by some futile question about her crochet, or a book, or the colour of the sky. edith would answer, wondering a little, and shut her eyes, too lazy to think. over their children's heads the two mothers' glances met, hostile and hard, each shielding her own, each defending and each accusing. "edith is ill," said valeria's eyes. "nancy must not be near her." "edith is ill," said mrs. avory's eyes, "but she must not know it." "nancy must not be endangered." "edith must not be hurt." "mother," pipes up nancy's treble voice suddenly, "do you think may is a girl?" "who is may, dear?" "why, the month of may. do you think it is a girl with roses in her arms, dancing across the lands, and touching the hedges into flower?" "yes, dear; i think so." "or do you think it is a boy, with curls falling over his eyes, wilful and naughty, who drags the little leaves out from the trees, and tosses the birds across the sky, whirling and piping?" "yes, i think so, dear." "oh, mother, you are not listening!" cries nancy, and scampers off, improvising as she goes: "says may: 'i am a girl! may is short for margaret, margaret or daisy. the petals of a jessamine no boy's hand could unfurl!' says may: 'i am a girl.' "says may: 'i am a boy! may is short for...'" "for what?" thinks nancy, frowning impatiently at the word that will not come. then she skips gaily on across the grass: "says may: 'i am a boy! may is short for marmaduke, as all the world should know! i taught the birds their trills and shakes, no girl could whistle so!' "so may the girl, and may the boy, they quarrel all day long; while the flowers stop their budding, and the birds forget their song. and god says: 'now, to punish you, i'll hang out the new moon and take and bundle both of you into the month of june.'" "of course, may is _not_ short for marmaduke," muses nancy, "but that cannot be helped." ... on her couch on the lawn edith opened her eyes and said: "nancy? where is nancy?" valeria sprang up. "is there anything you want, edith dear?" "no; i should like nancy. i love to see her, and i am too lazy to run after her." "i will call her," said valeria. at this unexpected reply mrs. avory raised eyes shining with gratitude to her daughter-in-law's face. valeria found her little girl declaiming verses to the trees in the orchard. she knelt down on the grass to fasten the small button-shoe, and said, without raising her face: "nancy, you are to go to edith; but, nancy, _you are not to kiss her_." "oh, mother! has she been naughty?" "no." valeria remained on her knees, and put her arm round the child. "edith is ill," she said slowly. "then i will kiss her double," cried nancy, flushing. "nancy, nancy, try to understand," said valeria. "edith is ill, as your father was, and he died; and as her sisters were, and they died. and if you kiss her, you may get ill, too, and die. and every time you kiss her--oh, nancy, nancy, child of mine, it is a sword struck into your mother's heart!" there was a long pause. "and if i refuse to kiss her, will that not be a sword struck into her heart?" asked nancy. "yes," said valeria. "and if a sword is in edith's heart, there will be a sword in grandmother's heart, too?" "yes," said valeria. a long pause; then nancy said: "there is a sword for every heart.... i could make a beautiful poetry about that." her eyes were large, and saw nothing--not her mother, not edith who was ill--but the bleeding heart of the world, sword-struck and gigantic, and in her ears the lines began to swing and flow. "mother of god, help us!" sighed valeria, shaking her head. "go to edith." nancy went; and she kissed edith, because she had forgotten all that her mother had said. presently zio giacomo came out to them with an open letter in his hand. it was a letter from nino, and zio giacomo's wrath knew no bounds. he called nino a perfidious traitor and a foolish viper, and an imbecile and the son of an imbecile. he called valeria a blundering and insensate one, who might have stopped nino, and kept nino, and married nino, and made him behave himself; and nino was an angel, and no husband would ever be such an angel as nino would have been as a husband to valeria. and now the triple extract of insensate imbecility had gone off with an actress, a perfidious, senile snake, who had followed him to england, and it was all valeria's fault, and fräulein's fault. yes, fräulein was an absurd, moon-struck, german creature, who had turned him, zio giacomo, into a preposterous, doddering idiot by reading preposterous, senseless, twaddling dante's "inferno" to him all day long. fräulein wept, and valeria wept; but that did not help zio giacomo. nor did it bring back nino from san remo, where he was strolling under palm-trees with la villari; and la villari was smiling and sighing and melting in the throes of her new _toquade_. x nino, before leaving london, had borrowed some money from fioretti, who had borrowed it from the lady of title; then he had written to nunziata villari's impresario, and cancelled all her engagements; then he wrote to his father, and said he was sorry, and to valeria, and said he was a miserable hound. after that he started for the riviera with nunziata, who was meek and docile and lovely in her incredible hats and unverisimilar gowns. they were happy in san remo; but as may was ended, and the weather was hot, nino suggested spending june in switzerland; so they went to lucerne and up to bürgenstock. the large hotel was already filled with english-speaking people, and the striking italian couple was much looked at and discussed. at luncheon their table was set next to a family of americans--father, mother, and three lovely daughters with no manners. the three girls shook their curls, and laughed in their handkerchiefs, and made inaudible remarks to each other about the new arrivals. in the evening they all three appeared in rose-silk dresses, low-necked and tight-waisted--even the youngest, who looked scarcely fourteen. they carried three teddy-bears to table with them, and were noisy and giggling and ill-mannered; but their beauty was indescribable. the two eldest wore their red-gold curls pinned on the top of their heads with immense black bows, whereas the youngest had her flowing hair parted in the middle, and it fell like a sheet of gilt water to her waist. nino, who sat facing them, twisted up his moustache, and forgot to offer sweets to nunziata; and nunziata laughed and talked, and was charming, biting her red lips until they were scarlet, and turning her rings round and round on her delicate fingers. then she said--oh, quite casually!--that she had received a letter from count jerace that afternoon. count jerace? the name of the handsome neapolitan _viveur_ always grated upon nino, and he became angry, and made many stinging remarks; whereupon nunziata, still sweet and patient, biting her red lips until they were scarlet, and turning her rings round and round on her delicate fingers, said that jerace thought of coming to bürgenstock towards the end of the week. nino pushed his plate aside, and said he would leave the place to-morrow. then nunziata laughed and said: "so will i!" and nino called her an angel, and finished his dinner peacefully. they left the next day. they went to engelberg. in engelberg there were golf-links and tennis-courts, and english girls in shirt-waists and sailor hats--laughing girls, blushing girls, twittering girls. engelberg was full of them. nunziata soon got a letter to say that the count was thinking of coming to engelberg, and nino took her on to interlaken. but all switzerland was a-flower with girlhood. everybody in the world seemed to be seventeen or eighteen years old. nunziata would say nervously a hundred times a day: "what a lovely girl!" and nino would ask: "what girl?" "why, the girl that just passed us." nino had not seen her. "but you must have seen her," insisted nunziata. no; nino had not seen anybody. he never did. but nunziata saw everyone. every uptilted profile, every golden head, every flower-like figure, every curve of every young cheek, struck thorns and splinters into her hurting heart. she wore her incredible gowns and her unverisimilar hats, but they seemed strange and out of place in switzerland; and the brief-skirted, tennis-playing girls, passing in twos and threes in the cruel june sunshine, with their arms round each other's waists, would turn and look after her and smile. soon nunziata felt that what had been a caprice for four years, while she had had her rôles and her audiences, her impresarios and her critics, her adorers and her enemies to distract her, was a caprice no longer. what had been merely a _toquade_, to laugh at and to talk about, was no more a _toquade_. the fire had flamed up, and was a conflagration; it was, indeed, _la grande passion_. and nino was alone in her world. nino was not nino to her any more. he was youth itself, he was love, he was life, he was all that she had had in the fulness of her past, all that would soon slip from her for ever. and her heart grew bitter, as does the heart of every woman who is older than the man she loves. her thirty-eight years were to her as a wound of shame. sometimes, when he looked at her, she would bend forward and put her hands over his eyes. "don't look at me! don't look at me!" and when he laughed and drew her hands aside, she murmured: "your eyes are my enemies. i dread them." for she knew that his eyes would gaze upon and desire all the beauty and the youngness of the world. late one afternoon they sat on their balcony, while an italian orchestra in the gardens beneath them played some sicilian music that they loved. nunziata spoke her thought. "are you not tiring of me, nino? oh, nino! are you sure you are not tiring of me yet?" "yet?" exclaimed nino. "i shall never tire of you--never!" "ils faisaient d'éternels serments!..." murmured nunziata, with a bitter smile. nino grasped her white helpless hands. "why will you not be happy?" he said; for he knew her heart. "i do not know," said nunziata. "you are unhappy. i feel it--i feel it all through the day, even when you laugh," said nino. "would you be happier without me?" "neither with you nor without you can i live," said nunziata. the orchestra was playing lola's song, and her soul was filled with the hunger of the unattainable and the thirst of death; then, as it was late, she got up with a little sigh, and having powdered her face and patted her hair, and said a little prayer to the madonna, she slipped her arm through his, and they went down to dinner together. "i promise i shall not be so foolish again!" she said. "it is absurd; it is morbid!" but after dinner a girl from budapest was asked if she would dance. the girl laughed and hesitated; then she vanished for a few minutes, during which time nunziata turned faint and sick. the girl reappeared, barefooted and lightly draped; then she danced. she danced like the incarnation of spring, and she looked like a blossom blown from the almond-tree. and nunziata was morbid again. nino was in despair. he looked gloomy, and sighed, and quoted verlaine: "mourons ensemble, voulez-vous?" she laughed a little broken laugh, and quoted the succeeding line: "oh! la folle idée!" and she did not quite mean her laugh, as he did not quite mean his sigh. thus the two lovers toyed lightly with thoughts of the grave, while far away, at the grey house, death had uncovered his face, and was knocking at the door. * * * * * mrs. avory had awakened one morning to find the last of her daughters pale, with blood-stained lips, fighting for breath. a doctor, summoned in haste, had said: "davos!" a knighted specialist from london had repeated: "davos!" in less than a week the house was dismantled, the trunks packed, the servants dismissed. fräulein, all tears, had migrated into an american family staying in the neighbourhood; valeria, pale and trembling, and little nancy, sobbing, and clinging to edith's neck, had said "good-bye, good-bye!" and had left for italy with uncle giacomo. the tragic mother and daughter turned their steps to the mountains alone. xi davos glistened clear and keen-cut in the winter sunshine, and edith lay on the southern terrace of the belvedere, with a rug tucked round her and a parasol over her head. she was happy. her mother had just brought her a letter from nancy. her little niece nancy, waiting in italy--waiting just for a short time until edith should be quite well again--wrote a letter of love and longing, and told edith to get well quickly. life without edith, she wrote, was a horrid nightmare. italy without edith was a green splash and a name on the map, but did not really exist at all. aunt carlotta and cousin adèle were very kind people with loud voices, but she did not understand them, and did not want to understand them. all she wanted was to be with edith again. she had written two poems in italian, which her mother said were better than anything she had ever written before. and good-bye--and oh! let edith get well quickly, and let them be together in england again. there was a tender postscript from valeria telling her to be good and get well quickly. yes, yes; edith felt that she would get well quickly. her temperature was up, and the slight prickle of fever in her blood gave her a sensation of eagerness, almost of hurry, as if she were hastening through illness to health, and she felt gladly and intensely alive. she pressed little nancy's letter to her lips, and lay back in her chair. hers was the last but one of a long row of couches on the southern terrace of the belvedere. on either side of her were other reclining figures. next to her on the right was a russian girl, a few years older than herself, with a pinched and hectic face. on her left was fritz klasen, a german, twenty-four years old, ruddy and broad-shouldered. his blue eyes were open when edith turned her face towards him. "how do you like davos?" he said. edith answered: "very much," and the young man nodded and smiled. the russian girl opened her black eyes and looked at edith. "have you just come up?" she asked. edith said: "yes; we arrived three days ago. how long have you been here?" "four years," said the girl, and shut her eyes again. edith turned her head to the young german, and exchanged with him a pitying glance. "and you?" she asked him. "i have been here eight months. i am quite well. i am going home in may." the russian opened her dark eyes again, but did not speak. "are you going to the dance to-night?" said the young man after a while. "a dance? where?" asked edith. "here, in the hotel--in the big ball-room. we have a dance here every wednesday, and the grand hotel has one every saturday. great fun." and he cleared his throat and hummed "la valse bleue." edith went into the ball-room that evening, and although she did not dance, she enjoyed herself very much. mrs. avory repeatedly asked her if she was tired. "no, mother--no." there was a wild feverish excitement all round her that she felt and shared without understanding it--the excitement of the _danse macabre_. fritz klasen came to where she sat, and, striking his heels together, introduced himself to her and to her mother. "i had no idea davos was so gay," said mrs. avory, raising her light gentle eyes to the young man's face. "gayest place in the world," he said. "no time to mope." a girl in strawberry silk came rushing to him. "lancers," she said, and took his arm. they went off hurriedly, sliding like children on the polished floor. "he does not look ill," said mrs. avory. "nor does she," said edith. "no one does." and the mother gazed at the laughing, dancing crowd, and wondered if they all had within them the gnawing horror that she knew was shut in her daughter's fragile breast. "have you noticed," she said, "that nobody coughs?" "it is true," said edith. "nobody coughs." after a short silence mrs. avory said: "probably most of them are here for the winter sports." for a long time she believed this. young faces with pink cheeks and vivid eyes, and laughter, much laughter, surrounded her. there were balls and concerts, routs and bazaars, and everywhere the vivid eyes, and the pink cheeks, and the laughter. the only strange thing that mrs. avory noticed about her new friends was that when she said good-night to them, and shook hands with them, their hands were strange to the touch, and gave her a little shock. they were not like the hands of other people that one clasps and thinks not of. "good-night," to one. "what a hot hand!" she would think. "good-night," to another. "what a cold, moist hand!" hands of fire, and hands of ice; arid hands, that felt brittle to the touch; humid hands, which made her palms creep; weak, wet hands, from which her own recoiled. each told their tragic tale. but the faces laughed, and the feet danced, and nobody coughed. edith soon stopped coughing, too. the doctor had forbidden it. she coughed in the night, when no one except her mother heard. the months swung past, promising and not fulfilling, but promising again, and edith went to her fate submissive, with light tread. one thing only tore at her soul--the longing to see nancy. nancy, nancy, nancy! she would say the name to herself a hundred times a day, and close her eyes to try and picture the little face, and the tuft of black curls on the top of the buoyant head. her feverish hands felt vacant and aching for the touch of the soft, warm fingers she had held. mrs. avory comforted her. in the spring, or at latest in the summer, edith should see nancy again. edith would be quite well in a month or two if she ate many raw eggs and was brave. so edith ate raw eggs and was brave. * * * * * spring climbed up the five thousand feet and reached davos at the end of may. fritz klasen was leaving. he was going back to leipzig. "good-bye, good-bye." he walked round the verandah at the resting-hour, shaking hands with everyone, saying, "gute besserung," and "auf wiedersehen in deutschland," to two or three germans. when he reached the russian girl she was asleep. but edith said: "good-bye; i am so glad--i am so glad for you!" when he had passed she saw that the russian girl's eyes were open, and fixed on her. "did you speak?" said edith. "no," said the russian in her strange, empty voice; "i thought." edith smiled. "what did you think?" "i thought, why do you lie?" edith sat up, flushing, and her breath went a little shorter. "what?" she said. rosalia antonowa kept her deep eyes on edith's face. "you said you were glad that he was going. perhaps you meant it," she said. "you are here so short a time; but in a year, in two years, or four years, your lips will not be able to say that, and your heart will turn sick when another goes away, and you know that you will never go--never." her bistre lids closed. edith tried to find something comforting to say to her. "davos is so beautiful, one ought not to mind. surely you must love all this blue and white loveliness--the mountains, and the snow, and the sun." "oh, the mountains!" murmured rosalia, with clenched teeth. "the mountains, weighing on my breast, and the snow freezing and choking me, and the sun blazing and blinding me. oh!"--she raised her thin fist to the towering immensity round her--"oh, this unspeakable, this monstrous prison of death!" just then a belgian girl passed, with pale lips and a tiny waist. she stopped to ask antonowa how she was. "ill," said the russian curtly. when the girl had passed she spoke again to edith. "and you will know what they mean when they ask you how you are. it is not the '_comment ça va_?' of the rest of the world. no; here they mean it. they want to know. 'how are you? are you better? are you getting better more quickly than i am? surely you are worse than i am! what! no hæmorrhage for a month? no temperature? that is good.' and then you see the hatred looking out of their eyes." "oh, i don't think so," said edith. the russian kept silent for a while; then she said: "klasen will come back again. he is not cured. the doctor told him not to go. he will soon come back again." he came back four months later. edith was pained to see how grey and dull his face looked. now he would have to stay two or three years more. but he said he did not mind; he was happy. he had been married a month, and his wife was with him. he introduced his girl-wife to edith and to mrs. avory on the day following his arrival. she was a gentle blonde of nineteen, a blue-blooded flower of german aristocracy, who had married klasen against her parents' will. "i shall cure him," she said. the summer was magnificent. she went out a great deal for long walks and steep climbs, and she sang at all parties and concerts, for she had a lovely young voice, all trills and runs like a lark's. she would sit on the verandah at resting-time beside her husband, and near edith, for he had his old place again, and then after a while she would kiss his forehead and run off to pay calls, or to practise, or to drive down to klosters. klasen's bright blue eyes would follow her. the russian from her couch looked at him and read his thoughts. she read: "i married that i might not be alone--alone with my ill and my terror in the night and in the day--but i am still alone. when my wife is with me, and i cough, she says: 'poor darling!' when in the night i choke and perspire, she turns in her sleep, and says: 'poor darling!' and goes to sleep again. and i am alone with my ill and my terror." the russian girl thought that klasen's blue eyes burned with something that was not all love. after a time the girl-wife practised less, and paid fewer calls. she said she had lost weight, and one day with her husband she went to see the doctor. yes, there was something--oh, very slight, very slight!--at the apex of the left lung. so a couch was brought out for her on the terrace near her husband, and she rested in the afternoons with a rug tucked round her and a parasol over her head. fritz held the little hand with the new wedding-ring still bright upon it. when she coughed he said: "poor darling!" and he was no more alone. in the day-time they laughed, and were very cheerful; in the night fritz slept better; but his wife lay awake, and thought of her sister and her two little brothers safely at home with her father and mother in berlin. sometimes holiday-makers and sport-lovers came up to davos for a fortnight or a month, especially in the winter. mrs. avory noticed that they laughed much less than the invalids did. when they hurried through the lounge with their skates and skis, klasen would say: "see how they overdo things. they wear themselves out skiing, skating, curling, bobsleighing. yes," he would add, nodding to his wife and to edith, "almost everyone who comes here as a sportsman returns here as an invalid." his little laugh made edith shiver. sometimes the girl-wife would bend forward. "see, fritz; two more have arrived to-day!" "do you think they are tourists?" "oh no, no; they are ill." and in the young eyes that gazed upon the new-comers was no sorrow. * * * * * the months and the years swung round, and edith passed along them with light and ever lighter tread. and still and always the longing for nancy tore at her heart with poisoned teeth. every hour of her day was bitter with longing for the sound of the childish voice, the touch of the soft, warm hand. she sometimes thought: "if i were dying, valeria would let nancy come here to say good-bye." then again she thought: "if nancy came i should recover. i cannot eat enough now to get strong because i am so often near to crying; but if nancy were here i should not cry. i should eat much more; i should not feel so sad; i should go out for walks with her. i know i should recover...." but nancy was in italy in the house of aunt carlotta and cousin adèle, and edith's letters were not given to her, lest the paper over which edith had bent should carry poison in its love-laden pages. nancy now spoke italian and wrote italian poems. she went out for walks with adèle, and adèle held the soft, warm hand and heard the sweet treble voice. adèle kept the house quiet and the meals waiting when nancy was writing; and when nancy frowned and passed her hand across her forehead with the little quick gesture she often used, adèle laughed her loud milanese laugh that drove all the butterfly-thoughts away. adèle tidied nancy's things and threw away the dried primroses edith had picked with her in the hertfordshire woods, and gave the string of blue beads edith had put round nancy's neck the day she left for davos to the hall-porter's child, and she tore up all the poems nancy had written in england, because they were old things that nobody could understand. thus, as the months and the years swung round, edith went from nancy's memory. softly, slowly, with light tread, the girl-figure passed from her recollection and was gone; for children and poets are forgetful and selfish, and a child who is a poet is doubly selfish, and doubly forgetful. * * * * * when nancy was fifteen, zardo, the milan publisher, accepted her first book--"a cycle of lyrics." by the post that brought the first proofs to the little poet came also a letter, black-edged, from switzerland, for her mother. "mother, mother!" cried nancy, drawing the printed pages from the large envelope, and shaking them out before her, "look, the proofs, the proofs! this is my book, my own book!" and she lifted all the rough sheets to her face and kissed them. but valeria had opened the black-edged letter, and was gazing at it, pale, with tears in her eyes. "nancy," she said, "edith is dead." "oh, mother dear!" exclaimed nancy, "i am so sorry!" and she bent over her mother and kissed her. then she went back to her proofs and turned over the first page. "she died on thursday morning," sobbed valeria. "and oh, nancy, she loved you so!" but nancy had not heard. before her lay her first printed poem. the narrow verses on the wide white sheet looked to her like a slender pathway. and along this pathway went nancy with starry matutinal eyes, beyond the reach of love and the call of death, leading her dreams far out past the brief arch of fame, into the shining plains of immortality. xii so valeria had her wish. her child was a genius, and a genius recognized and glorified as only latin countries glorify and recognize their own. nancy stepped from the twilight of the nursery into the blinding uproar of celebrity, and her young feet walked dizzily on the heights. she was interviewed and quoted, imitated and translated, envied and adored. she had as many enemies as a cabinet minister, and as many inamorati as a _première danseuse_. to the signora carlotta's tidy apartment in corso venezia came all the poets of italy. they sat round nancy and read their verses to her, and the criticisms of their verses, and their answers to the criticisms. there were tempestuous poets with pointed beards, and successful poets with turned-up moustaches; there were lonely, unprinted poets, and careless, unwashed poets; there was also a poet who stole an umbrella and an overcoat from the hall. aunt carlotta said it was the futurist, but adèle felt sure it was the singer of the verb of magnificent sterility, the one with the red and evil eyes. soon came a letter from rome bearing the arms of the royal house. her majesty the queen desired to hear giovanna desiderata read her poems at the quirinal at half-past four o'clock of next friday afternoon. the house was in a flutter. everywhere and at all hours, in the intervals of packing trunks, aunt carlotta, adèle, valeria, and nancy practised deep curtseying and kissing of hand, and wondered if they had to say "your majesty" every time they spoke, or only casually once or twice. they started for rome at once. a gorgeous dress and plumed hat was bought for nancy, a white veil was tied for the first time over her childish face, and in very tight white gloves, holding the small volume of her poems, she went with trembling heart--accompanied by valeria, carlotta, and adèle in large feather boas--to the quirinal. a gentle-voiced, simply-gowned lady-in-waiting received them, and smiled a little as she explained that only nancy was expected and could be received. nancy was then told to remove her veil and her right-hand glove. carlotta, valeria, and adèle embraced her as if she were leaving them for a week, and made the sign of the cross on her forehead; then the lady-in-waiting conducted her through a succession of yellow rooms, of blue rooms, of red rooms, into the white and gold room where the queen awaited her. more gentle-voiced and more simply gowned than her lady-in-waiting, the queen, standing beside a table laden with flowers, moved to meet the little figure in the huge plumed hat. nancy forgot the practised curtsey and the rehearsed salute. she clasped and held the gracious hand extended to her, and suddenly, as the awed, childish eyes filled with tears, the queen bent forward and kissed her.... it was late and almost dark when nancy returned, dream-like, with pale lips, to her mother, her aunt, and her cousin, who were having a nervous meal of sandwiches and wines with a gentleman in uniform standing beside them, and two powdered footmen waiting on them. they all three hurriedly put on their boas as soon as nancy appeared, and they left, escorted and bowed out by the gentleman in uniform. "probably the duke of aosta," said aunt carlotta vaguely. another powdered footman conducted them to the royal automobile in which they returned to the hotel. nancy was disappointing in her description of everything. she sat in the dusky carriage with her eyes shut, holding her mother's hand. she could not tell aunt carlotta what she had eaten. tea? yes, tea. and cakes? yes, cakes. but what kind of cakes, and what else? she did not remember. and she could not tell adèle how the queen was dressed. in white? no, not in white. was it silk? she did not know. what rings did the queen wear, and what brooch? nancy could not remember. and had she said "your majesty" to her, or "signora"? nancy did not know. neither, she thought. then her mother asked timidly: "did she like your poems?" and nancy tightened the clasp on her mother's hand and said, "yes." carlotta and adèle were convinced that nancy had made a fiasco of the visit and of the reading. she had blundered over the greeting, and had forgotten to say "maestà." but they talked to everybody in the hotel about their afternoon at the quirinal, and pretended not to be surprised when the hall-porter brought to them at the luncheon-table a packet containing three pictures of the queen with her signature, one for each; and for nancy a jewel-case, with crown and monogram, containing a brooch of blue enamel with the royal initial in diamonds. nancy bought a diary, and wrote on the first page the date and a name--the name of a flower, the name of the queen. * * * * * they returned to milan in a dream. a crowd of friends awaited them at the station, foremost among them zio giacomo, shorter of breath and quicker of temper than ever, and beside him the returned prodigal, nino, who had never been seen and seldom been heard of for the past eight years. adèle turned crimson, and valeria turned white as the well-remembered dark eyes smiled at them from the handsome, sunburnt face; and nino turned up his moustache and helped them to alight from the train, and kissed them all loudly on both cheeks. nancy did not remember him at all. she looked at him gravely while he rapidly described to her a pink pinafore she used to wear in england eight years ago, and a punch-and-judy show, stage-managed by a fräulein something or other, and a dimple just like her mother's that she then possessed. immediately the dimple reappeared, dipping sweetly in the young curved cheek, and valeria smiled with tears in her eyes and kissed nancy. then nino kissed valeria and kissed nancy, and then he kissed adèle, too, who was acidly looking on. at last zio giacomo, growing very impatient, hurried them off the crowded platform and into cabs and carriages. they drove home, nino crushing in at the last moment with valeria, carlotta, and nancy. he did not ask about the queen, nor did he tell them anything about his own long absence; but he quoted baudelaire and mallarmé to them all the way home in a low resonant voice broken by the jolts of the carriage. he did not quote nancy's poems. "they are sacrosanct," he said. "my lips are unworthy." then he drifted into richepin: "voici mon sang et ma chair, bois et mange!" he said, looking straight before him at valeria. and valeria turned pale again, uselessly, hopelessly; for the eyes that looked at her did not see her. zio giacomo and nino stayed with them to dinner, and two of the poets, a successful one and an unwashed one, came later in the evening. "what do you think of d'annunzio?" asked nino of nancy, when the poets had stopped a moment to take breath. "i have not read him. i have read nobody and nothing," said nancy. "that is right," cried marvasi, the unwashed, nodding his rusty head and clapping his dusty fingers. "read nothing, and retain your originality." "read everything," cried cesare raffaelli, "and cultivate form." during the discussion that followed, the din of the two poets' voices built a wall of solitude round nino and nancy. "how old are you?" asked nino, looking at her mild forehead, where the dark eyebrows lay over her light grey eyes like quiet wings. "sixteen," said nancy; and the dimple dipped. nino did not return her smile. "sixteen!" he said. and because his eyes were used to the line of a fading cheek and the bitterness of a tired mouth, his heart fell, love-struck and conquered, before nancy's cool and innocent youth. it was inevitable. "sixteen!" he repeated, looking at her, grave and wondering. "is anybody in the world sixteen?" and it was not the inspired author of the poems over which half italy raved, but the little girl with the wing-like eyebrows, that his wonder went to; and it was the chilly little hand of the maiden, not the pulse of the poet, that shook his heart loose from those other white, well-remembered hands, where the blue veins, soft and slightly turgid, marked the slower course of the blood--those sad blue veins which moved his pity and strangled his desire. "may i call you by your right name?" he asked. "'nancy' seems so--geographical." nancy laughed. "call me as you will." "_desiderata_" he said slowly, and the colour left his face as he pronounced it. that evening nancy wrote on the second page of her diary the date, and a name; then she scratched the name out again, and the queen remained in the book alone. every morning since the visit to the quirinal nancy's chocolate and her letters were brought in to her at eight o'clock by adèle herself, who regarded it now as an office of honour to wait on the little sappho of italy. she came in, in dressing-gown and slippers, with her long black hair in a plait, and placed the dainty tray by nancy's bed; then she opened the shutters and came back to sit beside nancy, and open her correspondence for her. nancy the while, like a lazy princess, sipped her chocolate, with her little finger in the air. newspaper cuttings about nancy were read first; requests for autographs were carefully put aside for adèle to answer. adèle said that she could write nancy's autograph more like nancy than nancy herself. then poems and love-letters were read and commented upon with peals of laughter--and business letters were put aside and not read at all. so many people came and spoke to nancy of what she had written that she had no time to write anything new. but her brain was stimulated by all the modernists and symbolists and futurists who recited their works to her; and in the long lamp-lit evenings, while aunt carlotta was playing briscola with zio giacomo, nino read carducci's "odi barbare" to the three listening women--valeria, adèle, and nancy--who sat in their large armchairs with drooping lids and folded hands, like a triptichi of the seasons of love. valeria always sat a little apart in the shadow, and if anyone spoke to her she replied softly and smiled wanly. valeria's dimple had slipped into a little line on her cheek. valeria herself was not valeria any more. she was nancy's mother. she had moved back into the shadow, where mothers sit with kind eyes that no one gazes into, and sweet mouths that no one kisses, and white hands that bless and renunciate. the baby had pushed her there. gently, inexorably, with the first outstretching of the tiny fist, with the first soft pressure of the pink fragile fingers against the maternal breast, the child had pushed the mother from her place in the sunlight--gently, inexorably, out of love, out of joy, out of life--into the shadow where mothers sit with eyes whose tears no one kisses away, with heart-beats that no one counts. nancy sooner than others had taken her own high place in the sun; for if most children are like robin redbreasts, slayers of their old, genius, the devourer, is like an eagle that springs full-fledged, with careless, devastating wings, from the nest of a dove. * * * * * "nancy," cried adèle, bursting into her cousin's room one afternoon, "here is an englishman to see you. come quickly. i cannot understand a word he says." "oh, send mother to him," said nancy. "i have forgotten all my english. besides, i must read this noxious gabriele to the end." "your mother has gone out. do come!" and adèle gave nancy's hair a little pull on each side and a pat on the top, and hurried her to the drawing-room, where the englishman was waiting. he rose, a stern-looking, clean-shaven man, with friendly eyes in a hard face. nancy put out her hand and said: "buon giorno." he answered: "how do you do? my italian is very poor. may i speak english?" nancy dimpled. "you may speak it, but i may not understand it," she said. but she understood him. he had written a critical essay on her book, with prose translations of some of the lyrics, and wished to close the article with an _aperçu_ of her literary aims and intentions. what work was she doing at present! what message----? "nothing," said nancy, with a little helpless latin gesture of her hands. "i am doing nothing." "_peccato!_" said the englishman. and he added: "i mean your italian word in both senses--a pity and a sin." nancy nodded, and looked wistful. "why are you not working?" asked her visitor severely. nancy repeated the little helpless gesture. "i don't know," she said; then she smiled. "in italy we talk so much. we say all the beautiful things we might write. that is why italian literature is so poor, and italian cafés so interesting. as for our thoughts, when we have said them they are gone--blown away like the fluff of the dandelions i used to tell the time by when i was a little girl in england." that childish reminiscence brought her very near to him, and he told her about his mother and his younger sister, who lived in kent, in an old-fashioned house in the midst of a great garden. "you make me homesick for england," said nancy. mr. kingsley looked pleased. "do you remember england?" he asked. "no," said nancy; "i am always homesick for things that i have forgotten, or for things that i never have known." and she smiled, but in her eyes wavered the nostalgic loneliness of the dreamer's soul. the englishman cleared his throat, and said in a practical voice: "i hope that you will work very hard, and do great things." * * * * * she tried to. she got up early the next morning, and wrote in her diary, "_incipit vita nova!_" and she made an elaborate time-table for every hour of the day; then she made a list of the things she intended to write--subjects and ideas that had stirred in her mind for months past, but had been scattered by distracting visits, dispersed in futile conversations. she felt impatient and happy and eager. on the large white sheet of paper which lay before her, like a wonderful unexplored country full of resplendent possibilities, she traced with reverent forefinger the sign of the cross. some one knocked at the door. it was clarissa della rocca, nino's married sister, tall, trim, and sleek in magnificent clothes. "_mes amours!_" she exclaimed, embracing nancy, and pressing her long chin quickly against nancy's cheek. "do put on your hat and come for a drive with me. aldo has come from america. he is downstairs in the stanhope. he is trying my husband's new sorrels, and so, of course, i insisted on going with him. now i am frightened, and i have nobody to scream to and to catch hold of." "catch hold of aldo, whoever he may be," said nancy, laughing. "he is my brother-in-law. but i can't," said clarissa, waving explanatory mauve-gloved hands; "he is driving. besides, he is horribly cross. have you never seen him? he is carlo's youngest brother. do come. he will be much nicer if you are there." "but he does not know me," said nancy, still with her pen in her hand. "that's why. he is always nice to people he does not know. come quickly, _ma chérie_. he is _ravissant_. he has been to america on a wild and lonely ranch in texas. he speaks english and german, and he sings like an angel. make yourself beautiful, _mon chou aimé_." nancy slipped into a long coat, and pinned a large hat on her head without looking in the glass. clarissa watched her from out of her long careful eyelids, and said: "mon dieu!" then she asked suddenly: "how young are you?" "nearly seventeen," said nancy, looking for her gloves. "what luck!" sighed clarissa. "and you are sure you won't mind if i pinch you? i must! the near horse rears." then they ran downstairs together, where aldo della rocca sat, holding the two impatient sorrels in with shortened reins. he was flicking at their ears and making them plunge with curved, angry necks and frothing mouths. he was certainly _ravissant_. his profile, as nancy saw it against the blue june sky, was like praxiteles' hermes. his glossy hair gleamed blue-black as he raised his hat with a sweeping gesture that made nancy smile. then they were seated behind him, and the puissant horses shot off down the corso and towards the bastioni at a magnificent pace. clarissa shrieked a little now and then when she remembered to, but aldo did not seem to hear her, so she soon desisted. "is he not seraphically beautiful?" she said to nancy, pointing an ecstatic forefinger at her brother-in-law's slim back. "i often say to carlo: 'why, why did i meet you first, and not your apolline brother?'" nancy smiled. "but surely he is rather young." "he is twenty-four, you little stinging-nettle," said clarissa; "and he has been so much petted and adored by all the women of naples that he might be a thousand." "how horrid!" said nancy, looking disdainfully at the unwitting back before her, at the shining black hair above the high white collar, and at the irreproachable hat sitting correctly on the top of it all. "oh yes, he is horrid," said clarissa; "but how visually delectable!" aldo della rocca turned his profile towards them. "i shall take you along the monza road," he said. "oh," cried clarissa, "such an ugly old road, where no one will see us." "i am driving the horses out to-day," said her brother-in-law, "not your paris frocks." and he turned away again, and took the road towards monza at a spanking gait. "il est si spirituel!" laughed clarissa, who bubbled over into french at the slightest provocation. the straight, white, dusty road, bordered with poplars, stretched its narrowing line before them, and the sorrels went like the wind. suddenly, as they were nearing the first ugly-looking houses of sesto, the driver checked suddenly, and the ladies bent forward to see why. a hundred paces before them, struggling and swaying, now on the side-walk, now almost in the middle of the road, were two women and a man. some children standing near a door shrieked, but the struggling, scuffling group uttered no sound. nancy stood up. the man, whose hat had fallen in the road--one could see his dishevelled hair and red face--had wrenched one arm loose from the clutch of the women, and with a quick gesture drew from his pocket something that the sun glanced on. "he has a knife or a pistol!" gasped nancy. the struggling women had seen it, too, and now they shrieked, clutching and grappling with him, and screaming for help. nancy thrust her small, strong hands forward. "i can hold the horses," she said, and seized the reins from della rocca's fingers. he turned and looked at her in surprise. "why, what----?" and he stopped. she read the doubt in his face, and read it wrong. "i can--i can!" she cried. "go quickly! we shall be all right!" he twisted his mouth in curious fashion; then he jumped from his seat, and ran in light leaps across the road. the man was holding the revolver high out of the women's reach, while they clung to him and held him frantically, convulsively, crying: "help! madonna! help!" della rocca reached him in an instant, and wrenched the short revolver away. with a quick gesture he opened the barrel and shook the cartridges out upon the ground. he tossed the weapon to one of a dozen men who had now come hurrying out of a neighbouring wine-shop, and, running lightly across the dusty road, he was back at the side of the carriage in an instant. he glanced up at nancy, and raised his hat again with the exaggerated sweep that had caused her to smile before. "pardon me for keeping you waiting," he said. "ah, _quel poseur!_" cried clarissa, who had sat with her eyes shut, holding her ears during the excitement. della rocca smiled, and, jumping into his place, took the reins from nancy's strained and trembling hands. she dropped back in her seat feeling faint and excited. the horses plunged and started forward again. "what courage!" said clarissa, taking nancy's fingers in her own. "yes," said nancy, looking with approval at the straight, slim shoulders and the black hair and the irreproachable hat. "i like a brave man." clarissa gave one of her little parisian shrieks. "_ouiche!_ it is not aldo--it is you who are brave! aldo is as cautious as a hare, but, being a preposterous _poseur_, he would not miss an effect for worlds!" and clarissa flourished an imaginary hat in the della rocca style. nancy laughed, and believed not a word about the hare. when they left her at her door she answered his sweeping salutation with a serious little nod; she ran up the stairs hurriedly, and into her room. on her writing-table lay an unopened letter from nino; he wrote to her every morning and called on her every afternoon. nancy did not glance at it. she ran out on to the balcony. but the stanhope had already turned out of sight. nancy stepped back into her room and slowly drew off her gloves. for some unexplained reason she was glad that her wrists still ached, and that her fingers were bruised by the dragging of the hard, stiff reins. from the open balcony the wind blew into the room, and scattered the papers on her writing-table. it blew away nino's letter; it blew away the elaborate time-table she had drawn up and the lists of the work she was to do; it blew away the large white sheet of paper--the fair sheet full of resplendent possibilities--on which she had traced with reverent finger the sign of the cross. xiii when the englishman called again to bring her a copy of the _fortnightly_ with the article on "an italian lyrist," he found that she had not worked at all; she looked as sweet and helpless and idle as ever, and the room was full of visitors. he was introduced to her mother, whom he found gentle and subdued, and to the vigorous, loud-voiced aunt carlotta, and to all the poets. "i am afraid, mother dear," said nancy, leaning her billowy head against her mother's arm and looking up at her new friend with may-morning eyes, "that mr. kingsley will think i have no character." "you have a complexion," interposed aunt carlotta. "that is enough for a girl." valeria laughed. "it is true. italian girls must not have characters until they marry. then their husbands make it for them, according to their own tastes." mr. kingsley smiled down at nancy. "why should i think you have no character?" "because you told me to work. and i promised; and i have not," said nancy. "have you done nothing at all since i saw you?" he asked. nancy shook her head. "and have you no thoughts, no ideas that urge for expression?" "oh yes!" said nancy, waving eloquent, impatient fingers. "ideas and thoughts grow and bloom and blow in my mind like flowers in a garden. then all these people come and talk to me.... alas," she sighed, looking round the murmuring, laughing room, "in the evening my garden is barren, for i have cut all my flowers and given them away." the englishman forgot that he was english, and said what he thought: "i wish i could carry you off, and lock you up for a year, with nothing but books and a table and an inkstand," he said. "i wish you could," laughed nancy, clasping eager hands. "i should love it. not a soul would be allowed to speak to me. and i should have my meals passed in through the window." the englishman laughed the sudden laugh of one who laughs seldom. "and i should walk up and down outside with a gun." nancy looked at him, and a quick, shy thought, like a bird darting into an open window, entered her mind for an instant. surely it would be good to have this strong, kind sentinel between herself and the world; to feel the light firmness of his touch on her shoulder keeping her to her work--to the work she loved, and yet was willing to neglect at the call of every passing voice. this stern, fair countenance would face the world for her; these strong shoulders would carry her burdens; these candid eyes would look into her soul and keep it clear and bright. then the bird-thought flew out of the window of her mind, for the door opened and love and destiny came in. it was aldo della rocca, more than ever visually delectable. with him came his sister-in-law clarissa, and nino. nino looked depressed and dreary; la villari was writing to him; his conscience was harassing him; aldo della rocca's self-confident beauty irritated him. "what, nino! here again?" said nancy, with a laugh. "you said last night that henceforward you would never come to see us more than twice a week." "that's right," said nino. "yesterday was the last visit of last week, and this is the first visit of this week. besides, della rocca told me he was coming, so i felt that i had to come too. of course, i did all i could to shake him off, but he is as persistent and adhesive as one of his compatriot cab-drivers in santa lucia. so that is why i could not come alone." "how confusing!" said nancy, turning to greet della rocca. della rocca smiled; and his smile was sudden and brilliant, as if a row of lights had been lit at the back of his eyes. he bent over nancy's proffered hand. "signora--your slave!" he said in ceremonious southern fashion. clarissa's high voice rang out. "he has been reading your poems day and night, nancy. and he has put them to music. glorious! quite à la richard strauss or tosti or hugo wolff! he must sing them to you." then she sailed round, greeting the poets, many of whom she knew. the englishman was introduced as the signor kingsley, and clarissa asked him many questions about london, and did not wait to hear what he answered, but went off with adèle and aunt carlotta to a french lecture on "napoléon et les femmes." the poets, as soon as they had had vermouth and biscottini di novara, also went away. then della rocca seated himself at the piano, and, preluding softly, strayed from harmony to harmony into the songs he had composed for nancy. he played with his head bent forward and his soft hair falling darkly over half his face, making him look like a younger brother of velasquez's christ. he had the musical talent of a neapolitan street-boy and the voice of an angel who had studied singing in germany. nancy felt happy tears welling into her eyes, and della rocca's clear-cut, down-curving profile wavered before her gaze. the signor kingsley sat silent in his corner near the window. valeria was in the shadow with some quiet work in her hand, and nino, who was sulky and bored, smoked cigarette after cigarette and yawned. nancy bent forward with clasped hands, listening to her own words, the lovelier for their garb of music as children are more lovely when clothed in shimmering robes and crowned with roses. she had sent her thoughts out into the world, in their innocent and passionate immaturity, bare and wild. and, behold, he brought them back to her veiled in silver minor keys, borne on palanquins of rhythmic harmonies, regal, measured, stately, like the young sisters of a queen. mr. kingsley's mouth tightened as he watched the back of the singer's black head nodding to the music, and listened to the soft tenor voice rolling over the "r's" and broadening on the mellow "a's" of the tender italian words. he felt his own good english baritone contracting in his throat, and he wondered what made "these latin idiots" sing as they did. then he glanced at nancy, who had closed her eyes, and at nino, who was in the rocking-chair staring at the ceiling; and suddenly he felt that he must take his leave. he rose at the end of the cycle of songs, and nancy turned to him with vague eyes to say good-bye. his kind clear gaze rested on her face. "do not cut all your flowers," he said. nancy shook her head. "no, no!" she said. "i won't. i really won't." "remember that your masterpiece is before you, and the little poems are done with. lock your doors. shut out the world, and start on a new work to-morrow." nancy said, "yes, yes, i will." then an absent look stole over her light eyes. "ah! _der musikant!_" she cried, turning to della rocca, who was singing in german, and pronouncing as if it were genovese. "i remember that. is it not eichendorff?" "'aus dem leben eines taugenichts,'" said della rocca. "oh, do you really speak german? i love people who speak german," cried nancy, on whom the german poet's spell still rested. "i learned it at göttingen," said della rocca, with his illuminating smile. "ach, de stadt die am schönsten ist wenn man sie mit dem rücken ansieht," quoted nancy, laughing. della rocca laughed too, although he did not understand what she had said; then he turned to the piano again. nancy felt happy and inclined to kindness. "do not go yet," she said to mr. kingsley. "sit down and talk to me." but mr. kingsley knew better. della rocca's melting notes were drawing the girl's thoughts away again, and he could notice the little shiver creep round her face, leaving it slightly paler, as the silver tenor voice took a high a in falsetto and held it long and pianissimo. "i will come again some day, if i may," he said. "but i almost hope that i shall find your doors locked." again the bird-thought came fluttering into the window of nancy's mind, as the englishman's strong hand closed firm and warm round hers. then the door was shut on mr. paul kingsley, and the thought flew away and was gone. "who is that conceited fool of an englishman?" said nino, who felt cross and liked to show it. nancy flushed. "please don't speak like that about englishmen. my father was english." then she added, with a little toss of her head: "and he was not a bit of a conceited fool." "i never said he was," said nino. "oh!" gasped nancy, "you did!" "i said nothing of the kind," declared nino. "your father was a good and noble man." "you know i was not talking of my father," said nancy. "no more was i," said nino. nancy turned to della rocca, who was preluding carelessly with smooth fingers and all his smiles alight. "nino always cavils and confuses until one does not know what one is talking about!" della rocca nodded. "that is just what his celebrated friend, nunziata villari, said about him when i saw her in naples. by the way, nino,"--he ran up a quick scale of fourths and let them fall in a minor arpeggio like tumbling water--"they say la villari tried to commit suicide last month. locked herself up with a brazier of coke, like a love-sick grisette. did you hear about it?" "no," said nino, "i did not." then he looked long, mildly, fixedly at della rocca, who after a moment got up and said good-bye. when he had left, nancy said to nino: "who is la villari? and why did she try to kill herself? la villari! i thought that was an actress who had died a hundred years ago." nino took her hand. "you don't know anything, nancy," he said. "you don't even know that you are a vulture and a shark." nancy laughed. "yes, but who is la villari?" "she is someone you have devoured," said nino. and, remembering the brazier of coke, he left for naples by the next train; for, though he had a nose of putty, he had a heart of gold. xiv during the long, dreary journey in an empty carriage of the slow train nino fought his battles and chastened his soul. he set his conscience on the empty seat before him and looked it in the face. the desires of his heart sat near him, and took his part. his conscience had a dirty face that irritated him; his desires were fair as lilies and had high treble voices that spoke loud. his conscience said nothing, only sat there showing its dirty face and irritating him. by the time bologna was reached the lilies had it all their own way. after all he was young--well, comparatively young; thirty-one is young for a man--and he had his life before him, while nunziata--well, she had lived her life. and she had had eight years of his: the eight best years, for after all at thirty-one a man is not young--well, not so young. his conscience was staring at him, so he changed argument. nunziata did not really love him any more, she had told him so a hundred times during the last two years; it was a burden, a chain of misery to them both. she had herself begged him to leave her after one of those well-remembered, never-ending scenes that were always occurring since she had finally abandoned the theatre for his sake. she had said: "go! i implore you to go! i cannot live like this any longer! for my sake, go!" so it was really in order to please her that he had gone. the face of his conscience opposite him was looking dirtier than ever. but the treble voices of his desires rang shrill: "he must not forget his duties to himself and to others. he had a duty to his father, who longed to have him near him, settled happily and normally; he had a duty to valeria, who----" here he quickly changed argument again. "he had a duty to nancy, to little, innocent, wonderful nancy, who understood nothing of the world; she must be saved from designing knaves, from struggling _littérateurs_ and poets who would like to marry her and use her vogue in order to scramble up to a reputation, from the professional _beau jeune homme_ like aldo, who would break her heart.... it really was his duty----" the train slowed, shivered, and stopped. he was glad to get out, and rush to a hurried supper in the buffet, because the ugly face opposite him was more than he could stand. all through the night in the slow train to rome he fought his battles and chastened his soul, and the little ugly face said not a word, but looked at him. when day dawned he had broken the lilies, and they lay, whiter than before, at his feet. and the face of his conscience was clean. when rome was reached, where he had three hours to wait for the naples express, he hurried into the telegraph-office and sent a message to nunziata: "arriving this evening at nine. forgive. yours for ever, nino." then, just as he was getting into the hotel omnibus, he learned that a special excursion train was leaving for naples at once. he could arrive four hours sooner. he hastened back into the station, caught the train, and was already approaching naples when la villari received his telegram. la villari had just begun her luncheon, and the _spaghetti al burro e formaggio_ lay in a goodly heap of pale gold on her plate. she had just put her fork into them and begun to turn it round and round, when teresa came in excitedly. "a telegram, illustrissima," she said. la villari opened the telegram. "misericordia!" she said. "he is coming back." teresa cleaned her hands on her apron. what? the signorino? he was returning? "yes, to-night. at nine o'clock," sighed la villari. well, let the illustrissima not allow the spaghetti to get cold. and teresa sighed also, as she left the room and hustled the telegraph-boy off without giving him a tip. they had been so happy without the signorino. they had had such quiet, comfortable meals. the illustrissima had had no nerves, no convulsions, but a good appetite and a pleasant temper. now it would all begin again: the excitements, the tempers of the illustrissima; the dinner left to get cold while the illustrissima and the signorino quarrelled; the rushings out of the signorino; the tears of the illustrissima; the telephone messages; the visitors and relations to argue with and console the illustrissima; then the returnings of the signorino; and supper for everybody in the middle of the night. it was not a life. teresa brought in the auburn cutlet a la milanese. there! already it was beginning. the illustrissima had not eaten the spaghetti! "do not bother me with the spaghetti," said the illustrissima, who already had the nerves. "let us think about this evening." "yes," said teresa. "shall we have vol-au-vent that his excellency likes?" "oh, do not bother me with vol-au-vent!" cried the illustrissima. "do you not understand that he must not find us like this?" "vossignoria will put on the blue crêpe-de-chine gown," said teresa; "and i will order the coiffeuse for six o'clock." yes, yes; but that was not sufficient. nino must not find her sitting there waiting for him, as if she had no one in the world but him. "go away, teresa, go away! i must think," she said. and teresa went to her kitchen grumbling. la villari's views of life and her manner of dealing with situations were according to sardou, dumas, or d'annunzio. nino must either find her supine in a darkened room, with etiolated cheeks and blue shadows under her spent eyes; or then, after his arrival, she must enter, coming from some brilliant banquet, rose-crowned and laughing. she sees him! she vacillates. her jewelled hand clutches at her heart. "_nino!_"--and he is at her feet.... then he makes her a scene of jealousy. where has she been? with whom? where was she when his telegram arrived? who sends her all these flowers? pah! he throws them out of the window--and all is as it should be. as it happened, there were no flowers in the room. so la villari rang the bell and told teresa to order fifty francs worth of white roses and tuberoses from the florist, to be brought as soon as possible, and the hair-dresser for six o'clock, and the brougham for seven. "and, teresa!..." teresa turned back with a dreary face. "remember that it was you who opened the telegram. i was out. i am always out. with many people, you understand." yes, teresa understood. and with callous back and shuffling shoes she went away to order the flowers, and the brougham, and the hair-dresser. la villari unpinned her hair, put the greater part of it neatly on the dressing-table in readiness for the coiffeuse, rubbed a little lanoline round her eyes, and settled herself with matilde serao's "indomani" to one more peaceful afternoon. love was not peaceful, it was agitating and uncomfortable; and keeping up the pretence of being twenty-eight when one is forty-five is a labour and a toil. of course, she adored nino; the mere thought of his ever tiring of her, or leaving her, brought visions of despair and vengeance, of vitriol and dagger to her mind. but oh! how she envied those placid women who surrender their youth submissively, and slip serenely into gentle middle-age as a ship glides into quiet waters. with her, because her lover was young, she must grasp and grapple with the engulfing years. she must clutch at her youth as a child clutches a wild bird fluttering to escape. alas! when the child opens its fingers the prisoner is dead. better let it fly when it will. so thought nunziata villari. the feathers and the wings still lay in her hand, but youth, the bird, was dead. she took up the book, and stifled thought under the blanket of matilde serao's warm prose. the excursion train ran into naples at five o'clock, just as a florist in the strada caracciolo was threading a wire into the green throat of the last white rose for the illustrissima. fifty francs worth of roses in naples in the month of june are enough to consummate the perfumed death in freiligrath's "blumenrache," and then enough to cover the maiden's coffin from wider to narrowest end. it took two men to carry them, tied in huge bunches, along the strada caracciolo to the palazzo imparato. nino from his cab saw two men bearing white flowers far ahead of him, and wondered vaguely for whom they might be. then he thought of nunziata's face as he had last seen it--pallid, with a tortured smile, as she said good-bye. but now he would see her smile again, that pretty tilted smile that was still young.... (the men with the flowers had turned a corner. nino's cab turned it, too, and there were the men again, marching before him.) he had been a brute and a hound, but he would atone. he would do the right thing. nunziata should not be left in tears again, nor again be driven to the little brazier of coke, like a love-sick grisette.... (the men with the white flowers were alongside. now they were left behind.) and now the carriage stopped at the door of the palazzo imparato. the driver handed the luggage down, and a waiting lazzarone grabbed and shouldered it. while nino was paying the fare the men with the flowers came up, and nino turned to glance at them as they passed. _but they did not pass._ they turned into the palazzo imparato and vanished in the shadow of the gateway. nino's heart leaped up, and stood still. the lazzarone, watching him, saw tragedy in his face, and was satisfied that the tip would be a large one; for the lazzarone knew that despair is as generous as happiness. nino ran, blind with his terrors, up the wide flights of stairs. on nunziata's landing the men with the flowers stood waiting. teresa opened the door, and saw behind the roses nino's wild, white face. "the signorino! santa vergine!" in an instantaneous vision she thought of the illustrissima, unpowdered, unprepared, reading matilde serao, her tresses lying on the dressing-room table. the servant's stupefied, stricken face confirmed nino's fears. he stumbled forward, and, dropping into a seat in the hall, covered his face with his hands. the illustrissima, who had heard the noise, opened the drawing-room door. at a glance she saw it all, and quietly closed the door again. when, an instant later, nino rushed in, the room was darkened, the shutters closed; nunziata lay on the couch with etiolated face, a soft shimmering scarf was wound becomingly round her head, but no blue shadows were under her eyes, for there had been no time to make them. then all began over again; for although she was peaceful and comfortable when nino was away, as soon as he was present she felt that all things depended upon his love, and that his absence would end her life. tighter and tighter she grasped the little dead bird in her white, ringed hands, and louder and louder she told her tired heart that youth was living and singing still. nino was kind and considerate. he also wrote letters to the italian consulates in rio and buenos ayres, asking them to make sure that eduardo villari was really dead--as his cook, who had returned with a good deal of money and had married a baron, declared he was. if the thought of nancy knocked with light fingers at nino's heart, he never opened the door. xv clarissa in her villa on lake maggiore was bored, so she wrote to nancy to come and stay with her. "i am weary of my sweet blue lake and of my sour blue husband. come and stay with me a month. you shall have a large room at the top of the house, with a huge table and an inkstand large enough to drown in, and before you the view that inspired manzoni. come and write your masterpiece." by the same post she sent a note to her brother-in-law: "aldo, _mon joli_, do come. carlo is insufferable. he growls all day and snores all night. why did i marry him? this is the fourth time i invite you this year, and you never come. last year it was different. "yours, "clarissa. "p.s.--the little _poetessa_ is going to stay here for a month." he arrived next day. after greetings, he asked: "where is sappho, the violet-haired?" clarissa explained that nancy had not arrived, and he sulked and played the piano all the evening, while carlo on the sofa snored. clarissa looked from one to the other, uncertain which of the two was insulting her most. nancy arrived the following day. she had brought her notebooks with her and a broken ivory pen that she always wrote with; she was full of the masterpiece. she was going to work immediately. driving up from the landing-place to the villa solitudine she told her plans to clarissa, who nodded and smiled as she whipped up the fat cob. she was going to write a book--_the book!_--a great, noble piece of work, not a little volume of flyaway poems that one reads and forgets in a day. she was going to think of and dream of the book; to live for the book; to breathe and walk for it, to eat and sleep for it. in milan, with people always round her, talking and distracting, it was impossible; but here in the large bare room at the top of the house----how sweet and dear of clarissa to think of it! never, never could nancy thank her enough.... clarissa nodded and smiled, and the fat cob turned into the chestnut drive of villa solitudine. down the steps, with a couple of dogs barking and leaping at his heels, came aldo to meet them, clad in neapolitan fashion in white flannels and scarlet sash. his uncovered head gleamed darkly in the sun. "behold endymion awakened!" said clarissa, laughing, to nancy. "charmides, adonaïs, narcissus! the gods have cast upon him all the beauty of the world!" as nancy did not answer, clarissa turned to look at her. "oh, what a stern face, _ma chérie!_ you are quite white. what are you thinking of?" "the book," said nancy; and she felt as if it were a child of hers that was to die unborn. "you shall write it, _mon ange!_ aldo shall not disturb you." and she threw the reins to the little stiff groom; then, daintily raising her fluffy skirts, she alighted in aldo's uplifted arms. nancy put her foot on the step, but aldo raised her lightly and lifted her down. his red, smiling mouth was close to her face. she thanked him, and he kissed her hand with the ceremonious southern salute, "signora, i am your slave." nancy went to her room--the large, bare room with the beautiful view--and stayed there all the afternoon. she put her notes in order; she placed the large sheets of paper before her; and she dipped the broken ivory pen into the huge inkstand. then she sat and looked out of the window. she could hear the dogs barking in the garden and clarissa's trilling laugh. on the sweet blue lake a tiny sail, like a pocket handkerchief, dipped and curtseyed away, and through the open windows of the drawing-room aldo could be heard playing a valse triste. nancy dipped the pen into the inkstand again--and looked at the view. now she heard the music wander off in modulating chords which resolved themselves into the rippling accompaniment of hugo wolff's "musikant." "wenn wir zwei zusammen wären würd' das singen mir vergeh'n." she could hear the soft tenor voice, and felt it drawing at her heart. she closed the window and sat down again. she dipped the ivory pen into the inkstand, and wrote at the top of the white sheet, "villa solitudine," and the date. under it, as she had not thought of a title yet, she wrote in large letters: "the book." then she jumped up and ran downstairs. at sunset they went out in a sailing-boat. clarissa held the rudder, and aldo stood in easy attitudes of beauty at the sail. the glow of the west was on his pure young face, and the wind of the _tramontana_ raised his waved hair and blew it lightly across his forehead. he was silent, satisfied to know that the two women could see him, and that the red-gold sky was a good background for his profile. clarissa talked and laughed, twittered and purred; but aldo never spoke. and it was his silence that enraptured nancy. "ed io che intesi ciò che non dicevi, m'innamorai di te perchè tacevi." stecchetti's words sang in her brain with new meaning, and in the days that followed the two smooth lines were always in her mind. aldo knew little, but he knew the value of silence. he knew the lure of the _hortus conclusus_--the closed garden into which one has not stepped. nancy stood outside its gates and dreamed of its unseen roses, of fountains and shadowy paths and water-lilied lakes. for aldo was a closed garden. aldo also knew the value of his eyes--deep, passion-lit eyes, that looked, clarissa said, as if he had rubbed the lids with burnt cork to darken them. when he raised them suddenly, and looked straight at nancy, she felt a little shock of pleasure that took her breath away. little by little, day by day, those eyes drew nancy's spirit to their depths--she leaned over them as over an abyss. in them she sunk and drowned her soul.... then, when from his eyes her own passionate purity gazed back at her, she thought she saw his soul and not her own. the book cried in her now and then, but she stifled its voice and whispered: "wait!" and the book waited. one day in the garden aldo spoke to clarissa. she was in the hammock pretending to read. "clarissa, i am twenty-five years old." "vlan! ça y est!" said clarissa, dropping her book. then she drew a deep breath, and her nostrils turned a little pale; but the superposed roses of her cheeks bloomed on, independent of her ebbing blood and sickening heart. "i am penniless," continued aldo, picking a piece of grass and chewing it; "and carlo has given me to understand that he can exist without me if he tries very hard." clarissa sat up. "when? what did he say? does he ... has he ... did he mean anything?" aldo shook his comely head. "carlo never means anything. but i shall have to go back to--to the texas ranch, or marry." the texas ranch was a romantic invention of clarissa's, the only foundation for which was a three weeks' holiday which aldo had once spent in the city of new york. clarissa bit her red, narrow lips. "yes," she said. during the long pause that followed aldo picked another piece of grass and chewed it. "i suppose," said clarissa, looking at him sideways through her long lids, "you will marry some affectionate old thing with money." "no. i know them," said aldo. "they demand the affection, and keep the money." after a pause, in which he felt clarissa's angry eyes on his face, he said: "i am going to marry the little sappho." clarissa laughed suddenly and loud. "you do that for your pleasure! _farceur, va!_" aldo lifted his perfect eyebrows and did not reply. "she has nothing, not a little black sou!" and clarissa stuck her long pointed thumbnail behind her long pointed teeth and jerked it forward. "oh! i dare say she has something," said aldo, pretending to yawn carelessly. "besides, she is a genius, and can earn what she will." "you are the perfect neapolitan pig," said clarissa, and closed her eyes. the perfect neapolitan pig rose with an offended air and left her. he strolled into the house and took his hat and stick, then he strolled out again and through the garden into the hot street and down to the landing-place. a boat was leaving for intra, so he went on board, and at intra took the train for milan. he dined at biffi's, feeling happy. "they will be miserable," he said. "that will teach them." then he went to his furnished rooms on the corso, and slept well. in villa solitudine they were miserable, and it taught them. it taught nancy that the closed garden she had had a glimpse of for so brief an hour was the only garden in the world that she ever wanted to enter; and that all the words aldo had not said were the only words she ever wanted to hear; that perfect goodness and unwavering strength must lie behind his portentous beauty, white and immovable like marble lions at a palace gate. it taught clarissa that one must accept the inevitable--that half a loaf was better than no bread, and that a married aldo was better than no aldo at all. it made her look at nancy with closer eyes, and say to herself that she was a little creature one would easily tire of, in spite of--or because of--her intellectuality. aldo was not a closed garden for clarissa; she knew the feeble flowers that bowed behind its gates. a hot, dreary week passed with no news from aldo. then clarissa telegraphed to him at milan. she said she had told carlo about their conversation regarding his wish to marry nancy, and carlo approved. would he come back? yes; aldo would come back. he waited another day or two, and at the close of a sultry afternoon he sauntered in, just as he had sauntered out, across the sleepy, bee-droning lawns of the villa solitudine. he stopped at the entrance of the summer-house, where nancy sat reading a letter--a long letter. already two of the blue sheets had fallen at her side. before her on the table was the inkstand and the ivory pen and the book. as his shadow passed the threshold she looked up; she drew a quick breath, and her face turned milky white, with a pallor that gripped at aldo's nerves. once more, and for the last time, he bent his head over her hand. "signora, i am your slave," he said. but as he raised his eyes she knew that he had said: "nancy, i am your master." "who writes to you?" he asked. she drooped submissive lashes, and the colour ran into her cheeks. "mr. kingsley, the english friend," she said. "do you remember him?" aldo took her hand and with it the letter in his own. "what does he want?" her dimples fluttered. "he wants me to be good," she said, laughing, with wistful eyes. "and to write." aldo pressed the little fist with the crumpled blue letter in it to his lips. "well, write," he said. "write at once." he took the ivory pen and dipped it in the ink and put it in her hand; then he pulled the sheet of white paper which was to be the book before her. "write: 'dear englishman, i am going to marry aldo della rocca. he adores me.'" and nancy, with her hair almost touching the paper, wrote: "dear englishman, i am going to marry aldo della rocca. i adore him." the englishman never got the letter. but he heard of it afterwards; and his english fists closed tight. xvi nancy walked among asphodels and morning glory; and her soul was plunged in happiness and her eyes were washed with light. the book waited. they went out in the little boat at sunset. aldo stood at the sail, and the red sky was a background for his profile. "oh," sighed nancy, looking at him and clasping puerile hands, "your beauty _aches_ me!" aldo quite understood it, and was pleased. they went for long walks to premeno and san salvatore; as clarissa refused to accompany them, carlo chaperoned them, blandly bored. soon valeria arrived. nancy went down to meet her at the landing-place, looking ethereal and pink as a spray of apple-blossom. valeria kissed her with hot tears. "oh! my baby, my baby!" she said, and wished that the seventeen years were a dream, and that her child's small head were still safely nestling at her breast. in nancy's young love she lived the days of her own betrothal over again, and tom arose in her memory and was with her day and night. on this same silky blue lake tom had so often rowed her with zio giacomo, in a little boat called _luisa_. she tearfully begged nancy and aldo to come with her and see if they could not find that very self-same boat. they found, indeed, three _luisas_, but valeria could not recognize them; still, all three of the boatmen declared that they remembered her perfectly, and got the expected tip. "of course," said valeria, deeply moved, "it cannot have been all three of them." and aldo said: "you should not have given them anything. they were none of them more than twenty-five years old." whereupon valeria sighed deeply. then it was decided that they should go in reverent pilgrimage to the madonna del monte, where nancy's father had asked nancy's mother to marry him. the road was lined with beggars: shouting cripples, exhibiting sores and stumps. "some of these are very old," sighed valeria. "i am sure they were here that day, and must have seen me." "i shall give a franc to every one of them," said nancy, taking out her small fat purse, as the first one-armed mendicant held out his greasy hat. "my dear nancy, what nonsense!" said aldo. "there are about a hundred of them!" "well?" and nancy raised clear, questioning eyes to his. "oh, _i_ don't mind," said aldo, with a little neapolitan shrug. valeria looked at the handsome figure and impeccable profile of her future son-in-law, as he strolled beside them up the steep wide road. her heart was heavy with recollections. up this road she had walked in her blue dress and scarlet tie with tom beside her--tom, broad and careless in his slouchy brown suit, who had given the beggars all his coppers and silver, just as tom's daughter was doing to-day. again she looked at aldo's slim, straight shoulders and sighed. "i wish it had been an englishman!" she thought. then, as her memory took her to england, she saw someone else. "or, then, poor dear nino." and she sighed again; but not altogether for nancy's sake. she wrote to nino that evening, and, almost without knowing it, began her letter, "poor dear nino!" nino was out interviewing consuls about the presumably deceased eduardo villari when the letter arrived. so nunziata opened the letter. in it valeria told nino that nancy, "our little nancy," was betrothed to aldo della rocca, and could nino not do anything to prevent it? and why, oh why, had his sister clarissa invited them both to stay at the villa solitudine, so that, as fräulein müller or was it heine?--used to say, "wie könnte es anders sein," for how could anyone see nancy in the resplendency of her seventeen aprils and not fall in love with her? and oh, she was so sorry for poor, dear nino, for she knew the secret of his heart. and how true it was what he had said about nancy's eyes being so pure that they seemed never to have gazed at aught but the sky; and she understood him and his sufferings, for had she not herself suffered dreadfully through him, years ago--but never mind, that was nothing. and it had never been dear, dear nino's fault at all; it was her own foolish fault and fate.... and she hoped nino did not think that she had really suffered, for she had not, and now she never, never thought of it any more! and if he came quickly he might still be in time; and oh, she knew he must be heart-broken, but he was not to mind, because it could not be helped. and she was ever his unhappy valeria. nunziata read the rambling letter three times before she understood it. the letter opened her eyes. when her eyes were open nunziata saw well. she saw the chain of desire stretching out ring on ring: from valeria's heart to nino; from nino's heart to nancy; from nancy's heart to aldo, as in a children's game; and love passing down from one to the other, stopping before each with gift of passion, of pain, of joy. she saw that her years placed her behind valeria--far back, far back, out of the game; and she knew that love had passed her, and would not stop before her any more. then she remembered that she had had her gifts; that love had heaped roses at her feet, and that she had moved through passions as through a field of flowers. nunziata decided that she would play the game. she went with her newly-opened eyes to her room and threw the shutters back. she looked at her tired pink face in the glass, at her crimson lips and complicated hair. she went on her knees beside her bed and said three _paters_ and three aves. then she opened her reluctant hands and gave her dead youth back to god. she washed her face with warm water and soap, and unpinned her elaborate curls. she wound her own soft hair round her head, and put on a plain black gown. then, looking, although she did not think so, twenty years younger and twenty times sweeter than she did before, she went downstairs to wait for nino. * * * * * that same evening she sent him back to his father. his luggage was packed and the brougham was waiting for him at the door, and still he declared he would not go. he would not leave her. her face was whiter than any _poudre de lys_ could ever make it as she kissed his forehead, and blessed it with the sign of the cross, and told him that he must indeed go, and not return again. at last, before his stubborn refusal, she took the weapon that hurt her most, and used it to pierce her own heart. "think of nancy!" she said. "you may still be in time to prevent her from marrying an adventurer." nino looked into the pale, kind face, from which every trace of triviality had been washed by the warm water and the tears. and, being a man, he did not wait, and refuse, and then catch a later train; but with candid cruelty he said: "you are right. you are an angel. may the saints bless you!" ... she stood on the balcony and watched the carriage drive away into the night; it turned up corso umberto and was gone. with it the lights went out in nunziata villari's life. youth, love, hope, desire--fate blew all the candles out, and left her in the dark. xvii aldo's curved red lips under his very young moustache opened to words as well as to kisses under nancy's impelling, eager love. during the long hours they spent together she spoke and he must answer. his splendid, silent eyes urged her to quick questionings, and his kisses did not still the thirst of her soul for his soul. little by little she pushed back the gates of the closed garden; gently, day by day, she ventured a step farther adown the mysterious paths. where are the arbours of roses? where the fountains and the deep, water-lilied lakes? she tiptoed down the narrow paths that clarissa and many others had trodden before her, and when she had come to the end she said: "i am mistaken. i have not entered the garden yet." they were to be married almost at once. aldo was impatient, and nancy was in love; and the book was waiting. so valeria left for milan to prepare the trousseau, and nancy must follow a week later. on the eve of her journey clarissa went up to say good-night to nancy in her room--the large, bare room in which the masterpiece had not been written. nancy's trunks were packed. the ivory pen and the book were put away. the large inkstand stood alone on the large table. nancy was leaning out of the window looking at the stars. clarissa came and stood behind her and looked up into the cobalt depths. "i hate the stars," said nancy; "i am afraid of them." "why?" said clarissa, to whom a star was a star. "oh, i want to be sure that somewhere they leave off," said nancy. "it terrifies me to think of fabulous nothingness behind unending space, of perpetual neverness beyond unceasing time. i should like a wall built round the universe, a wall that would shut me safely in, away from the terrible infinity." clarissa laughed. "perhaps when you are married you will feel less little and lonely." "perhaps," said nancy. and she added: "aldo must be the wall." "oh, my dear," said clarissa, "don't try to make poor aldo anything that he isn't. he is sweet; he is lovely; he is full of talent. but he is no more a wall than this is." and she waved her filmy gossamer scarf that blew lightly in the air. that evening carlo said to his wife: "i feel like a brute, letting that good-for-nothing brother of mine marry the nice little girl. he will make her miserable." "not at all," said clarissa, putting out the candle with her book, a thing carlo could not bear. "she will write poems on his profile and be perfectly happy, until she gets tired of him for not being something that he isn't." "oh, well," growled carlo. "i suppose you know her best. women are cackling cats." "mixed metaphor," murmured clarissa, and went to sleep comfortably, feeling that carlo was a wall. * * * * * nancy was married in rome. all the poets of italy came with poems, and nino brought a necklet of pearls. from the quirinal came a pendant, with a picture of a boy's face set in diamonds. after the wedding-breakfast all the guests left, passing to their carriages down the red carpet that stretched from the door to the edge of the pavement. then nancy, in her mouse-grey travelling-gown, kissed valeria, and wept and said good-bye. and kissed nino, and wept and said good-bye. and she went with her husband down the red carpet to the carriage. carlo and clarissa, aunt carlotta and adèle followed to the station, where there were great crowds waiting to see them off. valeria and nino remained alone in the desolate room. valeria's face was hidden in her hands. she was looking down the days of the future, and saw them lonely, dark and desolate. nino gazed through tear-blurred eyes at the bowed figure before him, and his thoughts went back through the years. bending forward, he took her hand and kissed it. she smiled wanly. "what are you thinking of?" she said. "i was thinking of nancy, and of the past," said nino. "of her father, poor tom, who died so suddenly----" "it was to save nancy," said valeria. "and of the old grandfather who died alone on the hill-side----" "we had to find nancy," said valeria. "and of little edith and her poor mother, forsaken in their darkest hour by those they loved----" "but it was to safeguard nancy," said valeria. hearing her words, he realized the puissance of all-conquering, maternal love. nothing mattered but nancy, though nancy herself, with gentle, unconscious hands, had taken all things from her. had not he himself, the lover of valeria's girlhood, turned from her, heart-stricken for nancy? there was a pause. "and i am thinking of you, valeria, over whose heart i have trampled,..." said nino, with a break in his voice. "you could not help it. you loved nancy," said valeria. "and now"--her pitying eyes filled with tears--"your hope is shipwrecked and your heart broken, too." nino did not answer. he turned away and gazed out of the window. he was thinking of nancy, so mild and sweet-voiced, with eyes like blue hyacinths under the dark drift of her hair. and once more he realized how nancy in her dove-like innocence had absorbed and submerged the existence of those around her. her sweet helplessness itself had wrecked and shattered, had devastated and destroyed. the lives of all those who loved her had gone to nourish the clear flame of her genius, the white fire of her youth. nino gazed down at the red wedding-carpet that stretched its scarlet line to the pavement's edge like a narrow path of blood. "behold," he said, "the trail of the dear devourer--the course of the dove of prey!" * * * * * as the train glided out of the station, and shook and ran, and the cheers and the waving handkerchiefs were left behind, nancy raised her eyes, tender and tear-lit, to aldo's face. her white wedded hand was to open the gates of the closed garden. now the bowers of roses, and the fountains, and the water-lilied lakes! xviii they had chosen to go to paris, because aldo said he had had enough of landscapes to last him a lifetime. also clarissa had remarked to nancy: "if you want to have a clear vision of life, and a well-balanced brain, always be properly dressed. and you cannot be dressed at all unless you are dressed by paquin." "but i have my work to think about," said nancy. "i do not mind much about clothes." "very well," said clarissa, "if you want to be a dowdy genius and quarrel with your husband before you have been married two months, go your own way, and wear coats and skirts." so they went to paris, and soon paquin's gibble-gabbling demoiselles were busy sewing cloudy blues and faint mauves to save nancy from quarrelling with aldo two months afterwards. at aldo's suggestion they took rooms in a small hotel in rue lafayette, for, as he said, they were not millionaires, and one could use one's money better than in spending it at grand hotels. nancy said he was quite right, and wondered at his wisdom. indeed, he knew many things. he knew the prices of everything one ate, and he pounced on the waiters as soon as there was any attempt at overcharging, or if they absent-mindedly reckoned in the date written at the top of the bill in a line with the francs. nancy rather dreaded that moment in the brilliant restaurant when aldo opened and inspected the neatly-folded bill, while the solemn-nosed waiter looked down sarcastically at his smooth, well-brushed head. nancy noticed that, whenever they entered a place, everyone ran to meet them, opening doors for them with obsequious bows, showing them places with flourish of arm and of table-napkin. aldo's hat was taken from him with reverential hand, and her cloak was carried tenderly from her. but when, after settling the bill, they got up to go, nobody seemed to pay much attention to them. aldo had to fetch his own hat and look for the cloak, and even to open the heavy glass doors himself, for the small boy would be absent, or looking another way and making faces at the head-waiter. cabs also had a way of being all smiles and hat-touchings and little jokes when they were hailed, and all sullenness and loud monologue when they were dismissed. "they think that because we are on our honeymoon we must be fools. money is money," said aldo. he had learnt the phrase from his grandfather, who had kept a shop in via caracciolo. the grandfather's wife--who in her radiant girlhood in piedigrotta had sat for english and german painters--had said: "yes; but education is education," and had sent her three sons to school in modena and milan. the eldest son, who was the father of carlo and aldo, had then learnt to say: "a gentleman is a gentleman." and on the strength of this he would have nothing more to do with his shopkeeping parents in naples. when he died carlo, who was twenty, went and hunted up the old people. they did not need him, and were afraid of him, and called him "eccellenza." but aldo, who was thirteen, and unverisimilarly beautiful, they called "l'amorino"; they petted and spoiled him, and let him count the money in the till. and he liked them and their shop. and he learnt that money was money. the phrase always struck nancy mute. aldo, strolling beside her along the boulevard, continued: "it is people like carlo that spoil things. carlo is a perfect idiot with his money." "oh, but he is very kind," said nancy; and aldo wondered whether she knew that carlo was paying all their expenses--made out with fanciful additions by aldo--and had promised to do so for a year after their marriage. "after that, not one penny. never as long as i live," carlo had said to his young brother a week before the wedding. "so hustle and do something useful." but aldo did not intend to hustle. rude, unæsthetic word! a man with his physique could not hustle. carlo lacked all sense of the fitness of things. clarissa said so, too. but on this occasion aldo did not consult clarissa, because she had once said: "i understand adoring a man, but i do not understand paying his debts." nancy soon found that aldo's knowledge extended further than accounts and prices. he knew places in paris, and he knew people--such places and such people as she had never heard of, read of, or dreamt of. he always said to nancy: "now you shall see things that will make you laugh." but nancy laughed little, then less; until one day she could not laugh at all. she felt as if she would never laugh any more. everything was horrible, everything made her shrink and weep. "it is life, my dear," said aldo, with his habitual little gesture of both hands outwards and upwards. "how can you write books if you do not know what is life?" oh, but she did not want to know what is life. she could write books without knowing. and oh, she wished that aldo did not know either. and let them go away quickly, and forget, and never, never remember it any more. so aldo, who was not unkind, and who had not found the enlightening of nancy as amusing as he had expected, called for the hotel bill, said it was preposterous, got the proprietor to deduct twelve per cent., and then told him they were leaving the next day. the next day they left. they went to the villa solitudine, which clarissa and carlo were not using, and for which it was arranged that aldo should pay rent to clarissa. clarissa let him off the rent; and carlo, not knowing, paid it back to him. so that, on the whole, it was not an unprofitable arrangement for aldo. nancy tried to forget what life was, and smiled and blossomed in tenuous sunrise beauty. and because of all she knew, and was trying to forget, and because she wore trailing parisian gowns and large, plumed hats, aldo burned with volcanic meridional love for her. the book waited. one evening, when aldo was at the piano, improvising music and words on nancy's loveliness, and she sat on a stool beside him, she asked suddenly: "when shall we begin to work?" "oh, never!" said aldo, putting his right arm round her neck without interrupting the chords he was playing with his left hand. nancy laughed, and laid her head against his arm. "oh, but we must, aldo. i want to write my book. it is to be a great book." aldo nodded, and went on playing. "and you, aldo. you cannot pass your life saying that you adore me." "oh yes, i can," said aldo. nancy laughed softly and kissed his sleeve. then suddenly a strange feeling came over her--a feeling of loneliness and fear. she felt as if she were alone in the world, and small and helpless, with no one to take care of her. she felt as if aldo were younger and weaker and more helpless than she. and the terror of the infinite fell upon her soul. aldo was singing softly, meltingly, with his head bent forward and his dark hair falling over his face. suddenly nancy thought that it would be good to be safely locked in a large light room with nothing but books and an inkstand, and someone walking up and down outside with a gun. "the wall!" she said to herself as the englishman's light eyes and stalwart figure came before her mind. then she said: "work shall be my wall." and she went to her room and unpacked her ivory pen. xix four months before the year of carlo's bounty was up, aldo made up his mind that he must hustle after all. they had settled in milan; then nothing had happened. carlo would never change his mind. valeria had shown him her banking account, and proved to him that there was nothing nancy could have beyond her skimpy forty thousand francs; lady sainsborough, the elderly english person in naples who had taken such a fancy to him, had not answered his last two letters, and had probably altered her will; so there was nothing to do or to hope for. he must hustle. he did so. he wrote a third letter to lady sainsborough. then he decided to ask carlo to make room for him in his silk mills, which carlo refused to do. then he looked up nancy's publishers, and asked them if they would advance a substantial sum on the unwritten book, which they also refused to do. so having done all he could, he decided not to hustle any more, but to let events take their course. nancy did not help him at all. she was selfishly engrossed in her book, and sat in her room all day, with hair pinned tightly back and wild and lucent eyes. whenever he came into the room she put up her hand without turning round--a gesture he could not bear--and went on with her writing. if he disregarded the gesture, she looked up at him with those wild, light eyes, and he felt hurried, and forgot what he wanted to say. so he muddled along with her forty thousand francs, and read the papers, played the piano, and went out to the caffè biffi every evening until it was time to go to the patriottica for a game of billiards. there he frequently saw nino sitting glumly with the corners of his mouth turned down; and they turned down further when aldo came in, so that aldo positively hated the sight of him. besides, carlo, who had refused to do anything for aldo, had actually taken nino into partnership; and, just to irritate and show off, nino was working vulgarly, like a nigger, twelve or fourteen hours a day. the gratified carlo was to be seen with nino in the evenings walking through the galleria arm-in-arm with him as if they were brothers, with that absurd zio giacomo trotting alongside, grinning like an old hen, while he, aldo, carlo's own brother, had to mooch about alone, smoking cheap cigarettes, or else to run alongside of giacomo like an outsider, and listen for the thousandth time to the recital of the prodigal nino's reform and rehabilitation. he went to clarissa and complained; but she was unsympathetic. she rubbed her left-hand nails against her right-hand palm and looked out of the window. he had expected her to pass a white, jewelled hand lightly over his bowed head and say, "_povero bello!_ poor beauteous one!" as she had sometimes done a year or so ago; but when he bowed his head she continued rubbing the nails of her left hand against her right-hand palm and looking out of the window. he felt that a great deal depended upon her friendship, and it was almost out of a sense of duty to nancy that he grasped her hand and kissed it in his best and softest manner. "oh, don't be a snail, aldo," said clarissa, taking her hand away. then she looked down at him and shook her head: "i _am_ thankful i married carlo." this was untrue, of course, said aldo to himself; but, added to the other things, it rankled. when he left her he understood that clarissa considered him as much nancy's property as the pair of antique silver candle-sticks she had given to nancy for a wedding-present, and that never would she take them back or light the candles in them again. nancy had written one-third of the book. it was a great book--a book the world would speak of. like the portent of jeanne of orleans, a vision had fallen upon her young, white heart and set it aflame. she felt genius like an eagle beating great wings against her temples. inspiration, nebulous and wan, stretched thin arms to her, and young ideas went shouting through her brain. then the phrase, like a black-and-white flower, rolled back its thundering petals, and the masterpiece was born. xx aldo was not allowed to play the piano any more, because it disturbed nancy's thoughts. he also stayed at home to see anyone who called, so that nancy should not be interrupted. he himself brought her meals into her room when she did not wish to break her train of thought by going to table, and when the loud-footed, cheerful servant annoyed and distracted her. a reverential hush was on the house. the rome publisher, servetti, heard of the book, and came to milan to ask if he could have it. zardo, the publisher of the "cycle of lyrics," who had omitted to pay for the last two editions of that distinguished and fortunate volume, sent, unasked, an unverisimilarly large cheque; and suggested for her new work a special _édition de luxe_. nancy replied to no one, heeded no one. the book held her soul. it was a winter evening, and the lamps were lit, when nancy wrote at the summit of a candid page, "chapter xvii." she wrote the heading carefully, reverentially, painting over the roman numbers with loving pen. this was the culminating chapter of the book. it had been worked up to in steep and audacious ascent, and after it and from it the story would flow down in rushing, inevitable stream to its portentous close. but this chapter was the climax and the crown. nancy passed a quick hand across her forehead and pushed back her ruffled hair. then she looked across at aldo. he was sitting at the opposite side of the table with some sheets of music-paper before him. the shine of the lamp fell blandly on his narrow head. he looked dejected and dull. "what is it, aldo?" she asked, stretching her hand affectionately across the table to him. in the joy and the overflowing ease of inspiration she felt kind and compassionate. "oh, nothing," sighed aldo. "i was thinking of writing a symphony; but i cannot do anything without trying it at the piano. and that disturbs you. never mind! don't worry about me." "oh, but i do worry," said nancy, getting up and going round to his side. she bent over him with her arm on his shoulder. before him on the sheet was half a line of breves and semibreves, which nancy remembered from her childhood as little men getting over stiles. "you know," said aldo, with his pen going over and over the face of one of the little men and making it blacker and larger than the others, "ricordi is publishing those songs of mine; but i believe it is only because they have your words. so i thought i would try a symphony which will be all my own. but i ought to be able to try it at the piano." "i know, dear," said nancy, smoothing his soft, thick hair. "i know i am a horrid, selfish thing, upsetting everything and everybody. but never mind!" and she glanced across to the large "chapter xvii" at the top of the fair sheet, and the wet ink of the "xvii" glistened and beckoned to her upside down at the other side of the table. "wait till i have finished my book. then you shall do all you want; and we shall go and pass blue days in the country and be as happy as sandboys, and"--she added for him--"as rich as cr[oe]sus." he raised his dark eyes to her, and she thought that he looked like murillo's saint sebastian. "your writing has swallowed up all your love for me," he said. "oh no!" said nancy, and she caressed the beautiful brow. "it is you, your presence, your beauty, that inspires me and helps me to write." aldo sighed. "i suppose i am a nonentity. and i must be grateful if the fact of my having a straight nose has helped you to write your book." nancy felt conscience-stricken. "don't be bitter, dear heart," she said. "i must be selfish! if i do not sit there and write, i feel as if i had a maniac shut up in my brain, beating and shrieking to get out. and oh, aldo, when i do write, coolly and quickly and smoothly, i feel like a mountain-spring gushing out my life in glad, scintillant waters." aldo drew her face down and kissed her. "nothing shall interfere with your book," he said. "no, nothing," said nancy--"nothing!" as she spoke a strange, quivering sensation passed over her, a quick throb shook her heart, and the roots of her hair prickled. then it was past and gone. she stepped back to her place at the table and stood looking down at chapter xvii. the wet ink still glistened on it. she was waiting.... she knew she was waiting for that strange throb to clutch at her heart again. she looked across at aldo. he was thoughtfully painting the face of another semibreve and making it large and black. she sat down and dipped the ivory pen into the gaping mouth of the inkstand. ah, _again!_ the throb! the throb! like a soft hand striking at her heart. and now a flutter as of an imprisoned bird! "aldo! aldo!" she cried, falling forward with her face hidden on her arm. and her waving hair trailed over chapter xvii, and blurred the waiting page. xxi nancy stirred, sighed, and awoke. in the room adjoining, valeria was sobbing in zio giacomo's arms, and aunt carlotta was kissing adèle, and aldo was shaking hands with everybody. nancy could hear the whispering voices through the half-open door, and they pleased her. then another sound fell on her ear, like the ticking of a slow clock--click, click, a gentle, peaceful, regular noise that soothed her. she turned her head and looked. it was the cradle. the sister sat near it, dozing, with one elbow on the back of the chair and her hand supporting her head; the other hand was on the edge of the cradle. with gentle mechanical gesture, in her half sleep, she rocked it to and fro. nancy smiled to herself, and the gentle clicking noise lulled her near to sleep again. she felt utterly at peace--utterly happy. the waiting was over; the fear was over. life opened wider portals over wider, shining lands. all longings were stilled; all empty places filled. then with a soft tremor of joy she remembered her book. it was waiting for her where she had left it that evening when futurity had pulsed within her heart. the masterpiece that was to live called softly and the folded wings of the eagle stirred. * * * * * in the gently-rocking twilight of the cradle the baby opened its eyes and said: "i am hungry." book ii i when eighteen thousand of the forty thousand francs were gone, aldo said: "i must do something." and when eighteen thousand of the forty thousand francs were left, he said: "something must be done." carlo had washed his hands of him; all that lady sainsborough had sent him was her portrait, one "taken on the lawn with fido," and another, "starting for my morning ride with baron cucciniello." "flighty old lunatic!" said aldo, throwing the pictures into the fire and digging at them with the poker. then he called nancy and told her how matters stood. nancy did not seem to realize that it made much difference. she crawled under the table and hid behind the green table-cloth. "peek-a-boo!" the baby crawled after her and pulled her hair. "well, what are we going to do?" said aldo. "as soon as the baby can walk," replied nancy, looking up at him from under the table, "i shall start my work again. as long as it is such a teeny, weeny, helpless lamb"--and she kissed the small, soft head on which the hair grew in yellow tufts here and there--"its mother is not going to be such a horrid (kiss), naughty (kiss), ugly (kiss) tigress (kiss, kiss) as to leave a poor little forlorn (kiss)----" aldo left the room, and nobody under the table noticed that he had gone. he went to zio giacomo, who for nancy's sake took him into his office to make architectural drawings and plans at a salary of two hundred francs a month. at the end of the third week aldo looked round the room where four other men were drawing plans, and observed them meditatively. two were sallow and thin, one was sallow and fat, and one was red and fat. the sallow, thin ones had little hair, the sallow, fat one had no hair; the red, fat one wore glasses. they had all been here drawing plans for four, six, and twelve years at salaries between two hundred and six hundred and fifty francs a month. aldo made a calculation on his blotting-paper. say he stayed five years. he would get francs a month for the first two years = , francs; , or say , for the next two years = , francs; , or perhaps , for the following year = , francs. total: , francs. eighteen thousand six hundred francs! so that, supposing he spent nothing, but went on living on what remained of nancy's _dot_ for five years (which was out of the question, of course, as it was not enough), at the end of five years he would find himself exactly where he was to-day, and just five years older. probably thin and sallow; or fat and sallow; or red and fat, with glasses. it was preposterous. it was out of the question. here he was to-day, with the eighteen thousand francs and the five years still before him. he took his hat and walked out of the office. he wrote to zio giacomo, who said he was an addlepated and clot-headed imbecile. aldo explained the situation mathematically to valeria and nancy, who looked vague, and said that it seemed true. "eighteen thousand francs," said aldo, "cleverly used, might set us on our feet. now, what shall we do with it?" valeria folded gentle hands; and nancy said: "peek-a-boo." so the baby, at aide's request, was sent out for a walk with the sour-faced thing chosen by aunt carlotta to be its nurse. "you could go into partnership with someone," said nancy sweetly, with her head on one side, to show that she took an interest. valeria nodded, and said: "mines are a good thing." aldo was silent. "eighteen thousand francs," he said thoughtfully. "it is not much." then he said: "of course, one could buy a shop." in his deep, dreaming eyes passed the vision of his grandfather's nice little _negozio_ in the strada caracciolo at naples, with its strings of coral hanging row on row; tortoise-shell combs and brushes with silver initials; brooches of lava and of mosaic, that were sold for a franc each; shells of polished mother-of-pearl; pictures of vesuvius by night, reproduced on convex glass; and booklets of photographs, that english people would always come to look at. he could see his grandfather now, stepping in front of the counter with a booklet of views in his hand, and shaking it out suddenly, br-r-r ... in front of his english customers. also he could see his grandfather tying up neat little parcels, giving change, bowing and smiling with still handsome eye and gleaming smile, and accompanying people to the door, waving an obsequious and yet benevolent hand. aldo would have liked a little shop in naples, and easy-going, trustful english customers who would not haggle and bargain, but pass friendly remarks about the weather, and pay their good money. ah, the good little money coming in that one can count every evening, and put away, and look at, and count again; not this vague, distant "salary," that one does not see, or count, or have, with no surprises and no possibilities. but valeria was speaking. "a shop! my dear aldo! what a dreadful idea! how can you say such a thing?" and nancy, who thought he was joking, said, with all her dimples alight: "that's right, aldo. we shall have a toy-shop--five hundred rattles for the baby, eight hundred rubber dolls for the baby, ten thousand woolly sheep and cows that squeak when you squeeze them. let us have a toy-shop, there's a dear boy." she jumped up and kissed his straight, narrow parting on the top of his shining black head. "and if all the toys are broken by the baby, and have the paint licked off, and the woolliness pulled out," she added, with her cheek against his, "i shall give away an autograph poem with each of the damaged beasts, and charge two francs extra." the allusion to the autograph poem made aldo realize that it was impossible that his wife, the celebrated author, could keep a shop, so he sighed, and said: "i have a good mind to try monte carlo. i have never been there, but my friend delmonte once gave me a system." "why doesn't he play it himself?" said nancy. "he looks as if he needed it." "he has played it," said aldo; "but he is a man lacking the strength of character that one needs to play a system. a system is a thing one has to stick to and go through with, no matter how one may be tempted to do something else. this is really a rather wonderful system." and aldo took out a pencil and a note-book, and showed the system to valeria and nancy. "you see, n. is black and r. is red." then he made rows of little dots irregularly under each initial. "you see, i win on all this." "do you?" said nancy and valeria, bending over the table with heads close together. "yes; i win on the intermittences." "what are they?" "oh, never mind what they are," said aldo. "and i win on all the twos, and the threes, and the fives." "and the fours," said nancy, who did not understand what he was saying, but wanted to show an interest. "no, i don't win on the fours," said aldo. "i lose on the fours. but i win on the fives and sixes, and everything else. and, of course, fours come seldom." "of course," echoed nancy and valeria, looking vacantly at the little dots under the n. and the r. "i could make the game cheaper," said aldo thoughtfully, "by waiting, and letting the intermittences pass, and only starting my play on the twos." "perhaps that would be a good plan," said nancy, with vacant eyes. "but," said valeria, "i thought you won on the intermittences." "i do," said aldo, frowning, "if they _are_ intermittences. but supposing they are fours?" this closed the door on all comprehension so far as nancy was concerned. but valeria, who had been to monte carlo for four days on her wedding-tour, said decisively: "then i think i should wait and see. if they _are_ fours, then play only on the fives and sixes." "there is something in that," said aldo, rubbing his chin. "but i must try it. now you just say 'black' or 'red' at random, as it comes into your head." nancy and valeria said "black" and "red" at random, and aldo staked imaginary five-franc pieces, and doubled them, and played the system. after about fifteen minutes he had won nearly two thousand francs. so it was decided that he should quietly go to monte carlo and try the system, starting as soon as possible. "do not speak about it to anyone," he said. "delmonte made a special point of that. if too many people knew of a thing like this, it would spoil everything." so no one was told, but they set about making preparations for aldo's departure. "i shall not stay more than a month at a time," said aldo. "one must be careful not to arouse suspicions that one is playing a winning game." "of course," said valeria. and nancy said: "is it not rather mean to go there when you know that you _must_ win?" aldo explained that the administration was not a person, and added that the few thousand francs that he needed every year would never be missed by such a wealthy company. then nancy said: "i know monte carlo is a dreadful place. full of horrid women. i hope--oh dear----!" aldo kissed her troubled brow. "dear little girl, i am going there to make money, and nothing else will interest me." "i know that," said nancy, with a little laugh and a little sigh. "but the nasty creatures are sure to look at you." "that cannot be helped," said aldo, raising superior eyebrows. nancy kissed him and laughed. "such a funny boy!" she said. "i believe your closed garden, your _hortus conclusus_, is nothing but a potato patch! but i like to sit in it all the same." ii may brought the baby a tooth. june brought it another tooth and a golden shine for its hair. august brought it a word or two; september stood it, upright and exultant, with its back to the wall; and october sent it tottering and trilling into its mother's arms. its names were lilien astrid rosalynd anne-marie. "now baby can walk," said valeria to her daughter, "you ought to take up your work again." "indeed i must," said nancy, lifting the baby to her lap. "have you seen her bracelets?" and she held the chubby wrist out to valeria, showing three little lines dinting the tender flesh. "three little bracelets for luck." and nancy kissed the small, fat wrist, and bit it softly. "where has your manuscript been put?" said valeria. "oh, somewhere upstairs," said nancy, pretending to eat the baby's arm. "good, good! veddy nice! mother, this baby tastes of grass, and cowslips, and violets. taste!" and she held the baby's arm out to valeria. "tace," said the baby. so the grandmother tasted and found it very nice. then she had to taste the other arm, and then a small piece of cheek. then the baby stuck out her foot in its white leather shoe, but grandmamma would not taste it, and called it nasty-nasty. and the other foot was held up and called nasty-nasty. but the baby said "tace!" and the corners of her mouth drooped. so grandmamma tasted the shoe and found it very nice, and then the other shoe, and it was very nice. and then nancy had to taste everything all over again. thus the days passed busily, bringing much to do. aldo wrote that "the system" was incomparable. his only fear was that the administration might notice it. he now played with double stakes. a few days later he wrote again. there was a flaw in the system. but never mind. he had found another one, a much better one. he had bought it for a hundred francs from a man who had been shut out of the casino because the administration was afraid of his system. of course, he had promised to give the man a handsome present before he left. he had won eight hundred francs in ten minutes with the new system last night. of course, he had to be very careful, because the flaw of the other system had been disastrous. a third letter came. after winning steadily for four days, he had had the most incredible _guigne_: a run of twenty-four on black when he was doubling on red. but he would stick to the system; it was the only way. people that pottered round and skipped about from one thing to another were bound to lose. love to all. then came a postcard. "have discovered that all previous "s's" were wrong. have made friends with a 'cr,' who will put things all right again." valeria and nancy puzzled over the "cr." the "s's" of course meant "systems," but what could a "cr" be? valeria felt anxious, and sent a messenger for nino. nino left carlo's office at once, and hurried to via senato, where, since aldo's departure, valeria was staying with nancy and the baby. all three were on the balcony, and waved hands to him as he crossed the ponte sant' andrea, and hurried across the boschetti to no. . "how do you do, valeria?" and he kissed her cheek. "how do you do, nancy?" and he kissed her hand. "how do you do, anne-marie?" and he kissed the baby on the top of the head. "what is the matter? what has aldo done?" "oh!" exclaimed nancy. "how could you guess that it was about aldo?" nino smiled. valeria held the postcard out for him to see, and covering everything but the last line, said: "what does 'cr' mean?" nino looked, and said: "where does he write from?" nancy and valeria exchanged glances, and decided that they could trust nino. he would not use the system or give it to other people. besides, the system had a flaw. "monte carlo," they said in unison. nino made a mouth as if to whistle, and did not whistle. the baby sitting on the rug watched him and wished he would do it again. "i suppose 'cr' is croupier," said nino. then there was silence. after a while nino said: "how much did he take with him?" "everything," said valeria. then nino made the mouth again, and the baby was pleased. "you had better go and fetch him. quick!" said nino, looking at nancy. "oh!" gasped nancy, "must i? is it bad?" "quite bad," said nino. "he has probably lost half of your forty thousand francs already." "he only had eighteen," said nancy, with a twinkle in her grey eye. "that's better," said nino. "but go and fetch him all the same." nancy was greatly excited and rather pleased. the baby should see the mediterranean. valeria, "grandmamma," must come too, of course. "no, dear," said valeria, "i cannot. i have promised aunt carlotta to help her with her reception to-morrow evening. but i will take you part of the way--as far as alessandria or genoa." "but i am sure nino could come," said nancy, looking up at him interrogatively. "yes," said nino, and then quickly said no, he was sorry, he could not possibly leave carlo's office. besides, she would manage aldo better without him. the next morning he went to the station to see them off. valeria had anne-marie in her arms, and nancy walked beside them, looking like the baby's elder sister. they had no luggage but a small valise, for valeria was returning to milan in the afternoon, and nancy was sure that she would come back with aldo the day after to-morrow. nino found comfortable places for them, and then stepped down and stood in front of the window, looking up with that vacant half-smile that everyone has who, having said good-bye, stands waiting for the train to start. nancy was looking down at him with sweet eyes. there was something blue in her hat that made her eyes look bluer. behind her the baby, held up by valeria, was waving a short arm up and down as the spirit of valeria's hand moved it. the bell rang, the whistle blew, and as the train passed him slowly, nino suddenly jumped on to the step at the end of the carriage, turned the stiff handle, and went in. "i will come as far as valeria does," he said. he was greeted with delight, but the baby continued irrelevantly to wave good-bye to him for a long time. they passed alessandria and genoa, and went on to savona. the baby looked at the mediterranean, and nancy looked at the baby, and nino looked at nancy, and valeria looked at them all, and loved them all with an aching maternal love. at savona valeria and nino got out. they had half an hour to wait for the return train that would take them back to milan. they stood on the platform in front of the carriage window, and looked up at nancy with that vacant half-smile that people have when they have said good-bye.... nancy leaned out of the window and looked down tenderly at her mother's upturned face, and then at nino, and then at her mother again. the baby stood on the seat beside her, waving its short arm up and down, with yellow curls falling over its eyes. _"in vettura!"_ called the guard. "we shall be back the day after to-morrow," said nancy for the fourth time; "or perhaps to-morrow." "perhaps to-mollow," echoed the baby, who always repeated what other people said. nino went close to the window, and put up his hand to touch the baby's. "you don't know what 'to-morrow' means," he said. anne-marie let him take her hand. he felt the small, warm fist closed in his. "when is to-morrow, anne-marie?" "to-mollow is ... to-mollow is when i am to have evlything," explained anne-marie. "that sounds like a long time away," said nancy, laughing. "yes, indeed," said valeria. "yeth, indeed," echoed the baby. _"pronti, partenza?"_ said the guard. "good-bye, nancy! good-bye, baby!" the bell sounded and the whistle blew. "good-bye, mother dear." the train moved slightly and nancy waved her hand. "good-bye, nancy! good-bye, baby! good-bye, my two darlings!" the train was moving swiftly away. "perhaps to-morrow," cried nancy, waving again. then she drew back, lest a spark should fly into the baby's eyes. valeria stood like a statue looking after them. "good-bye, nancy! good-bye, baby!" they were gone. and to-morrow was a long time away. iii when the leisurely riviera train drew into the station at monte carlo, nancy looked out of the window to see aldo, to whom she had telegraphed. he was not there. a group of laughing women in light gowns, two englishmen with their hands in their pockets, and a german honeymoon-couple were on the platform. no one else. a handsome, indolent porter helped nancy and the baby to descend, and, taking their valise, walked out in front of them, and handed it to the omnibus-driver of the hôtel de paris. "non, non," said nancy. "j'attends mon mari." "ah!" said the porter; "elle attend son mari." then he and the omnibus-driver grinned, and spat, and looked at her. "donnez-moi ma valise," said nancy. "donnez-lui sa valise," said the porter. "j'vas la lui donner," said the omnibus-driver, climbing slowly up the little ladder, and taking the valise down again. "voilà la valise." and he put it on the ground. nancy told the porter to take it. the omnibus-driver looked astonished. "quoi? et moi donc? pas de pourboire?" and the porter spat and grinned, and said to nancy: "faut lui donner son pourboire." so nancy gave the omnibus-driver fifty centimes, and told the porter to take the valise to the hôtel des colonies. he shouldered the small portmanteau, and stepped briskly and lightly up the flight of steps that leads to the place du casino. nancy followed, with anne-marie holding on to her skirts. an old woman sitting with her basket at the foot of the stairs offered them oranges. nancy said, "non, merci," and hurried on. but anne-marie wanted one. she was tired and hungry, and began to cry. so nancy stopped and bought an orange. then she lifted anne-marie in her arms, and hurried up the steps after the porter. at the top of the winding flight nancy looked round. it was a light june evening. where the sky was palest the new moon looked like a little gilt slit in the sky, letting the light of heaven show through. the street was deserted. the porter had vanished. anne-marie began to cry because she wanted her orange peeled, and nancy, after hurrying forward a few steps, stopped, lifted the child on to the low wall, sat down beside her, and peeled the orange. nancy was convinced that her portmanteau was gone for ever, but nothing seemed to matter much, so long as anne-marie did not cry. she looked at the light sky, the palm-trees, and the smooth pearl-grey sea. she wondered where the hôtel des colonies was, and whether aldo had not received the telegram. the legends of monte carlo murders and suicides traversed her mind for an instant. then anne-marie, who had never sat on a wall eating oranges, lifted her face, smudged with tears and juice, and said: "nice! nice evelything. i like." so nancy liked too. they found the hôtel des colonies after many wanderings, and there was the porter with the valise waiting for them. did monsieur della rocca live here? yes. had he received a telegram? no; here was the telegram waiting for monsieur. did they know where was monsieur? "eh! you will find him at the casino," said the stout proprietress. nancy asked to be shown to her husband's room, but as it turned out to be a very small _mansarde_ at the top of the house, nancy took another room, and there anne-marie went to bed under the mosquito-netting, and was asleep at once. nancy went downstairs. the salon was dark. madame la propriétaire sat in the garden with an old lady and a little fat boy. "if you want to go to the casino," she said, "i will look after the little angel upstairs!" but nancy said: "oh no, thank you." then the old lady said: "allez donc! allez donc! vous savez bien les hommes!... Ça pourrait ne pas rentrer." then she added: "i have been here twelve years. this, my little grandson, was born here. you can go, tranquillement. the petit ange will be all right." nancy went upstairs for her hat. anne-marie was asleep and never stirred. so nancy went through the little garden again with hesitant feet, and turned her face to the casino. the streets were almost empty. she was in her dark travelling-dress, and nobody noticed her. as she passed the hôtel de paris she saw the people dining at the tables with the little red lights lit. in the square round the flower-beds other people sat in twos and threes; and over the way, in the café de paris, the tziganes in red coats were playing "sous la feuillée." nancy suddenly felt frightened and sad. what was she doing here, all alone, at night in this unknown place, and little anne-marie sleeping in that large bed all alone in a strange hotel? she felt as if she were in a dream, and hurried on, dizzy and scared. a man, passing, said: "bonsoir, mademoiselle;" and nancy ran on with a beating heart, up the steps and into the brilliantly lighted atrium. two men in scarlet and white livery stopped her, and asked what she wanted; then they showed her into an open room on the left, where men that looked like judges and lawyers sat in two rows behind desks waiting for her. she stepped uncertainly up to one of them--he was bald with a pointed beard--and said: "pardon ... i am looking for monsieur della rocca." "ah, indeed," said the man with the beard. "i have not the pleasure of his acquaintance." and a fair man sitting near him smiled. "have you no idea where i can find him?" said nancy, blushing until tears came to her eyes. "what is he? what does he do?" asked the fair man. "he--he came here three weeks ago. he--has a system," stammered nancy. "i telegraphed, but he did not receive my telegram. and the lady of the hotel said i should find him here." a few people who had entered and stood about were listening with amused faces. "ha, ha! you say monsieur has a system?" said the man with a beard in a loud voice. and he nodded significantly to someone opposite him whom nancy could not see. she felt that by mentioning the system she had ruined her husband's chances for ever. but nothing seemed to matter except to find him, and not to be alone any more. "at what hotel are you staying, mademoiselle?" asked the fair man. "hôtel des colonies," said nancy, in a trembling voice. "and your name, mademoiselle?" "giovanna desiderata felicita della rocca," said nancy. and the whole row of men smiled, while the one before whom she stood wrote her name in a large book. "your profession?" nancy had read "alice in wonderland" when she was a child, and now she knew that she was asleep. otherwise, why should she be telling these people that she wrote poems? she told them so. and they pinched their noses and pulled their moustaches, because they were laughing--they were _pouffant de rire_--and they did not want to show it. "and ... she did nothing else but write poems? nothing else at all?" "no, nothing." and as the man with the beard seemed suddenly to be staring her through and through, she added nervously: "except ... i have begun a book ... a novel. but it is not finished." the fair man suddenly handed her a little piece of blue cardboard, and requested her to write her name on it. she said, "why?" and the man made a gesture with his hand that meant, "it has nothing to do with me. do not do so if you do not wish." all the others smiled and bent their heads down, and pretended to write. nancy looked round her with the expression of a hunted rabbit. a man was coming in, sauntering along with his hand in his pocket. he was english, nancy saw at a glance. he reminded her a little of mr. kingsley. tom avory's daughter went straight towards the new-comer, and said: "you are english?" "i am," said the englishman. "will you please help me? my father was english," said nancy, with a little break in her voice. "they ... they want me to write my name. shall i do it?" the englishman smiled slightly under his straight-clipped, light moustache. "do you want to go into the gaming-rooms?" "yes," said nancy. "well, write your name, then," he said, and walked back to the desk beside her. "you will see me do it too," he added, smiling, as he gave up a card and got another one in return, on the back of which he wrote "frederick allen." all the employés were quite serious again, and seemed to have forgotten nancy's existence. she signed her card, and entered the atrium at the englishman's side. "i am looking for my husband," she explained, and told him the story of the system, and the telegram, and the hotel. "i feel as if i had been telling all this over and over and over again, like the history of the wolf." she smiled, and the dimple dipped sweetly in her left cheek. she was flushed, and her dark hair had twisted itself into little damp ringlets on her forehead. mr. allen looked at her curiously. "i am sure i have seen you before," he said. but he could not remember where. nancy said she thought not. "oh, i am sure of it," said mr. allen. "i remember your smile." but the smile he remembered had belonged to valeria, when she stood on a little bridge in hertfordshire, and took from his hands a garden hat that had fallen into the water. they went through the rooms, and the chink, chink, of the money, and the heavy perfume, made nancy dizzy and bewildered. aldo was nowhere to be seen. they went from table to table--the season was ended, and one could see each player at a glance--then into the _trente-et-quarante_ rooms, which were hushed and darkened; then through the "buffet," and out into the atrium again. nancy looked up at her companion, and tears gathered in her eyes. "i cannot imagine where he is! you do not think--you do not think----" and in her wide, frightened eyes passed the vision of aldo, lifeless under a palm-tree in the gardens, his divine eyes broken, his soft hair clotted with blood. "i think he is all right enough," said the englishman. "we can look in the café de paris." they left the atrium and went down the steps and out into the square again. the "valse bleue" was swaying its hackneyed sweetness across the dusk. nancy started--surely that was aldo! there, coming out of the café de paris, with a fat woman in white walking beside him. that was aldo! nancy hurried on, then stopped. the englishman stood still beside her, and stared discreetly at the trees on his right-hand side. aldo and the woman had sauntered off to the left, and now sat down on a bench facing the crédit lyonnais. "will you wait a minute?" said nancy. and she ran off towards the bench, while mr. allen waited and gazed into the trees. yes, it was aldo. she heard him laugh. who could that fat woman be? she hurried on, and stopped a few paces from them. aldo, turning round, saw her. he was motionless with astonishment for one moment. then he bent forward, and said a word or two to his companion. she nodded, and he rose and came quickly forward to nancy. "what is it?" he said. "what are you doing here?" "oh, aldo!" she said, tears of relief filling her eyes. "at last! i have looked for you everywhere." "what is it?" repeated aldo, in an impatient whisper. "not--not anne-marie? she is all right?" "oh yes, dear," said nancy, drying her eyes. "poor little sweet thing! she is fast asleep at the hotel. come along! come and thank an english gentleman who----" she was about to slip her arm through his when he drew back. "don't!" he said. "go back to the hotel at once! i shall be there in five minutes. you don't want to spoil everything, do you?" "spoil what?" said nancy. "everything," said aldo. "our prospects, our future, everything." "why? how? what do you mean?" nancy looked across at the broad figure in white sitting on the bench; she had turned round, and seemed to be looking at nancy through a _lorgnon_. nancy could discern a large face and golden hair under a white straw hat. "who is that?" "oh, she's all right," said aldo. "i have no time to explain now. go home, and do as i tell you. if you don't," he added, as he saw indignant protest rising to nancy's lips, "you and the child will have to bear the consequences. remember what i tell you----you and the child." then he raised his hat, and went back to the bench where the woman was awaiting him. nancy, paralyzed with astonishment, saw him sit down, saw his plausible back and explanatory gestures, while the woman still looked at her through her long-handled _lorgnon_. she walked slowly back in stupefaction. the englishman stood where she had left him, at the foot of the casino steps, facing the trees. he had lit a cigarette. he turned, when she was near him, and threw the cigarette away. he said: "are you coming into the rooms again?" "no," said nancy. "shall i see you to your hotel?" "no," said nancy; and stood there, dull and ashamed. "well," said the englishman, putting out his hand in a brisk, matter-of-fact way, "good-night." he shook her chilly hand. then he ventured consolation. "all the same a hundred years hence," he said, and turned quickly into the casino. he did not stay. he came out a moment afterwards, and followed the dreary little figure in its grey travelling dress that went slowly up the street, and round to the right. when he had seen her safely enter the garden of the hotel he turned back. "poor little girl!" he said. "i wonder where i met her before?" aldo entered the hotel half an hour later, and went to nancy's room, armed with soothing and diplomatic explanations. but nancy was on her knees by anne-marie's bed, with her face buried in the mosquito-netting, and did not move when he entered. "why, nancy, what's the matter?" "don't wake her, please," said nancy. "but i wanted to tell you----" "hush!" said nancy, with her finger on her lips and her eyes on anne-marie. "then come to my room. i want to speak to you," said aldo. "no," said nancy. "well," said aldo, "i think i ought to explain----" "hush!" said nancy again. then she sat on a chair near the child's bed, and put her face down again in the mosquito-netting. aldo stood about the room for a time. he called her name twice, but she did not answer. then he went upstairs to his little room feeling injured. iv early next morning aldo went out to buy a doll for anne-marie. he got it at the condamine, where things are cheaper. it went to his heart to spend seven francs fifty centimes--a _mise_ and a half--but the cheaper ones were really too hideous to buy peace with. for one mad moment he thought of buying a doll with real eyelashes that cost twenty-eight francs. but considerations of economy were stronger than his fears, and he took the one for seven francs fifty, whose painted eyelashes remained irrelevantly at the top of the eyelids even when they were closed. anne-marie was delighted. nancy was a pale and chilly statue. aldo sent anne-marie and the condamine doll to play in the garden, while he in the _salon de lecture_ explained. the systems were rank and rotten. all of them. rank--and--rotten. grimaux, the croupier, had told him so. there was only one way of winning, and that was---- "i know all that," said nancy. "who was that woman?" aldo raised reproachful, nocturnal eyes to her face. she looked smaller than usual, but very stern. "nancy," he said. "tesoro mio! my treasure!..." but nancy ignored the eyes and the outstretched hand. "who is she?" "she is nobody--absolutely nobody! an old thing with a yellow wig. her name is doyle. how can you go on like that, my love?" but nancy could go on, and did. "she is english?" "no, no; american. a weird old thing from the prairies." and aldo laughed loudly, but alone. "well?" said nancy, with tight lips, when aldo had quite finished laughing. "well, grimaux, who has been here sixteen years, said to me: 'the mistake everyone makes is to double on their losses. when you lose----'" aldo's slim hands waved, his shoulders shrugged, his long eyes turned upward. nancy watched him, cold and detached. "he looks like the oyster-sellers of santa lucia!" she said to herself. "how could i ever think him beautiful?" then she saw anne-marie in the garden kissing the condamine doll, and she forgave him. "when you lose," aldo was saying, "you run after your losses--you double, you treble, you go on, _et voilà! la débâcle_--whereas when you win you go carefully, staking little stakes, satisfied with a louis at a time, and when you have won one hundred francs, out you go, saying: 'that is enough for to-day!' now that is wrong, quite wrong. what you ought to do is to follow up your wins, so that when the streak of luck _does_ come--" "i have heard quite enough about that," said nancy. "tell me the rest." "well," said aldo sulkily, "i wish you would not jump at a fellow. the rest is merely this: the good old prairie-chicken"--he went off into another peal of laughter, and left off again when he had finished--"she was--she was just promising to put up the money when you came along. and you know what women are. they--they hate families," said aldo. nancy raised her eyes to his face without moving. "i do not know why you look at me like that," said aldo sulkily. nancy got up. "there is a train at one o'clock," she said; "we will take it." she went upstairs; aldo went out into the garden and played with anne-marie and the condamine doll. at twelve nancy looked out of the window. she called anne-marie, who came unwillingly, dragging the doll upstairs, and followed by aldo. "we are ready," said nancy, tying the white ribbons of a floppy straw hat under anne-marie's chin. anne-marie sat on the bed kicking her feet in their tan travelling-boots up and down. aldo sat near the table, and drummed on it with his fingers. "who is going to pay the hotel bill?" he said. nancy looked up. "have you no money?" "i have eighty-two francs and forty centimes," said aldo. "where is the rest?" "gone." nancy sat down on the bed near anne-marie. there was a long silence. aldo fidgeted, and said: "i told you the systems were all wrong." nancy did not answer. she was thinking. she understood nothing about money, but she knew what this meant. how were they to go back to milan? how were they to live? with her mother? her mother had had to scrape and be careful since the forty thousand francs had been given to aldo. she had brought smaller boxes of chocolate to anne-marie. she took no cabs, and was wearing a last year's cloak of aunt carlotta's. aunt carlotta herself was always grumbling that when she wanted to spend five francs she turned them over three times, and then put them into her purse again, and that adèle could not find a husband because her dot was small, and men asked for nothing but money nowadays. there was zio giacomo, dear, grumpy old man. but he had all nino's old debts to pay, and everybody was always borrowing from him. distant relations and seedy old friends visited and wrote to him periodically; and zio giacomo was enraged, and always vowed that this would be the last time.... the only wealthy person connected with the family was aldo's brother, carlo. but nancy knew that aldo had exhausted all from that source. what would happen? what were they going to do? she looked at aldo, who sat in the arm-chair, with his head thrown back and his eyes on the ceiling. he knew she had likened him to san sebastian, and now to move her pity as much as possible he assumed the expression of the adolescent saint pierced with arrows. nancy turned her eyes from him. the sight of him irritated her beyond endurance. she looked at anne-marie, sitting good and happy beside her, playing with the doll. she bent and kissed the child's cool pink cheek. aldo sat up, and said: "i had better go." "where to?" said nancy. "to the casino, of course," said aldo. "i promised to be there at twelve-thirty." "to meet that woman?" "yes," said aldo sulkily. "oh!" gasped nancy, and her hands clasped in deepest shame for him. "what blood is in your veins?" it was the blood of many generations of neapolitan lazzaroni--beautiful, lazy animals, content to lie stretched in the sun--crossed and altered by the blood of the economical shopkeeping grandfather, who sold corals and views of vesuvius in the via caracciolo. aldo felt that it was time to hold his own. "it is easy enough for you to talk," he said. "but what else can i do?" anne-marie lifted the condamine doll to her mother. "kiss," she said. then she stretched it out towards her father. "kiss," she said. aldo jumped up, and fell on his knees before them both. he kissed the doll, and he kissed anne-marie's little coat, and nancy's knees, and then he put his head on anne-marie's lap and wept. anne-marie screamed and cried, and nancy kissed them both, and comforted them. "never mind--never mind! it will all come right. don't cry, aldo! it is dreadful! i cannot bear to see you cry." aldo sobbed, and said he ought to go and shoot himself. and after nancy had forgiven, and comforted, and encouraged him, he raised his reddened eyes and blurred face. "well, then, shall i go?" he said. nancy turned white. it was hopeless. he did not understand. he was what he was, and did not know that one could be anything else. "no," she said. and he sat down and sighed, and looked out of the window. nancy went to the stout proprietress and asked for the bill. while it was being made out, the kindly woman said: "are you leaving to-day, madame?" nancy blushed, and said: "i do not know until i have seen the bill." the proprietress, who had heard the noise upstairs--for aldo cried loud like a child--and was slightly anxious in regard to her money, said: "has monsieur already had the _viatique_?" nancy did not understand. "the _viatique_ of the casino. if monsieur has played and lost, the administration will give him something back. let him go and ask for it. and," she added, glancing at the brooch at nancy's neck, "if perhaps madame should wish to know it, the mont de piété is not far--just past the crédit lyonnais." the bill was one hundred and twenty-three francs. nancy told aldo about the _viatique_, and he said, with a hang-dog air, he would go and ask for it. "how much do you think it will be?" asked nancy. "i don't know," said aldo, who felt that he must be glum. "two or three thousand francs?" "i suppose so," said aldo. "you will accept nothing from that woman. you promise!" "i promise," said aldo, laying flabby fingers in her earnest, outstretched hand. so he went, and when he was out of sight of the hotel he hurried. nancy packed his trunk for him, and felt pity and half remorse as she folded his limp, well-known clothes, his helpless coats and defenceless waistcoats, and put them away. he had no character. it was not his fault. she ought not to have allowed him to come here. he was not a wall; clarissa had told her so long ago. he was weak, and limp, and foolish. well, nancy would be the wall. already she knew what to do. say the casino gave them back three or four thousand francs. they would go back to milan, give up the home in via senato, and take a cheaper apartment in the quartieri nuovi. she would write. she would work again. ah! at the thought of her work her blood quickened. the baby should stay with valeria, because it was impossible to do any serious work with anne-marie tugging at one's skirts and at one's heart-strings. she would go and see the baby every evening after she had written five or six hours. aldo would return to zio giacomo's office. good old zio giacomo would be glad to take him back for valeria's and nancy's sake, and they would live quietly and modestly. aldo should superintend the household expenses, and squabble over the bills with the servant--he loved to do that; and by the time the three, or four, or five thousand francs that the casino had given them were finished the book would be out. "the cycle of lyrics" had brought her in twenty thousand francs, and it was only a slender volume of verse. this book would make a great stir in italy--she knew it--and it would be translated into all languages. she wished she had the manuscript here. she felt that she could start it again at once. she closed her eyes and remembered. all the people she had created, bound together by the scarlet thread of the conception, rushed out from the neglected pages, and entered her heart again. she felt like browning's lion; you could see by her eye, wide and steady, she was leagues in the desert already.... suddenly anne-marie, who had been playing like a little lamb of gold on the balcony, gave a scream: the doll had gone. the doll had fallen over the balcony. it was gone! it was dead! nancy looked over the ledge. yes, there lay the condamine doll on the gravel-path in the garden. and it was dead. half of its face had jumped away and lay some distance off. aldo, entering the garden at that moment, saw it, and picked it up. then he looked up at the balcony, and saw nancy's troubled face and the distracted countenance of his little daughter. he waved his hand, and went out again, taking the dead doll with him. he hailed a carriage, and told the driver to drive quickly to the condamine. he bought the doll with the real eyelashes for twenty-two francs--he made them knock off six francs--and returned with clatter of horses and cracking of whip to the hotel. when anne-marie saw the doll, and when nancy saw anne-marie's face, aldo knew he was forgiven and reinstated. "what have they given you back at the casino?" asked nancy. "i don't know. i am to go again in two hours," said aldo. "let us have luncheon." they had an excellent luncheon, for, confronted with a desperate situation in which the economizing of fifty centimes meant nothing, the ancestral shopkeeper in aldo's veins bowed, and left room for the lazzarone, who ate his spaghetti to-day, and troubled not about the morrow. "if they give you five or six thousand francs, i suppose we must not complain. we cannot expect to get back the entire eighteen thousand," said nancy. "no," said aldo, with downcast eyelids. he knew something about _viatiques_, but he would not let this knowledge spoil their lunch. after all, the luncheon cost twelve francs. it must not be wasted. "did you see her?" asked nancy, tying a table-napkin round the doll's neck at anne-marie's request. "whom?" said aldo, with his mouth full. "the--the prairie-chicken," said nancy, to make him feel that he was quite forgiven. "oh yes; i saw her," said aldo. nancy put down her knife and fork, and felt faint. "well?" aldo cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and said, "she is an old beast." there was a pause, then he continued: "i made a clean breast of it. i told her who you were, and about anne-marie; and when i had finished she called me a--a--oh, some vulgar american name, and off she walked." nancy reached across the table and patted his hand. "that's right, aldo." "i told you," he said, nodding his head, "that that kind of woman cannot stand the idea of a fellow having a family." "perhaps," suggested nancy, dimpling, "she could not stand the idea of the way the fellow treated his family." "well, never mind," said aldo. "she's done with." but she wasn't. at four o'clock aldo, nancy, anne-marie, and the doll went out, and down to the square in front of the casino. nancy and the child sat on a bench facing the casino, and aldo went in to get the _viatique_. he came out a few minutes later looking flushed and angry. "the _canailles_! the thieves! the robbers!" "what is it?" said nancy. "they have given me one hundred and fifty francs!" and he held out the three fifty-franc notes contemptuously. "a hundred--and--fifty francs!" gasped nancy. "nancy, there is only one thing to do," said aldo. "go in and play them. plank them down on a number, and if they go, let them go, and be done with." "do it," said nancy, for nothing mattered. "i can't," said aldo. "i can't go in--not until this miserable dole is paid back. you must go. they will let you in. go on." nancy rose, flushed and trembling. "what do i do? how do i play it?" "oh, anyhow. it makes no difference," said aldo, with his face in his hands, suddenly realizing that they three possessed in the world one hundred and ninety francs, and a debt of one hundred and twenty-three. he turned to the child. "say a number, anne-marie! any old number!" anne-marie did not understand. "you know your numbers, darling," said nancy, "that grandmamma taught you." "oh, yeth," said anne-marie. "one, two, three, four." "stop. all right," said aldo. "nancy, go in and play--at any table you like--the _quatre premiers_ and _quatre en plein_. that gives you zero, too. go ahead! _les quatre premiers_ and _quatre en plein_. remember. tell the croupier to do it for you." nancy went straight in, and to the left, where the men sat who had laughed at her the night before. they recognized her, and gave her a card at once. she went into the rooms. chink, chink; chink, chink. she went to the table on the left. a red-haired croupier sat at the end of the table nearest her, and she went to him, and gave him one of the fifty-franc notes. "les quatre premiers et quatre en plein," she said. but it was too late. "rien ne va plus," said the man in the centre. "trente-deux, noir, pair et passe." the croupier handed her back the note. "you're lucky," he said. "you would have lost." she repeated her phrase, and he put the note on the top of his rake and passed it across the table. "quatre premiers," he said, and the man in the middle placed it. "et quoi encore?" said the croupier, looking at nancy. "quatre premiers et quatre en plein," repeated nancy, mechanically. "combien à l'en plein?" said the man, holding out his hand. nancy gave him the second fifty-franc note, and he passed it up on his rake. "quatre en plein." "quatre en plein. tout va aux billets," said the man in the centre; and the ball whizzed round. nancy's heart was thumping; it shook her; it beat like a drum. the little ball dropped, ran along awhile, stopped, clattered and clicked, and fell into a compartment. "trois." everybody looked at nancy as she was paid, and she collected the gold and silver with clumsy hands. "encore," she said, giving the croupier the remaining bill and some louis. "quoi?" said the croupier. "encore la même chose." the ball was running round. "mais ça y est," said the croupier, for the fifty-franc note that had won still lay at the corner of the top line. "mais non, mais non," said nancy, who was very much confused, "premier quatre"--the man placed the note on the other note still lying there--"et quatre en plein." but for this last it was too late. "rien ne va plus. zéro!" "voilà! ça y est!" said the croupier, returning the gold to her, and waiting with the rake on the table for the eight hundred francs to be paid. what is the secret of luck? how shall it be forced? how explained? whatever nancy did, she won. wherever her money lay there the ball went. when she thought she had enough--her hands were full, her place at the table was piled up with louis and silver and notes--and she was withdrawing her remaining stake and the gold paid on it with clumsy rake, she moved it away from the numbers, and left it on "pair" while she put down the rake. a minute was lost while a woman said something to her, and before she could take the money up the ball had fallen. "vingt. pair et passe." it was doubled. when she at last tremblingly collected it all in her hands, and put gold and notes as best she could into her pocket, she rose, and could hardly see. her cheeks were flaming. she passed out of the rooms, into the atrium, and down the steps. aldo sat on the bench with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and the doll in his arms. anne-marie was running up and down in front of him. "aldo," said nancy, and sat down weakly at his side. "gone?" asked aldo, raising a miserable face. "no!" nancy had a little hysterical laugh. she piled the money into his hands, then into her lap, while he counted it quickly, deftly. people passing looked at them, and smiled. "seven thousand eight hundred francs," said aldo, very pale. "oh, but there is more;" and nancy dived into her pocket again. there was over fourteen thousand francs. "come into the café de paris," said aldo. they drank coffee and _crème de menthe_, and anne-marie had strawberry ice and cakes. the band played "sous la feuillée." "oh what a lovely world it is!" said nancy, with a little sob. "oh, what a glorious place! i love it all! i love everybody!" "i love evlybody," said anne-marie, taking a third cake with careful choice. aldo and nancy laughed. the englishman passed, and nancy called him. she introduced him to aldo, and aldo thanked him for being kind to nancy the evening before. nancy told him about the fourteen thousand francs she had won, and they all laughed, and the band played, and the sun shone and went down. "the best train for italy," said mr. allen suddenly, "is at six-twenty. you have just an hour. it's a splendid train. you get to milan at eleven." aldo looked at nancy, and nancy looked at the sky. it was light and tender, and the air was still. the tsiganes were playing "violets," and in the distance lay the sea. "we must take that train," said aldo, getting up and rapping his saucer for the waiter. "oh no!" said nancy. "please not! let us stay here and be happy." "stay here and be happy," said anne-marie, with a bewitching smile. they stayed. v aldo repaid the _viatique_ and went into the gambling-rooms with nancy. the proprietress of the hotel got them a _bonne_ from vintimille, who walked up and down in the gardens with anne-marie, and carried the doll. she cost nothing--only fifty francs a month! they arranged to take _pension_ at the hotel. that also cost nothing--twelve francs a day each. they took drives that cost nothing--sixteen francs to la turbie, twenty francs to cap martin. nothing cost anything. ten minutes at the tables, and nancy had won enough to pay everything for a month. she sent a cloak to her mother, which valeria vowed was much too beautiful to wear. she sent presents to aunt carlotta and zio giacomo, to adèle and to nino, to carlo and to clarissa. and she remembered a man with no legs, who sat in a little cart on the corso in milan, and she sent her mother one hundred francs to give him. anne-marie was dressed in a white corded silk coat, and a white-plumed hat. the _bonne_ had a large scotch bow with streamers. this lasted ten days. on the eleventh day it was ended. nancy played gaily, and lost. she played carefully, and lost. she played tremblingly, and lost. she played recklessly, and lost. aldo, who did not trust his own luck, followed her from table to table, saying: "be careful!... don't!... do!... why did you? why didn't you? i told you so!" and at each table _la guigne_ was waiting for them, pushing nancy's hand in the wrong direction, whispering the wrong numbers in her ear. ten times they made up their minds to stop, and ten times they decided to try just once more. "we have about nine thousand francs left. with that we are paupers for the rest of our lives. with luck we might recoup." this lasted two days. on the third day they had one thousand and eighty francs left. "play the eighty," said aldo, "and we will keep the thousand." they lost the eighty, and then four hundred francs more. "what is the good of six hundred francs," said aldo, and they played on. their last two louis aldo threw on a _transversale_. they won. "let us leave it all on," said aldo. they won again. "shall we risk it again?" said nancy, with flushed cheeks and galloping heart. aldo's lips were dry and pale; he could not speak. he nodded. and a third time they won. the croupier flattened the notes out on the table and knocked the little pile of gold lightly over with his rake. he counted, and paid five times the already quintupled stake. aldo bent forward and picked up a rake to draw in his winnings. a man sitting near the centre of the table put out his hand, and took the piled-up notes and gold. "ah, _pardon_!" cried aldo, striking the rake down on the notes and holding them; "that is mine." "pardon! pardon! pardon!" said the man, laying his hand firmly on the notes. "c'est ma mise à moi! voilà déjà trois coups que je l'y laisse----" aldo was incoherent with excitement, and nancy joined in, very pale. "it is ours, monsieur." "ah, mais c'est par trop fort," cried the other, who was french, and had a loud voice. he pushed aldo's rake aside, and took the money. aldo appealed to the croupiers, and to the people near him, and to the people opposite him. they shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyebrows. they had not seen, they did not know. "faites vos jeux, messieurs," said the croupier. the ball whizzed; the game went on. aldo, burning with rage, and nancy pale and dazed, left the table. "oh, aldo! let us go away. this is a horrible place. let us go away." aldo did not answer. they went out into the sunshine. laughing women lifting light dresses and showing their high heels came hurrying across the square. the warm air was heavy with the scent of flowers. they turned into the gardens, and before them was the dancing sea; and anne-marie, looking like an altezza serenissima, tripped up and down in her white corded silk coat, her brief curls bobbing under her white-plumed hat. behind her walked the vintimille servant with the scotch silk bow on her head, and carried the doll with the real eyelashes. vi * * * * * new york. mother dear, i shall send you this letter when nothing that i have written in it is true any more. if we ever live through and out of it, you shall know; if not--but, of course, we shall. we must. one cannot die of poverty, can one? one does not really, actually suffer real hunger, does one, mother dear? "zu grunde gehen!" the sombre old german words keep rumbling in my head like far-away thunder. "zu grunde gehen!" i do not suppose one really does go "_zu grunde_." but when one has forty-five dollars in the world, and a funny little bird with its beak open expecting to be fed--and fed on chocolates and bonbons when it wants them--one becomes demoralized and frightened, and pretends to think that one might really starve. do not think it unkind that i did not come to milan to kiss you and say good-bye. i had not the heart to do so. aldo, too, said we could not afford it, and, indeed, our combined _viatiques_ and our jewellery only just enabled us to come here. we landed three days ago. yesterday morning i sent you a postcard: "arrived happily." happily! oh, mother dear, i think there must be a second higher and happier heaven for those who are brave enough to tell untruths of this kind. enough; we landed, anne-marie looking like a spoilt princess; i with my monte carlo hat and coat, and high-heeled, impertinent shoes; and aldo, a pallid antinous, with forty-five dollars in his pocket-book. then came the via crucis of looking for rooms. mother, did i ever stay at the hôtel nazionale in rome, and descend languidly the red-carpeted stairs to the royal automobile that was to drive me to the quirinal? did i ever sit at home in uncle giacomo's large arm-chair and listen benignly to moon-struck poets reading their songs? did i ever with languid fingers ring bells for servants, and order what i wanted? "cio avvenne forse ai tempi d'omero e di valmichi----" that was another nancy. this nancy trudged for hours through straight and terrible streets called avenues, with a dismal husband and a tired baby at her side. third avenue, fourth avenue, then quickly across fifth avenue, which had nothing to do with us, and again across to sixth avenue ... and everywhere dirty shops, screaming children, jostling girls, rude men, trains rushing overhead, street-cars screeching and clanging. then, at last, seventh avenue, where there were streets full of quiet, squalid boarding-houses, fewer screaming children, fewer dirty shops, and no trains. we went into a cheap, clean-looking place that a porter had told us of. a woman opened. she looked at my hat and coat, and at my shoes, and said: "what do you want?" "a room----" began aldo. she shut the door without answering. at the next house a woman in a dirty silk dressing-gown opened the door. "yes, they had rooms. eight dollars a day. meals a dollar." in the next house they took no children. in the next, no foreigners. our expensive clothes in their cheap street made them suspicious. aldo's handsome face made them suspicious. his italian accent frightened them. and anne-marie cried every time a new face appeared at a new door. at last aldo said: "i will go to the italian consul. you wait here in a baker's shop." the consulate was at the other end of new york, and was closed when aldo got there. when he returned, harassed and haggard, i had made friends with the baker's wife. she was german. i told her our history of the wolf--that i was a poetess, and had met the queen, and all about monte carlo. i don't think she believed or understood much, but she was sorry for me; and anne-marie, hearing us talk german, suddenly started piping: "schlaf, kindchen, schlaf!" the woman caught her up in her arms, and said: "ach, du süsses! how does she come to know that?" and she took us all to th street to the house of her sister, who gave us this room. it is clean, and the woman is kind. and now, what? i have bought myself a frightful pepper-and-salt coloured dress, and a black straw hat. i look like a "deserving poor." and anne-marie is wearing a dark blue woolly horror belonging to the woman's daughter. she must wear it, or frau schmidl would be offended. frau schmidl is the only friend we have in america. for the ranch is a myth of aldo's. he never was on a ranch in his life. he met a frenchman once with weak lungs, who had been in texas, and who gave him all the romantic details that he used to recount to us. do you remember, mother? on lake maggiore? he talked vaguely, and not much, it is true, of those bucking bronchoes he used to ride across the sweeping western prairies, feeling the wind in his hair.... when i reproach him for his fables, he tells me that it was our fault. we insisted upon the details. we would hear all about it! he says clarissa started the ranch legend, because she thought it sounded well. then she left him to keep it up as best he could. poor aldo! he hates us in these clothes. and he hates the german things frau schmidl gives us to eat. he has gone to the italian consul for the third time to see if he can find some correspondence to do. i could give lessons, but it seems that there are many more people who want to give lessons than there are who want to take them. and then--there is anne-marie, who has to be taken care of. anne-marie! frau schmidl loves her because of her name. she says it is echt deutsch! she is a stout, fair woman, who speaks english strangely. when she enters the room, she says, nodding and laughing, "now, and what makes the anne-marie?" the anne-marie likes the sound of the language, and imitates her. i dread to think what english the anne-marie will learn. * * * * * aldo has found nothing to do. the americans will have nothing to do with an italian, and italians will have still less to do with an italian. we have eight dollars left. * * * * * if i write to you for money you will send it. and then? a few weeks hence we shall be where we are now. we must fight our battles alone. * * * * * we have nothing left. mr. schmidl says he will let us keep the room--"for another week or two," he added gruffly; but his wife is not to feed us. "at least--not all of you," he added still more gruffly. "only you--and the anne-marie." he is a poor man. he is quite right. but what about aldo? * * * * * we have sold the monte carlo clothes for twelve dollars. we feel that we are rehabilitated. and what have i been dreaming of? i can write. i shall send an article to the _giornale italo-americano_. unsigned, of course. i shall write it to-night. * * * * * it is done. * * * * * it is accepted. * * * * * it is printed. it seems that that is all. they have told aldo that they never pay for articles that are sent to them from the outside--even if they are as brilliant and original as this one. they only pay their own staff. have they room on their staff for a brilliant and original writer? plenty of room. but no money. aldo is living on dates and a little rice. he speaks less than ever. i do not know what his thoughts are. i am afraid for him. to-day as i was taking anne-marie for a run in front of the house i met a man whom we knew in italy, a dr. fioretti. he was an old friend of nino's. do you remember? he looked at me, and past me, blankly, unrecognizing. i thanked the fates. my knees ached with fear lest he should stop and say: "you here! what are you doing? where do you live?" where do i live? in this vile street near the negro quarter. what am i doing? starving. are we dreaming, mother? oh, mother! mother! when did i fall asleep? i should like to wake up a little girl again in england. was there not another little girl called edith, with yellow hair? surely i remember her. what became of her?... or was she the girl who died?... * * * * * aldo will not leave the house any more. he will not speak to us any more. he sits and stares at us. i am afraid of him. i shall telegraph to you if i can find the money to do so. mrs. schmidl keeps anne-marie downstairs in her kitchen. but she is afraid of aldo, too. i think they will turn us out. but they will keep the child, and take care of her. i shall go out. i shall ask everybody, anybody, to help me.... * * * * * i have been to the italian church, to the italian consul, to the italian embassy. they will see. they will do what they can. there are many pitiable cases. are we a "pitiable case"? how strange! they would not give me any money to send a telegram. they said they would telegraph themselves, after they had come to see us, and made inquiries.... i stopped a woman in the street, and said, "i beg your pardon. will you----" and then my courage failed and i asked where west th street was. she directed me, and i turned back and walked in the direction i had come from. i came to fifth avenue, and walked up it in my shabby clothes. i passed rows of large houses. one of them had the windows open, and someone inside was playing "der musikant" of hugo wolff. and a woman's voice was singing: "wenn wir zwei zusammen wären würd' das singen mir vergeh'n." i stopped. i turned back, and walked up the wide stone steps. i rang the visitors' bell, and a manservant in ornate livery opened at once. "i wish to speak to the lady who is singing," i said. "oh," said the man. i knew he thought me a beggar, and was going to send me away. "tell her--tell her quickly," i said, "that--that hugo wolff told me i might come." something in my face--oh, my despairing face, mother!--touched something human in the pompous automaton. he went straight into the drawing-room and gave my message. there was a basket of easter lilies on the hall-table. the music stopped, and almost at once on the threshold of the drawing-room a lady appeared. she was young--hardly older than i--and beautiful, dressed in soft mauve cloth. she looked at me curiously, and then said suddenly: "will you come in?" i went into the large, luxurious drawing-room. titian's "bella" looked down at me blandly with her reddened eyelids. "what message was that you sent?" she asked, with her graceful head on one side. my voice had almost left me. "i said hugo wolff told me to come in. i heard you singing 'der musikant'...." she laughed, and said: "are you a musician?" i said: "no." and i thought of telling her the history of the wolf. but i feared she might know my name, and tell the italians in new york. and the italo-americano would print an article about it--and the corriere della sera in milan would reprint it.... "is there anything i can do for you?" she said. i nodded. "money?" she asked softly. i nodded. "how much do you need?" "five dollars," i said. she smiled, and said: "is that all? i should willingly do more for a friend of hugo wolff's!" she went out of the room, and closed the door behind her. she left me in my shabby clothes, in my black straw hat and my need of five dollars, in her gorgeous drawing-room, scattered with priceless ornaments in silver and gold, jewelled frames and trinkets lying all about the tables. i covered my face with my hands, and the tears rolled through my fingers. she came back a few minutes afterwards with a gold twenty-dollar piece in her hand. she gave it to me, and said, "for luck!" and added: "is there nothing else i can do?" i nodded, with my eyes full of tears. "yes!" and i looked at the piano. she smiled and sat down. she sang for me. i know she sang her very best. she had a lovely voice. when i went through the hall to the door two men-servants bowed me out as if i were a princess. and i went down the stairs weeping bitterly. i went along the street, crying and not caring who saw me. then i sat down in madison square. suddenly someone came and sat beside me. a woman. i felt her eyes fixed on me for a long time, and i turned and looked at her. there, under a turquoise toque, sat the golden hair and the large face of the prairie chicken. "how do you do, mrs. doyle?" i said. "what?" she turned quickly. "how do you know my name?" and she added, frowning: "what are you crying for?" "for love of a woman who has been kind to me," i said. "there are lots of kind women," she answered. "i'm kind. what do you want?" "i want you to come and talk to my husband," i said. "you know him. you met him in monte carlo. his name is aldo della rocca." "what? della rocca? that lovely italian creature? that apollo of belvedere? of course i remember him. where is he? what is he doing here?" "come and see," i said. and she came up to mrs. schmidl's house in th street. that evening we dined with the prairie chicken, or rather, she invited herself to dine with us. she said "poison!" when she tasted the knödelsuppe, and "poison!" when she tasted the blutwurst and kraut. she is probably a very great lady, judging by her bad behaviour. in my heart hope opens timid eyes. * * * * * vii mrs. doyle was a very great lady. her husband had been a political "boss"; her sister had married an english baronet; and her daughter, marge, eighteen years old, "a mere infant," as she said, had married herbert van osten, the congressman. she was full of good ideas. "now, you two might be the rage of new york in no time," she said, at the end of the dinner. "you are a count, aren't you?" and she looked confidently at aldo. "'della rocca'! that sounds like a count." "oh yes," said aldo, with his shining white smile, humorously remembering his grandfather's name, "esposito," which means a foundling, and the "della rocca" added to it because the little esposito had been left on a rock near posilippo. "well, let me see. you must have an atelier of some kind. ateliers are all the rage. and your wife----" mrs. doyle raised her sepia eyebrows and pinched her large chin pensively. "my wife is a great poetess," said aldo. "is she?" said mrs. doyle. "well--let me see. she must--she must dress a little differently--red scarves and things--and look picturesque, and read her poems in salons here. poetry is all the rage. and if it is eyetalian, you know," she added encouragingly to nancy, "no one will understand it. i shall discover you. i shall give an at home. 'eyetalian poetry' in a corner of the cards. that's an elegant idea!" but nancy was refractory. she said she would not wear red scarves, nor recite her poetry; and what was aldo going to do in an atelier? "well, my dear," said mrs. doyle, "faces like his are not met with every day on broadway. i don't know how it is in your country, but his looks alone are enough to make him the rage here." aldo nodded, looking at nancy as if to say: "you see?" "but what is the good of being the rage if one has nothing to live on? what are we to eat?" asked nancy, feeling brutal and unlovely, and _terre à terre_. "oh, my dear!" exclaimed mrs. doyle. "if once you are the rage in a place like new york!" ... and she raised her round blue eyes to frau schmidl's ceiling, where languid flies walked slowly. but nancy assured her that it was impossible. could she not find some work for aldo to do? "what work?" said mrs. doyle, resting an absent-minded blue gaze on the lustrous convolutions of aldo's hair, on his white, narrow forehead, on his intense and violent eyes, and the scarlet arcuation of his vivid lips. "what work can he do?" "oh!" nancy said vaguely, "what work do men do? he has been to the university and taken a degree. he has studied law, but has not practised. i am sure he could do anything. he is very clever." "oh yes," assented mrs. doyle dreamily. she was thinking. she was thinking of something her married daughter had been saying to her that very morning. suddenly, she got up and said good-bye. she let aldo help her into her long turquoise coat, and find her gloves; and then she sent him off to fetch a motor-cab. alone with nancy, she was about to open her large silver-net reticule when she saw nancy's straight gaze fixed upon her. so she refrained, and kissed her instead. "ta-ta, apollo," she said, shaking a fat, white-gloved hand out of the carriage window to aldo, who stood on the side-walk, bare-headed and deferential. then, leaning back as the carriage slid along th avenue and turned into th street, she mused: "he will do--he will do elegantly. won't marge be delighted! that will teach bertie to sit up. elegant idea! bertie will have to sit up." bertie was not sitting up. his wife, mrs. doyle's daughter, was. and very straight she sat, with defiant, frizzy head and narrow lips, when she heard the front door open and close. but it was not to her husband's insubordinate footsteps. it was the indulgent swish of her mother's silken skirts that rustled slowly upwards. bertie's wife sprang up and opened the door. "'mum'? at this hour? what has happened?" "nothing, marge--nothing. is bertie at home?" said mrs. doyle. "no," and the young pink lips narrowed again. "it is only eleven o'clock at night. why should he be at home?" "marge, i have an elegant idea," said mrs. doyle, seating herself resolutely in an armchair opposite her daughter. "i have found the very thing we need. the bo ideel, my lambkin." * * * * * when mrs. doyle rose to go at midnight they were both wreathed in smiles. "you will have to be very careful, dear," said mrs. doyle. "don't be rash, and unlikely, and over-generous. the wife is a stubborn creature who spells things with a capital letter: you know what i mean--work and art and dignity, and all that kind of thing. she must not be rubbed up the wrong way. besides, it will answer just as well if he does not know what he is doing." "that's so," said her daughter. "mum, you're a daisy." the unsuspecting bertie came home that night a little before one o'clock, keyed up for the usual withering sarcasm and darkling reproach. he found his wife asleep, lamb-like and dove-like, her frizzy head foundered contentedly in the pillows, a book of gyp on the coverlet, and a mild smile--was it of indulgence or of treason?--playing on her soft half-open lips. the next day mrs. doyle called on aldo and nancy. anne-marie was introduced and patted on the head, and sent down into the kitchen. "i have a secretaryship for you," said mrs. doyle to aldo. "you can start at once. twenty dollars a week. they won't give more." aldo was graciously complacent, and nancy looked anxious. "his english is very imperfect," she said. "oh, the english is chiefly copying; he can do that, can't he?" "of course," said aldo, frowning at nancy. nancy asked for particulars, and mrs. doyle folded her fat hands and gave them. it was a confidential post. he was to be "secretary to her daughter"--catching nancy's steady grey eye, mrs. doyle added--"'s husband, mr. van osten;" and the work was chiefly of a political character. he would have to--er--copy speeches, and ... etcetera. he would have a study, not in the van osten's house, but--er--in the same street a few doors off, opposite. he was not to talk about his work, because it was of a very--er--private character. "mr. van osten is a peculiar man," added mrs. doyle. "but you will understand all that in time, when you get to know him. when can you start?" "now," said aldo. mrs. doyle laughed. "well, i think next monday will do. meanwhile"--and she coughed--"the van ostens are very--oh, very much for appearance, you know. you had better go to brooks and get him to rig you out. i shall drive round and speak to brooks about you at once." nancy flushed and protested. "you can pay it back to me," said mrs. doyle. "don't bother me so." so nancy flushed, and was silent; and aldo went to brooks, and was rigged out. he also had some visiting-cards with "count aldo della rocca" printed on them, but not his address, which was near the nigger quarter, and probably would continue to be so for a long time to come. on the following monday, at half-past eleven, he arrived at the van osten house in th street. mrs. doyle had particularly impressed upon him that he was not to come earlier than half-past eleven. mrs. doyle was waiting for him in the drawing-room, and introduced him to her daughter. mr. van osten was not in. the count was to do his work alone for these first few days, as mr. van osten was very busy in washington. the two ladies had their hats on, and accompanied him across the street to no. . they had a latchkey which they gave to him, and went with him to the room that was to be his study on the top-floor. it was a large, light, almost empty, room. a wide desk stood in front of the window; there were a few chairs and tables, and a half-empty book-case. on the desk was a pile of papers, newspapers, and manuscripts. a typewriting machine stood on the table. "oh," said aldo blankly, "i do not know how to use a typewriter." "never mind," said the ladies in unison. "we put it there in case you could," said mrs. doyle. then mrs. doyle showed him his work. "all this has to be copied," she said, showing him the tidy manuscript sheets. "and then you ought to make extracts from these papers." she pointed to the newspapers--they were of the preceding week. he was to mark and cut out everything referring to the congo, and underline with red ink mr. van osten's name every time he came across it. "and everything that mr. van osten himself says has to be copied in this large book." "would it not be better to cut out the speeches in print and paste them in?" said aldo. "oh no," said mrs. doyle. "he wants them copied. doesn't he, marjorie?" her daughter turned from the window and said: "oh yes!" she had flittering green eyes and a funny smile. her frizzy, light hair came down to the bridge of her small freckled nose, and she had a manner of throwing back her head in order to look from under her hair that was peculiar to her. she was dressed like an expensive french doll. "oh yes," she repeated, with her head thrown back, and in her high childish voice. "i guess he wants it all copied." her smile flickered, and she turned to the window again. the ladies left him, and he sat down to work. he copied steadily in his beautiful _commis voyageur_ handwriting until two o'clock. then he went out and had a hasty lunch. at four o'clock mrs. doyle rustled in and asked him how he was getting on. he was getting on splendidly. at six he went home. this went on for three days, and on wednesday afternoon he had nothing left to copy, or to cut out, or to paste in. he looked out of the window. he took a book from the book-case--they were almost all french novels. after reading an hour, he decided to go across to no. , the van ostens' house, and ask for instructions. he had not yet seen his employer, and, as all men who are sure of their tailor and their physique, he liked new acquaintances. the butler who opened the door looked at his clothes, then took his hat, and divested him of his overcoat. he presented a silver tray, on which aldo, after a moment's hesitation, deposited his visiting-card. the man looked at it, opened the drawing-room door, and pronounced: "count aldo della rocca." a subdued sound of voices and tea-cups subsided into silence, and aldo entered the room. he bowed low, his secretary bow, standing at the door, for he did not want to offend his employers. when he raised his head, mrs. van osten's light green flitter of a smile was greeting him from the sofa. his quick eye saw that she was nervous. she put out her hand and said: "oh, count della rocca, how do you do? just in time for a cup of tea." he stepped past the four or five ladies and an old gentleman who sat near her, and kissed her hand in southern fashion. he was not to be the secretary? _benissimo!_ he was not the secretary. he was the count. "but perhaps," continued his hostess, "you don't like tea? vermouth or campari is what you take in your country at this hour, is it not?" and she held out a cup of tea to him, with her head thrown back and slightly on one side. "oh, madame! all what is taken from so fair a lady's hand is nectar!" said aldo, with his best smile; and the ladies tittered approval. "ah, latin flattery, count," said his hostess, and introduced him to her friends. once or twice he noticed that she glanced anxiously at him, as if dreading what he might do or say; but aldo, remembering the political and private character of his work, did not mention it. the ladies left one by one. and the old gentleman left. then mrs. van osten turned her little dry, hard face to aldo. "why did you come?" she asked. "i have finished my work," said aldo, feeling himself very much the secretary again. "i knew not what i was to do." "oh, i see. i will tell my mother--i mean my husband--about it." and at this moment mrs. doyle entered. her daughter drew her to the window, and spoke to her in a whisper for some time. mrs. doyle replied: "oh, all the better. i did not know how we should ever begin it." she turned to aldo, standing stiff and secretarial in the middle of the room. "i am glad you took mrs. van osten's cue," she said. aldo wondered what "cue" meant, but did not ask. "do so, always. it is of the greatest importance. and now about mr. van osten. _never_ speak to him about your work. he does not like it. unless he mentions it to you, never speak about it at all. let him see that you are absolutely discreet. now you may stay till he comes." he stayed and made flat general conversation. mrs. van osten looked bored. mrs. doyle answered him nervously and absentmindedly. the bell rang loud, and the butler opened the hall-door to admit his master. aldo stood up. suddenly he felt a hand on his sleeve. it was little mrs. van osten's jewelled hand that pulled him down into his chair. she leaned forward, with her chin on her hand, and smiled. "i am sure you are musical," she said, smiling into his eyes, as through the open door mr. van osten entered, large, leisurely, and good-looking. "hulloa!" he said to his wife. "well, mother?" to mrs. doyle. then he looked at aldo, who very slowly, wondering what he was to do, got up from his seat. "bertie," said his wife, looking up at him with a look that was at once the look of a cat and of a mouse, "this is count della rocca whom i was telling you about." van osten put out his large hand. "glad to meet you," he said. then mrs. doyle sat down and talked to him. "you are musical?" said mrs. van osten, lifting her small chin, and twinkling her eyes at aldo. aldo suddenly remembered what dr. fioretti, a friend of nino's who had travelled in england and the united states, used to say about american women. he seemed to hear fioretti speaking in his impressive manner, as if each word he said were three times underlined: "i tell you this about the american woman: as man and as doctor, my dear friend...." and aldo decided that fioretti was right. he found himself seated at the piano, while his hostess's tiny figure was thrown forward listening to him with rapt attention. suddenly--while her husband was laughing loud at something mrs. doyle had said--she put out her hand and said: "good-bye. come next saturday. now go. go quick." and he rose and took his leave. he described his visit to nancy, who was so much astonished that he thought it wise to omit the reference to next saturday. on the following morning another pile of papers lay on the desk for him, and he worked on conscientiously. on saturday a mauve envelope containing twenty dollars was placed on the top of his papers; and on a slip of paper was written: "come at six." at six he went to no. , and found mrs. van osten alone. she scarcely spoke to him until her husband came in. then she seemed suddenly to wake up, and was all smiles and pretty gestures; when aldo spoke to her she drooped her lashes and played with her long chiffon scarf. he left her a little later, feeling dense and bewildered. a fortnight afterwards he was invited to dinner. "i am sure van osten feels that he can trust me now," said aldo to nancy, adjusting a faultless tie at the summit of an impeccable shirt-front. "and to-day he will probably speak to me of our work." "i am afraid anne-marie is going to have measles," said nancy, sitting drearily on the old green armchair, while anne-marie pulled some of the stuffing out of it with languid feverish hand. "seventh avenue is full of it." "it is a beastly neighbourhood," said aldo, buttoning his waistcoat, and fixing a sham gold chain into his watch-pocket with a safety-pin. "we must get out of it as soon as we can." "did those people you met at mrs. van osten's ask where we lived?" asked nancy. "yes. and on the spur of the moment i said number in the same street. that is where the office is, you know. i hope they won't make inquiries." nancy sighed. aldo kissed her, and carefully patted anne-marie, who had dirty hands and a tearful face. then he ran down and got on a car that took him up town. no reference was made during dinner to politics or to the work. there were a dozen people present, and once--to try him, aldo felt it!--his host said, looking straight at him: "and what are you doing in new york, mr. della rocca?" with the corner of his eye aldo had seen mrs. van osten's small head start up like a disturbed snake at the end of the table. he answered imperturbably, looking van osten in the face: "some literary work. i find it _very interesting_." he said this markedly, and van osten only said: "oh, indeed?" but aldo knew that he was pleased. van osten must now indeed feel that aldo was absolutely discreet and intelligent. after dinner, when the men joined the ladies in the drawing-room, mrs. van osten called him to her with her eyes. he sat down at her side, and talked about italy. she drooped her head as if she were blushing, and he wondered why. he glanced round, and saw that her husband was looking at her. a tall thin woman stood near him, and aldo heard her say: "what a splendid-looking man! quite like that somebody's hyperion in that--er--what-do-you-call-it gallery." "yes," said van osten. "nice sleek animal." and he continued to look at his wife. to aldo's astonishment, she suddenly smiled and put her hand into his own, palm upwards. he felt the little chilly hand trembling lightly on his. her words were as astonishing as her gesture. she said: "well, then, count aldo, if you insist, tell my fortune." he had not insisted; but he told her fortune, following the little crinkly lines in her palm with the light touch of his forefinger. she shivered and she laughed, and she threw her head back. van osten sauntered up to them with his hands in his pockets; he looked large and powerful. aldo felt like a fool, with the little chilly hand still lying in his. he went on, however: "this is the line of the intellect--" van osten laid his hand casually on his wife's slim shoulder, and kept it there. she glanced up at him, and again in her eyes was the look of a cat, and also of a mouse. "... that is what i read in this hand," continued aldo. van osten moved and put forward a large patent-leather shoe. "and what is it you read in this foot?" he said. "kicks?" his wife burst into a ripple of laughter and withdrew her hand from aldo's. aldo also was much amused. the only one who did not seem to find the joke funny was van osten himself. a few days later in the study, when aldo had copied four columns out of a newspaper, he leaned back in his chair. he was irritated and tired. there was not enough ink in the inkstand, and he had to dip in his pen at every second word. he felt exasperated and on edge. little mrs. van osten was getting on his nerves. what did she mean? what did she want? she was in love with him, of course. that was not surprising. but what was surprising was her behaviour when they were alone. either she left the room at once, or she looked at him with green, far-away, wintry eyes as if he were a wall or a window. the night after the dinner-party he had been greatly agitated. this woman loved him. this very wealthy woman seemed to be willing to compromise herself for his sake. what should he do? for a moment the thought of running away with her crossed his mind. she was a plain little thing, but enormously rich. he might be able to be of more solid use to nancy and his child by such a step than by slaving for them thirty years at twenty dollars a week. in a year perhaps, he might be able to return to nancy, comfortably well off. these erratic american women were extravagant and generous, he knew. he had walked home that night with his head in the clouds, dreaming of automobile trips across europe, of staying at the best hotels and not paying any bills. he had found frau schmidl awake, and nancy in tears, and anne-marie with the measles. he had stayed at home three days, sitting in the darkened, stuffy little room, heating malted milk and nestlé's food on a spirit-lamp, and singing arias from grand operas to anne-marie, who liked nothing else. when he had gone back to the room in th street nobody had been to ask after him, and his work lay as he had left it. he had gone across to the van osten's house, and had heard mrs. van osten say in a high treble voice: "i am not at home." and he had felt she was looking at him behind the curtains as he crossed the road. he dipped his pen in the half-empty inkstand, and then impatiently leaned it up against a pen-box. it fell over, and was emptier than before. he looked round the room for an ink-bottle. he thought of ringing the bell, but the old servant that appeared on the rare occasions when he wanted her, had, after the first week, looked so ill-tempered that he dreaded asking for anything. he looked about, and opened drawers and closets. in a cupboard in the wall, on the top shelf, pushed far back, he saw a packet of papers which he seemed to recognize. he pulled them out and looked. it was his work of the week before-- pages, neatly written. what were they doing up there? he gazed at them for a long time; then he put them back. he resolved to make an experiment. he rang the bell, and asked the untipped and unamiable old servant to bring him some ink. when he had a full inkstand before him, he dipped in his pen and wrote: "the debate concluded with the usual majority for the government. la donna è mobile qual piuma al vento. i wonder whether anyone will notice that i am writing rubbish. sul mare luccica l'astro d'argento santa lucia, santa lucia." he finished the page, and put it on the others. then he smoked cigarettes, and read "autour du mariage" until it was lunch-time. while he was at lunch a note was left for him. "come this evening at eight, sharp." his finished sheets had been taken away as usual, and a new pile placed on the desk for him to copy. he went to the cupboard in the wall, and looked on the top shelf. yes; the pile of papers at the back was larger. he pulled it out; on the top lay the page with the jumble of italian words on it. he took a little heap of the sheets at random from the pile, placed them on his desk, and left them there. then he lay back in his chair, and reflected. for three weeks he had been copying things out of old newspapers seven hours a day. he had been paid twenty dollars a week for it. why? was mrs. doyle a charitable angel who wished to help him and his family without being thanked? no. he felt that was not it. his eye fell on the note. "come this evening." a light went up in his mind as he recognized the fact that he was paid for the hours he spent in no. , not for those he passed in no. . it probably meant that mrs. van osten loved him, and must see him when she wanted to. the work was but a pretext to keep him near her, within call, away from others, perhaps. "poor little woman!" he said. "how she must suffer!" then he reflected that twenty dollars a week was not much. at a quarter past eight that evening he turned into th street, and crossed mr. van osten, who had just come out of his house. aldo saluted him respectfully, but van osten stood still and lit his cigar without appearing to notice the greeting. he found mrs. van osten alone, bare-shouldered, in black and diamonds. she was agitated and angry. "you are late!" she cried. "forgive!" he said, kissing her hand. she dragged it from him. "did you meet my husband?" "yes," said aldo. "did he see you?" "yes." "are you sure? are you sure?" and she breathed quickly. "yes." "he saw you? he saw you coming here and did not turn back----?" she stopped, and the narrow lips closed tightly. aldo looked at her, and thought her positively ugly. she looked like a small, tight, thin, crumpled edition of mrs. doyle. "little young prairie-chicken," said aldo to himself. but the butler came in with the coffee on a large silver tray, and the under-butler followed with the cream and sugar on another large silver tray. and the riches, the atmosphere of calm, powerful wealth, overcame aldo's soul; his senses swam in satisfaction, and he felt that, however thin and small and crumpled she might be, he yet could return the prairie-chicken's love. when the servants had left the room aldo felt that he ought to speak. after a while he remembered what, once or twice, he had done with acceptable success in italy when alone with a comparatively unknown woman. in a low voice he said: "what is your name?" mrs. van osten raised glassy eyes. he repeated: "i do not yet know your name." she took a sip of coffee, and said, very slowly and very clearly: "mrs.--van--osten." "no--not that name," he said. "your own name--your little name----" there was a slight noise in the hall, and the outer door closed. mrs. van osten heard it, and answered aldo quickly with excited eyes. "marjory," she said. aldo bent forward over his coffee-cup. "marjory?" he repeated softly. it succeeded. it succeeded far better than he had expected, or than it usually did. "say it again!" she said quickly. "i like to hear it. say it again. quick!" "marjory!" exclaimed aldo, bending nearer, just as the door opened and her husband came in. she turned to him at once. "oh, bertie! you have come back?" and she laughed. aldo looked at her. there was something in her voice and in her laugh that he knew. he had heard it in women's voices before. it was love. and love was in her eyes as she raised them to her husband's frowning face. then aldo understood what he was there for. and more than ever, as he looked at mr. van osten's powerful frame, did he realize that twenty dollars was little. he stayed only a short time, during which he was sad, and silent, and bitter. and mrs. van osten was pleased with his attitude. as he took his leave, he suddenly decided to show her that he had understood. "would you honour me by seeing 'tannhäuser' from my box at the opera to-morrow night?" a gleam shot at him from mrs. van osten's sly eye. her husband laid his large hand on his wife's bare shoulder. "we are engaged," he said. mrs. van osten put her head against his arm. "indeed, we are more than that, bertie," she said, looking up at him with an enamoured and rapturous smile. aldo bowed and withdrew. the next day was saturday. on his desk lay the mauve envelope, and in it was a hundred-dollar bill. "i shall not need you now for a month or two, i believe," said mrs. van osten wistfully. she had come over to his "office" early on the monday morning. "but"--and she sighed deeply--"i do not suppose the effect you have had upon my husband will last for ever." "nothing does last for ever," said aldo sententiously, seated before his desk. "then i shall send for you to come to the house again. meanwhile, you might hang round a little in a general way," said mrs. van osten. "you can send me flowers if you like. see that they are expensive ones. but don't come over often. if he once kicks you out, it will make everything impossible." "yes," said aldo. "ah!" sighed mrs. van osten; "why are such things necessary. why are men such beasts?" after a short pause aldo spoke respectfully in a subdued voice: "may i ask who _she_ is?" "you are impertinent," said mrs. van osten, "but i may as well tell you. everyone knows. it is madeline archer, that dancing minx. she has made half the wives in new york miserable!" aldo made a little sympathizing, clucking sound with his tongue. meanwhile his thoughts were quick and definite. "if," he said, as she rose to go, "any friend of yours, one of the wives you have just mentioned, wanted--er--would like--er--thought that i could assist...." "oh!" cried mrs. van osten, clasping her hands with peals of laughter, "you _are_ a daisy! oh, you take the pumpkin-pie! upon my word! you are the greatest ever!" and she laughed and laughed, rocking to and fro. aldo laughed too, glad to think he was so funny. "before you know where you are, you'll be opening a bureau--'first aid for neglected wives.' 'perfect jealousy-arouser of the careless or the cooling husband. diploma. references. moderate tariff. success guaranteed.'" "good idea!" said aldo, laughing. and in a way he meant it. she stopped laughing suddenly. "you won't turn out to be a blackmailer, will you?" "no," said aldo, looking at her straight from out of his beautiful eyes. "i believe you," she said, putting out her hand. "besides, mum, who knows a thing or two about human nature, said that you were a good, soft old thing. and now," she added, with solemnity, "for what you have done for me, and the way you've scared bertie into good behaviour, you may give me a kiss." she put up her narrow mouth, and aldo, laughing a little, kissed it. "... i'm glad i have kissed a count," said mrs. van osten, as she went down the stairs. viii it was a bright autumn day when valeria in milan received nancy's letter from new york, telling her about those first weeks of misery. valeria had an income of two hundred francs a month, which uncle giacomo, who kept her securities for her, paid to her punctually; and which she as punctually paid over to aunt carlotta for her board and lodging, reserving apologetically thirty or forty francs for her own small needs. on the day the letter arrived, valeria locked herself in her room, and went on her knees before guido reni's gipsy-faced madonna. the madonna must help nancy. she, valeria, must help nancy. uncle giacomo would give nothing that might fall into aldo's hands; carlo less than nothing; he would only reproach and recriminate. as for nino, he had nothing to give. aunt carlotta would possibly lend five hundred francs with great difficulty and many warnings. so valeria decided that she would raise some money from her own investments, and arrange to have a smaller income for a few years. nancy must have money. so valeria put on her hat and her black silk bolero coat with the lace jabot down the front, and brown kid gloves, and went out to face a stormy interview with zio giacomo. the interview was stormy. giacomo's temper shortened with his breath, and valeria was wrung with anguish lest his anger should harm him, and was rent with remorse when she had succeeded in obtaining what she wanted. she would not say what the money was for, because she knew that zio giacomo would oppose it, so she was mysterious and wilful, hinted at tragic possibilities, wept and warned, and finally left zio giacomo convinced that she had got herself into some serious financial scrape. "ah, these silly women," said zio giacomo, watching valeria tripping across the road, holding her violet leather handbag, her umbrella and her long skirts in confused hands. at one moment she was right under a horse's nose, but the driver pulled up suddenly, and the swerving carriage went on, carrying on its box a red-faced, head-shaking, remark-making, driver. "silly women!" said uncle giacomo again, and returned wrathfully to his desk. valeria went to a bank, where, after much confusionary explanation, and a quarter of an hour's waiting, she emerged with five thousand francs, and some silver and pence. her violet bag was fat with it all. "now," said valeria to herself, "i will go to cook's in the via manzoni, and change it into american money. or perhaps they can send it over in some other way." then she went along piazza del duomo, thinking of nancy. poor, penniless nancy! poor little helpless mother of the still more helpless anne-marie! "i wish tom were here to look after us all!" she said, stepping off the pavement to cross into via manzoni. if tom had been there he would have stopped her. he would have caught hold of her elbow, in the masterful way he always did when they crossed a street together, saying: "wait a minute." tom would have seen the tram-car coming rapidly from the right, and a carriage driving up from the left, and behind the carriage--oh, quite a distance off--a motor coming along smoothly and quickly. but tom, or what was left of tom, lay in nervi with folded hands, and nobody told valeria to wait a minute. so she stepped lightly off the pavement, holding her violet bag tightly in one hand, and her umbrella and her skirts in the other. she saw the tram-car coming from the right on the far side of the street, and thought she would run across and pass in front of it. she ran two steps, and then saw the carriage close to her, coming from the left. it was impossible to cross before it, so she stepped back quickly, very quickly, and the carriage passed. the driver's face was turned to her: was that anger in his face? what a mad, terrible face! he was screaming and gesticulating. what tempers people had in italy, thought valeria, for thought is rapid.... then something struck her in the back, and she thought no more. a moment's maddening roar and clamour and confusion, then utter stillness. ... valeria felt a cadenced, gently oscillating movement, and opened her eyes. she could see nothing. a grey linen roof was above her, grey linen walls around her. ah, the walls undulated, parted slightly, and let some light through. valeria could see parts of shops, and of houses, and people passing.... she was being carried through the streets. what was the matter with her mouth? she raised her hand in its brown kid glove and touched her mouth, and down along one side of it where she felt something unusual; her glove seemed not to touch her cheek but her teeth; then something hot and viscid ran into the palm of her hand and down her arm. a hand--was it hers?--fell on her breast. suddenly she remembered her violet bag, fat with money. where was it? she tried to say, "where is it? where is it? it is nancy's." she cried it out loud, but could hear only a muffled bubbling and blowing through her mouth. then oblivion. ... now she was in a small, light room. everything round her was light and white; she saw the ceiling first. it was of glass--white frosted glass. everything was white; the people were white, except their faces, which looked dark and yellow over their white clothes. one of the faces looked at her very near, then another. then a lighter face came with white wings round its head. valeria knew what that was, but could not remember. she thought she would smile at that face, and did so, but the face did not smile back. it continued looking at her closely, and she felt a hand touch her forehead and smooth back her hair. another face came, red, with bloodshot eyes, and someone took hold of her head and turned it. a voice said: "useless. but we can try." then a sound of running water. valeria put out her hand to stop it. immediately the winged face was bending over her. "yes, dear? yes, dear?" valeria thought she told her to stop the running water. but the winged face only nodded and smiled, and said: "that is a good, brave dear! we shall soon be better--soon be better." another face and a voice: "shall i wash this?" then something gushed over valeria's cheek and trickled, warm and salt, down her throat. something choked. then there was a pain, a pain somewhere in the room, a burning, maddening pain. a man's voice said: "leave alone. that's no use. look at this." valeria's head was turned round again, and she heard a crepitant sound as if her hair were being cut. running water again.... valeria's head lay sideways, and she could see the white-gowned back of a man washing his hands under a silver tap. she liked watching him. he turned round, shaking his wet hands in the air with his sleeves rolled back. it was he who had the red face and the bloodshot eyes, and a clipped grey moustache. he nodded to valeria as he saw her eyes open, and said: "that's good, that's right. a little patience." valeria smiled at him; she felt that her mouth did not move, so she blinked with her eyes, and the red face nodded back in friendly manner. someone held her wrist, and for a while everything was silent. again, again, a shooting, maddening pain. an exclamation, and then a word: "useless." valeria opened her eyes. she saw the white-winged woman's face with her eyes fixed on the red face, which was bending forward, and the two other faces were also bending over, looking down at something valeria could not see, for it was on her own pillow. then the red-faced man said: "useless," again. and the white-winged face moved its lips. "useless!" the word conveyed nothing clear to valeria's mind, but something in her body responded to the word. thump, thump, thump, her heart began to beat, loud and quick, louder and quicker, until it could be heard all over the room. thump, thump, thump, it rolled like a drum, and valeria turned her frightened eyes to the red face above her. she said to him: "stop my heart. stop my heart from beating like this." but the three men and the sister did not seem to hear. they stood quite still listening to it, and then valeria knew that she had not spoken. thud, thump; thud, thump; quicker and quicker, and valeria's eyes rolled wildly, imploring help. then the sister said to the surgeon: "oh, try! try, poor thing!" and again water rushed, and something was rolled stridently across the marble floor. "ether," said the surgeon. one of the yellow faces bent over her, and he had a dark net mask in his hand. he held it over her face. suddenly valeria was wide awake. she sat up with a shriek, and struck out at the yellow face and the mask. she saw the two doctors and the old surgeon, and the sister of charity. she spoke and her voice came. she wanted to say: "save me! save me!" but she heard herself saying: "i have time to cross!" then she tried to explain about the violet bag, and the money, but what she cried was: "nancy! nancy!" then the surgeon was angry with the man who held the mask, and turned on him with impatient words. but the sister stood over valeria, and made the sign of the cross above her. "lie down, dear, lie down," she said. so valeria lay down. thud, thump; thud, thump; thud, thump, rolled the drum of her heart. "now," said the surgeon, "you must be good. don't move! count! count to twenty." valeria struggled to get up. the black mask was near her face again. "now, dear, now!" said the sister's voice. "count: one--two--three----" "breathe deeply," said someone, and valeria did as she was told. then she remembered that she was to count. but she had lost time, so she felt she must begin further on. "... nine," she said, breathing deeply; "ten." she was on a swing--a large, wild swing in the air that swung her out in the sky and back through the wide, white air. "eleven, twelve," valeria felt that she must say thirteen quickly because--unlucky number--"thirteen ... fourteen...." the swing swung her out, flying through the air with a swoop and a sweep beyond all the mountains. the people around her seemed to be left far away, down in the little white room. they would never hear her voice from so far away. "fifteen!" she cried, shouting loud, loud, from afar. then the sweep of a gigantic wave swung her out into eternity. * * * * * "i knew it was useless," said the surgeon angrily. the face was covered, and the stretcher was wheeled away. an hour later zio giacomo, nino, and aunt carlotta came hurrying in, red-eyed and white-faced. it was over. aunt carlotta wrung her hands, and the sister consoled her, and assured her that there had been no suffering. "i want to see her," said aunt carlotta, sobbing. "no, no," said the sister. "don't." "don't!" said giacomo brokenly, the tears streaming down his face. nino said not a word, but went with one of the young doctors into the large bare room where two stretchers stood, each with a shrouded burden. "this one," said the doctor, he who had held the mask. nino saw, gasped, and turned away. aunt carlotta was being led in, supported by the sister. nino grasped her hand. "come away," he whispered; "come away at once." carlotta shook her head, her face buried in her handkerchief. "my sister's child! my sister's only child! i must close her eyes." nino went out. carlotta was led to the farther of the two stretchers. the cloth was lifted from valeria's face. then shriek after shriek resounded through the bare chill room, echoing through the wide corridors, reaching the patients lying selfish and sad in their wards. shriek after shriek. but the two quiet figures on the stretchers were not disturbed. valeria was buried in nervi near tom. ix when nancy in new york received the news of her mother's death she wore black instead of brown, and wept, and wept, and wept, as children weep for their mothers. then she wore brown again, and went on living for anne-marie, as mothers live for their children. they had left mrs. schmidl's kindly, dingy roof, and moved a little further away from the niggers, into a small flat in nd street. mrs. schmidl's niece, minna, came and did the housework, and took anne-marie for walks. anne-marie loved minna. anne-marie watched her with entranced gaze when she spoke to the tradesmen, and followed her from room to room when she swept and did the beds. minna wore low-necked collars, and a little black velvet ribbon round her neck, and pink beads. she was beautiful in anne-marie's sight, and anne-marie imitated as much as possible her manner, her walk, and her language. nancy could hear them talking together in the kitchen. minna's voice: "what did you have for your tea? a butter-bread?" and anne-marie's piping treble: "yes, two butter-breads mit sugar." minna: "that's fine! to-morrow tante schmidl makes a cake, a good one. we eat it evenings." "a cake--a good one!" echoed anne-marie. nancy's soul crumbled with mortification. she had taken out her manuscript, and it lay before her on the table once more. its broad pages were dear to her touch. they felt thick and solid. the tingling freshness of thought, the little thrill that always preceded the ripple and rush of inspiration, caught at her, and the ivory pen was in her hand. "a cake--a good one," repeated in the next room anne-marie, who liked the substantial german sound of that phrase. "oh, my little girl! my little girl! how will she grow up?" and nancy the mother took the ivory pen from nancy the poet's hand, and anne-marie was called and kept, and taught, for the rest of the day. during the months that followed, nancy played a game with her little daughter which, to a certain extent, was successful. "we will play that you are a little book of mine, that i have written. a pretty little book like andersen's 'märchen,' with the pictures in it. and in this book that i love----" "what colour is it?" asked anne-marie. "pink, and white, and gold," said nancy, kissing the child's shining hair. "well, in it, in the midst of the loveliest fairy-tale, somebody has come and written dreadfully silly, ugly words, like--like 'butter-bread.' i must take all those out, mustn't i? and put pretty words and pretty thoughts in instead. otherwise nobody will like to read the book." "no," said anne-marie, looking slightly dazed. "and will you put pictures in it?" "oh yes," said nancy. "and i wish i could put rhymes into it too." but that was not to be. long explanations about boy and toy--rain and pain--fly and cry--far and star--left anne-marie bewildered and cross. nancy coaxed and petted her. "just you say a rhyme! only one. now what rhymes with _day_?" no. anne-marie did not know what rhymed with day. "_play_, of course, my goosie dear! now what rhymes with _dear?_" "play," said anne-marie. "no; do think a little, sweetheart. with _dear!--dear?_" "vegetables?" asked anne-marie, who had spent many hours in frau schmidl's kitchen. nancy groaned. _"dear_!" she repeated again. _"darling!"_ cried anne-marie triumphantly, and was lifted up and embraced. "i wish you were a poet, anne-marie!" said her mother, pushing the fair locks from the child's level brow. "what for?" said anne-marie, wriggling. "poets never die," said nancy, thus placing a picture in the fairy-tale book. "then i'll be," said anne-marie, who knew death from having buried a dead kitten in the schmidls' yard, and dug it up a day or two after to see what it was like. but anne-marie was not to be a poet. in the little pink and white books that mothers think they create, the story is written before ever they reach the tender maternal hands. and anne-marie was not to be a poet. but nancy herself could not forget that fate had printed the seal of immortality upon her own girlish brow. she thought: "i cannot finish the book now. the book must wait until later on, when anne-marie does not need me every moment. but now, now i can write a cycle of child-poems on anne-marie." so she watched her little daughter through narrowed eyelids, throwing over the unconscious blonde head the misty veil of imagery, searching in the light blue eyes for the source of word and symbol, standing anne-marie like a little neoteric statue on the top of a sonnet, trying to fix her in some rare, archaic pose. but anne-marie was the child of her surroundings; anne-marie wore clothes of minna's cutting and fitting, and on her yellow head a flat pink cotton hat like a lid. anne-marie had spoken italian like a royal princess, but her german-american english was of th avenue and nd street. and anne-marie's pleasures were, as are those of every child, taken where she found them; for her no wandering in a shady garden, nursing an expensive, mellifluously-named doll. since the monte carlo "marguerite-louise," whose eyes, attached to two small lumps of lead now lay in a box on a shelf, anne-marie's dolls had been numerous but unloved. at mrs. schmidl's suggestion, and for economic motives, nancy had gone down town one day to a wholesale shop in lower broadway, where she had been able to buy "one dozen dolls, size nine, quality four, hair yellow, dress blue," for two dollars and seventy cents. the first of the dozen was the same evening presented to anne-marie. it was rapturously kissed; it was christened hermina--minna's name; its clotted yellow hair was combed; attempts were made to undress it, but as it did not undress, it was put to sleep as it was, and anne-marie went to bed carefully beside it. in due time hermina broke and died. what unbounded joy was anne-marie's when hermina herself, with the self-same azure eyes, clotted yellow hair, blue dress, angel smile, reappeared before her. she was rapturously kissed. in due time also this second hermina, legless, and with pendulous, dislocated head, was taken away from anne-marie's fond arms, and a new stiff hermina was produced, with clotted hair and angel smile renewed. anne-marie's eyes opened large and wide, and she drew a deep breath. with more amazement than love she accepted the third hermina, and did not kiss her. that hermina died quickly, and nancy, with a triumphant smile, produced a fourth. with a shriek of hatred anne-marie took her by the well-known painted boots, and hit the well-known face against the floor. the other eight were given to her at once, and were hit, and hated, and stamped upon. for many nights anne-marie's dreams were peopled with dead and resuscitated herminas--placid, smiling herminas with no legs; booted herminas with large pieces broken out of their cheeks; fearful herminas all right in the back, but with darksome voids where their faces ought to be under the clotted yellow hair. she would have no more dolls, and her pleasures were taken where she found them mainly in the kitchen. she liked to wash dishes, because she was not allowed to; and she could be seen whisking a kitchen-towel under her arm in the brisk, important manner of minna. she liked to see the butcher's man slap a piece of steak down on the table; and the laugh of the "coloured lady" who brought the washing was sweet in her ears. she also liked the piano that was played in the adjoining flat--the piano that drove nancy to distraction and despair whenever she tried to work. "rose of my spirit, fountain of my love, lilial blue-veinèd flower of my desire----" wrote nancy, trying not to hear the climpering next door. "minna! minna! what is that tune?" called anne-marie, jumping from her chair. "is it 'eastside, westside,' or 'paradise alley'?" "no, it ain't. it's 'casey would waltz.'" "oh, is it? sing it. do sing it, minna." and from the kitchen came minna's voice, a loud soprano: "casey would waltz with the strawberry blonde, and the band--played--on." then anne-marie's childish falsetto: "casey would waltz with the strawberry blonde, and the band--play--don." alas! even the cycle of child poems must wait until nancy could afford a larger apartment, and a governess for the "lilial blue-veinèd flower of her desire." there was no "stimmung" for lyrics in the left-top flat in nd street. aldo was at home a good deal during the day-time, yawning, reading the interminable sunday papers that lay about all the week, smoking cigarettes, and wishing they could afford this and that. in the evenings he went out. his work, it seemed, was to be done more in the evening than in the day-time, so he explained to nancy. he explained very little to nancy. once he had brought home one hundred dollars instead of twenty, but she had been so startled and aghast, so nervous and impatient to know how he had got it, and, above all, it had been so impossible to make her understand the subtleties of his duties to mrs. van osten, that he had finally declared it was simply a present for an extra important piece of work he had had to do. and the next time he received a hundred dollars--about three months afterwards, when more arduous duties once more developed upon him--he took eighty to the dime savings-bank, and brought the usual twenty dollars home. as soon as the little savings-bank book was placed in his hand, the caracciolo grandfather awoke in him again, and murdered the lazzarone who cared not for the morrow. he became heedful of little things, grudging of little expenses. the dingy flat was run on the strictest principles of economy, and when a dollar could be taken up the steps of the savings-bank and put away, he was happy. he had learned that by making deep, grateful eyes at minna over the accounts, she would keep expenses down to please him; and many were the lumps of sugar and bits of butter taken from mrs. schmidl's larder by minna's fat, pink hand and placed, sacrificial offerings, on the della roccas' shabby table. anne-marie's pink hats and minna-made frocks had to last through the seasons long after the "coloured lady" had washed every vestige of tint and vitality out of them, and they were a thorn in nancy's eye. nancy wore her pepper-and-salt dress day after day; it turned, and it dyed--black, and when it was no more, she got another like it. the days passed meanly and quickly. and nancy learned that one can be dingy, and sordid, and poverty-stricken, and yet go on living, and gently drift down into the habit of it, and hardly remember that things were ever otherwise. the evenings only were terrible. when minna had gone home, and anne-marie slept, and aldo had sauntered out to meet some italians, or had hurried in full evening-dress to his work, nancy sat drearily in the "parlour." from mantelpiece, shelf, and what-not photographs of unknown people, friends of mrs. johnstone, the landlady, gazed at her with faded faces and in obsolete attire; actresses in boy's clothes, and large-faced children; chinless young men in turned-down collars; mr. and mrs. johnstone in bridal attire; their first-born baby with no clothes on, now a clerk at macy's. hanging on the wall, with whitish eyes that followed nancy about, was the enlarged photograph of dead mr. johnstone, and nancy, in her loneliness, feared him. she covered him one evening with a table-cloth, but it was worse. when, on her arrival months ago, she had collected all these photographs and hidden them away in a closet, mrs. johnstone, who liked to drop in suddenly, had arrived, and looked round with a red face. "you don't want to do that," she had said, taking all the pictures out again and setting them up in their places. she also would not allow the large ornamental piano-lamp, that took up half the stuffy little room, to be moved. it had cost thirty-two dollars. so it stood there in the dark-carpeted, obscure parlour, and its yellow silk shade with the grimy white silk roses pinned on it was an outrage to nancy's pained gaze. one evening at bed-time anne-marie said to her mother: "i like the girl next door." "you do not know her, darling," said nancy. "oh yes, i do. i talked to her from the back-window." "what is her name?" said nancy, unfastening strings and buttons on her daughter's back. "oh, she told me--i don't know. a little dry name like a cough." nancy laughed and kissed the nape of anne-marie's neck, which was plump, and fair, and sweet to smell. at that moment the girl-neighbour knocked and came in, with a bear made of chocolate for anne-marie. her name--the dry name like a cough--was peggy. "i've just come in because i thought you seemed kind of lonesome," she said, looking round the parlour after anne-marie had been tucked in and left in the adjoining bedroom with the door ajar. she then told nancy that she worked in a hairdresser's shop down broadway, "mostly fixing nails." "sickening work," she added. "all those different hands i have to keep holding kind of turns me. especially women's!" nancy laughed. peggy offered to fix her nails for nothing, and after some hesitation nancy allowed her to do so. "my! you have hands quite like a lady," said peggy; and the cup of nancy's bitterness was full. nancy quickly changed the subject. "is it you who play the piano?" she asked. "no, my brother. he works in a shipping office. but he is great on music." at this point anne-marie's voice was heard from the adjoining room: "what is that piece that was lovely?" peggy laughed, but could not say which piece anne-marie meant. after a while she went to call her brother, who came in, lanky and diffident, and was introduced as "george." anne-marie kept calling from her room about the piece that was lovely, and finally the young man went back to his flat, leaving the doors open, and played all the pieces of his repertoire. but "the piece that was lovely" was not among them. peggy and nancy said: "she probably dreamt it." but anne-marie cried "no, no, no!" at the first note of every piece that was started. at last she wept, and was naughty and rude, and the bear's hindlegs, which she had not yet eaten, were taken away from her. peggy and george were very friendly, and promised to call again. they lived alone. their parents had a sheep ranch in dakota. "rotten place," said george. "new york is good enough for me." and they shook hands and left. after that, when mr. johnstone frightened nancy more than usual, she knocked at the wall in anne-marie's room with a hair-brush, and peggy came in, and spent a friendly evening with her. sometimes george came, too, and read the magazine supplements of the sunday papers aloud. george read all the poems. "he's a great one for poetry," said his sister. george passed his manicured fingers through his thin hair, and looked self-conscious. "i guess all the real poets are dead long ago," he said. "i fear so," said nancy. "mamma!" came anne-marie's voice, distinct and wide-awake, through the half-open door. "yes, dear," said nancy. "good-night." "mamma!" cried anne-marie. "come here." nancy rose and went to her. anne-marie was sitting up in bed. "what did he say?" nancy did not know. "he said the poets were dead. all the real ones. you said poets could never die." nancy sat down on the bed, and pressed the little fair head to her heart. "i will tell you about that to-morrow," she said. "and you must not listen to what is said in another room. it is not honourable." after a long explanation of what "honourable" meant, nancy rose and kissed her. "you had better shut the door," said anne-marie. "one can't be honourable if one can be not." so the door was closed. early next morning anne-marie inquired about the poets. "well," said nancy, who had forgotten about it, and was taken unawares. she spoke slowly, making up her story as she went on, and trying to put another picture in the little book of anne-marie's mind. "once the world was full of roses, and poets lived for ever." "yes," said anne-marie. "then one day some people said to god: 'there are too many useless things in the world. roses, for instance. we could do without them, and have vegetables instead.' so god took away the roses. and all the poets died." "what of?" "of silence," said nancy. "they died because they had nothing more to say." anne-marie looked very sad. nancy made haste to comfort her. "then god put a few roses back, for little anne-maries who don't like vegetables (which is very naughty of them, because they do one good), and so also a few poets came back into the world." "but not the real ones?" "well, not quite real ones, perhaps," said nancy. "then what is the good of them?" asked anne-marie. nancy could not say. nancy could not say what was the good of not quite real poets. but for that matter, what was the good of the real ones? what was the good of anything? nancy's thoughts went in drooping file to her own work. what was the good of writing a book? "i need not have written any story at all," she said to herself. perhaps that is what god will say when the dead worlds come rolling in at his feet, at the end of eternity. x poverty and loneliness pushed nancy along the dreary year, and she went in her brown dress, with her heels worn down at the side, through the autumn and the winter. aldo was away for weeks at a time, and although he seemed in good humour when he was at home, and dressed elaborately, he was always parsimonious in the house, warning against rashness and expense. anne-marie went to a kindergarten, where the grocer's children, and the baker's children, and the milkman's children went, and she liked them, and they liked her. and now april was here. where it could, it pushed and penetrated; through the trestles of the elevated railroads it spilt its sunshine on the ground. and it ran into the open window of the nd street flat, and stretched its sweetness on the faded yellow silk of the hated lampshade. to nancy, who was moping in her dingy brown dress, april said: "go out." so she put on her hat, and went out. and, having no reason to turn to the right, she turned to the left, and after a few blocks, having no reason to turn to the left, she turned to the right, and ran straight into a little messenger-boy, who was coming round the corner carrying some flowers in tissue-paper, and whistling. some trailing maidenhair escaping from the paper caught in her dress, and broke off. "i am sorry," she said. "can't yer use yer eyes!" said the boy rudely. then april said to nancy: "smile!" and she smiled, dimpling, and said again: "i am sorry." the boy looked at her, and turned his tongue round in his mouth; then he sniffed, and said: "here you are! this is for you." he pushed the bunch of flowers into nancy's hand, then turned back, and went round the corner again, whistling. nancy ran after him, but he ran quicker, looking round every now and then and laughing at her. when he turned another corner nancy stood with the flowers in her hand, wondering. she opened the paper a little at the top, and looked in. mauve orchids and maidenhair--a bouquet for a queen. she walked slowly back to her house, carrying the flowers in front of her with both hands, and their idle beauty and extravagant loveliness lifted her prostrate spirit above the dust around her. she went to her room with them, avoiding minna, who was clattering dishes in the kitchen, and, locking her door, sat down near the bed. she drew the tissue-paper away, and the fairy-like flowers, scintillant and bedewed, nodded at her. in their midst lay a letter, with the crest of a transatlantic steamship on the envelope. she opened it with timid hands. "dear unknown in the pale blue dress, "i am sending this to you as a child sends a walnut-shell boat sailing down a river. where will it go to? whom will it reach? i am leaving america to-day. by the time you read this--are you smiling with wondering eyes? or is your mouth grave, and your heart subdued?--i shall be throbbing away to europe on board the _lusitania_, and we shall probably never meet. but i am superstitious. as i drove down to the steamer just now the words that are often in my mind when i travel sprang with loud voices to my ear: "'dort wo du nicht bist, dort ist dein glück.' "do you know german? "'there _where thou art not_, is thy happiness.' "i am leaving america because i hate it, and have never been happy here; probably my happiness was meanwhile in europe, or asia, or australia. but what, now that i am going to europe, if my happiness were in america after all? what if i were driving away from it, taking ships and sailing from it, catching trains and leaving it behind? i stopped the cab, and got these flowers on chance. "the steward has called a messenger, an impish boy with a crooked mouth. he stands here waiting. "i look at him, and like to think that you will see him too. but you? how shall we find you, the flowers, and my heart, and the messenger-boy? "i shall tell him to stop the first girl he meets who is dressed in light blue. that is you. and i reason that if you wear a light blue dress you must be young; and if you are young you are happy; and if you are happy you are kind; and if you are kind you will write to me, who am a lonely, crabbed, and crusty man. "my address is the métropole, london. "robert beauchamp leese." nancy placed the letter on the bed beside the flowers; she sat a long time, with folded hands, looking at them. they brought but one message to her eyes that were vexed with shabbiness, to her soul that was shrunk by privation--riches. they belonged to another sphere. they had come up the wrong street, into the wrong house. if they could have life and motion they would rise quickly--nancy could imagine them--lifting dainty skirts and tripping hurriedly out from the sordid flat. nancy laid her cheek near to the delicate petals, and her hand on the letter. her fancy played with an answer--an answer that should startle him, surprise him. "how shall i hold you, fix you, freeze you, break my heart at your feet to please you!..." yes, she could quote browning to him, and heine; she could paint a fantastic picture of her light blue gown, against which the mauve orchids melted in divine dissonance of colour; she would be wearing with it a large black hat, with feathers curving over a shading velvet brim.... she sighed, and went to the rickety bamboo-table, where the inkstand stood on a cracked plate, and the ivory pen lay in demoralized familiarity, with a red wooden penholder belonging to anne-marie. on the cheap notepaper which she used when she wrote to borrow a saucepan from mrs. schmidl, or to ask mrs. johnstone to wait until next week, she wrote: "dear sir, "the wrong girl got your letter. i was dressed in _brown_." she did not sign her name, but she read his letter over again, and, seeing that he was lonely, and crabbed, and crusty, she added her address. he answered to "miss '_brown_'" at the address she had given him, and he began his letter: "dear wrong girl, write to me again." and she wrote back to say that indeed she would not dream of writing to him. he replied thanking her, and asking if she were not the miss brown he had met on board ship sixteen years ago, who had been so kind and maternal to him, and had then had smallpox so badly. he hoped and believed she was that miss brown. nancy felt that she must tell him she was not that miss brown. and she did so. and there the correspondence ended. at least, so she told herself as she ran up the stairs after posting her letter at the corner of the street. she was alone that evening, as so often. the piano-lamp was lit. the little china clock on the mantelpiece ticked time away like a hurrying heart, and nancy suddenly realized that life was passing quickly, and that she was not living. she was shut up in the dusky little flat with mr. johnstone, and was as dead as he. a fierce excitement overcame her suddenly, like a gust of wind, like a flame of fire--regret for her wasted talents, resentment against her fate, hatred of the poverty that was crippling and maiming and crushing her. what was she doing? was she asleep? was she drugged? was she dreaming? what had come over her that she could let herself drift down into the nameless obscurity, the sullen ignominy of despair? when midnight struck, nancy leaped from her chair as one who is called by a loud voice. life was rushing past her; she would wake, and go too. some old french verses came into her head about "la belle" who wanted to enter the "blue garden"; who passed it in the morning, and looked in through the open gates. "la belle qui veut, la belle qui n'ose, cueillir les roses du jardin bleu." and she passed at noon, and looked in through the open gates: "la belle qui veut, la belle qui n'ose, cueillir les roses du jardin bleu." in the evening she said: "now i will enter." but she found that the gates were closed. "la belle qui veut, la belle qui n'ose, cueillir les roses du jardin bleu." some characters evolve slowly, by imperceptible gradations, as a rose opens or a bird puts on its feathers. but nancy broke through her chrysalis-shell in an hour. from one day to the next the gentle, submissive nancy was no more; the passive, childlike soul clothed in the simplicity of genius died that night--for no other reason but that her hour had come--drifted off, perhaps, in the little dreamboat of her childhood, where baby bunting sat at the helm waiting for her. and together they went back, afloat on the darkness, to the isle of what is no more. * * * * * "dear unknown, "you are very persistent. is it not enough to know who i am not, that you needs must want to know who i am? what's in a name? a woman by any other name would be as false. "then call me, if call me you will, by the sweeping, impersonal, fragile name of eve. and picture me as eve, with the serpent coiled round her neck like a boa, and the after-glimmer of a lost paradise in her tranquil eyes. the tranquil eyes are blue, under dark hair. "what! more questions? yes, i am young--not disconcertingly so. and good-tempered--not monotonously so. and almost pretty--not distractingly so. "and i write to you, not because i am temerarious, but because the month is april and the time is twilight. and you are the unknown." the unknown answered. and she wrote to him again. she put all her fancies and all her phrases into the letters. she wrote him lies and truth. she described herself to him as she thought she was not--but as perhaps she really was. in her letters she was a spoilt butterfly, whirling through life with vivid wings. as she wrote she grew to resemble the girl she wrote about. she borrowed money from peggy and from george, who had fallen in love with her. she would pay it back some day. she bought clothes, and ran up debts, and signed notes, and resorted to expedients. all the cleverness that should have gone into her book she used in her everyday life to wrench herself free from the poverty that was choking her. "nothing matters! nothing matters!" only to get out of the mire and the mud--to lift little anne-marie out of the hideous surroundings, to stand her up safe and high in the light, out of reach of the sordid struggle. one day--a chilly afternoon in may--aldo did not come home. minna had gone to fetch anne-marie from school, when a messenger rang and gave nancy a sealed letter. in it aldo said the chance of his life had come, and that he could not throw it aside--no! for her own sake, and for the child's, he would not do so. he thought not of himself. his thwarted ambitions, his warped talents, his stifled nature, had cried for a wider horizon. but not for this was he taking so grave a step. one day she would know how he was sacrificing himself for her sake. and he would open his arms, and she would fall on his breast and thank him. (here was a blur--where aldo's tear had fallen.) and he enclosed five hundred dollars. she was to be careful, as five hundred dollars was a large sum--two thousand five hundred francs. and she might take a smaller flat, and pay minna eight dollars a month instead of ten. and she had better not write about this to italy, as probably in a few months' time everything would be explained, and now farewell, and the saints protect them! and she was to pray for him. and he was for ever her unhappy aldo. the messenger had darted off as soon as she had signed his receipt, and nancy sat down, rigid and dazed, with her letter and the five-hundred-dollar bill in her hand. aldo was not coming back. aldo had left her and the child to struggle through life alone. all that day she carried her heart cold and stern as a rock in her delicate breast. in the evening she went into his room. true, it was a mean and miserable room. everything in it--from the small window that looked out on a dark, damp wall to the torn carpet, from the crooked folding-bedstead to the broken piece of mirror leaning against the wall on the narrow mantelpiece--everything was horrible, everything was good to get away from. nancy looked round, and pity drove the stinging tears to her eyes. poor aldo! what had aldo had, after all, to come home to? not love. for the love that would have carried them through and over such wretchedness was not in nancy's heart. her love for him had been all for his beauty; her love had been a delicate, sensitive, blow-away creature, half ghost, half angel, whom to wound was to kill. and fate had amused itself by throwing bricks and bats at it, choking it under mountains of ugliness, kicking it through crowded streets, dragging it up squalid stairs.... when nancy drew the sheet from its face, she saw that it had been dead a long time. and she was sorry for aldo. she pulled his trunk out from under the bed, and remorsefully and compassionately put all his things into it--his books, his broken comb and cheap brushes, his old patent-leather shoes that he wore about the house instead of slippers, some packets of cigarettes. when she opened his dark cupboard, and saw that all the new clothes had been taken away, she smiled with a little sigh, and remembered how pale he had looked when he said good-bye that morning. how had he got those five hundred dollars to give her? she knelt down suddenly beside the open trunk, and said a prayer for him, as he had wished her to do. when she rose and shut the trunk, she shut in it the memory of aldo, that was not to be with her any more. anne-marie hardly noticed her father's absence, talking of him occasionally in the airy, detached manner of children; but minna went for a week with red eyes and swollen face. and after a while the accounts rose with a rush. nancy paid all her debts, bought some clothes, and gave mrs. johnstone notice. she engaged a suite in a fashionable boarding-house on lexington avenue. peggy and george stayed with her the last day in the flat, and helped her with her packing; but in the evening they went back to their rooms, for they were expecting a friend--mr. markowski, a pole--who was to come and make music with george. anne-marie was asleep, and nancy sat down in the denuded room where everything belonging to her had already been put away. the dead mr. johnstone looked sadly at her, and even the piano-lamp was bland and dulcet, shining on the roses that george had brought her. the postman's double knock startled her, and she received from his hand a letter. aldo? no. it came from england, and was addressed to "miss brown." she called the grinning postman in, and gave him half a dollar. thank you. he would see that all them "miss brown" letters and any others were brought to her new address. she opened the letter; the large, well-known handwriting was pleasant to her eyes. the little crest of the grand hotel spoke to her of cheerful, well-remembered things. she seemed to look through its round gold ring as through an opera-glass, that showed her far-away things she knew and loved. "hotel métropole." she imagined the brilliantly lit lounge, the gaily-gowned, laughing women rustling past with the leisurely, well-groomed men; the soft-footed, obsequious waiters; the ready, low-bowing porter; the willing, hurrying pageboys; and beyond the revolving glass doors london, bright, brilliant, luxurious, rolling to its pleasures. she sat down and answered the unknown's letter: "the room is closed and warm and silent. the lamp and the fire give a mellow glow to the heavy old-rose curtains, and to the soft-tinted arabesques on the carpet. some large pale roses are leaning drowsily over their vase, and dreaming their scented souls away. "i am smoking a russian cigarette (with a _soupçon_ of white heliotrope added to its fragrance), and writing to you. "my unknown friend! are you worthy of companionship with the scent of my roses and the smoke of my cigarette--such delicate, unselfish things?..." a piercing cry from the adjoining room made nancy leap from her chair. penholder in hand, she rushed into anne-marie's room. the child, a slip of white, was standing on her bed, pale of cheek, wild of eye, one hand extended towards the wall. her tumbled hair stood yellow and flame-like round her head. "listen!" she gasped--"listen!" and nancy stopped and listened. clearly and sweetly through the wall came the voice of a violin. then the piano struck in, accompanying the "romance" of svendsen. anne-marie stood like a little wild prophetess, with her hand stretched out. then she whispered: "it is the lovely piece--the lovely piece that he could not remember!" "it is a violin, darling," said nancy, and sat down on the bed. but anne-marie was listening, and did not move. nancy drew the blanket over the little bare feet, and put her arm round the slight, nightgowned figure. the last long-drawn note ended; then anne-marie moved. she covered her face with her hands and began to cry. "why do you cry, darling--why do you cry?" asked nancy embracing her. anne-marie's large eyes gazed at nancy. "for many things--for many things!" she said. and nancy for the first time felt that her child's spirit stood alone, beyond her reach and out of her keeping. "is it the music, dear?" anne-marie held her tight, and did not answer. nancy coaxed her back to bed, and soon tucked her up and left her. but the door between them was kept wide open, and the sound of grieg's "berceuse" and handel's "minuet" reached nancy at her table, and helped her to add fantastic details to her letter. the next morning they moved to the boarding-house in lexington avenue. they did not see george, who had already gone down-town to his shipping office; but peggy helped them into the carriage, and with minna ran up and down the stairs after forgotten parcels. "what's wrong with the kiddy? she don't look festive," said peggy, handing a hoop and a one-legged policeman, survivor of the schmidl's punch-and-judy show, into the carriage to anne-marie. "your music yesterday excited her very much," said nancy. "she liked the violin." "oh, that was markowski. he's a funny old toad," said peggy; and she got on to the carriage-step to kiss anne-marie. but anne-marie covered her face, and turned her head away. she seemed to be crying, and peggy winked at nancy, and said; "she's a queer little kid." and nancy said, "she does not like good-byes." then minna got into the carriage with the cage of anne-marie's waltzing mice, for she was going to the boarding-house with them to help unpack. "good-bye! au revoir! come and see us soon!"... the carriage rumbled off. minna had counted and recounted on her fingers how many things they had, and how many things they had forgotten, when anne-marie raised her red face from her hands. "i _do_ like good-byes," she said. "but why did she say an old toad did the music?" nancy comforted her, and said it did not matter, and they were going to a nice, nice, nice new house. the nice new house was expecting them, and a cheeky, pimply german page-boy took their packages up. he was rough with the hoop and the policeman, and held his nose as he carried up the waltzing mice. but the room they were to have was large and sunny, and everything was bright. they went down to luncheon, and sat down at a table with many strangers. anne-marie, who thought it was a party, was very shy in the beginning and very noisy at the end of the meal. the boarders were the kith and kin of all boarding-house guests. there was the silent old gentleman and the loud young man; the estimable couple that kept themselves to themselves; and the lady with the sulphur-coloured hair who did not keep herself to herself. there was the witty man and the sour woman; there were the ill-behaved children, that quarrelled all day and danced skirt-dances in the drawing-room at night; and their ineffectual mother and harassed father. there was also the frenchman, the two swedish girls, and the german lady. the german lady sat opposite nancy, and, having looked at her and at anne-marie once, continued to do so at intervals all during lunch. every time nancy raised her eyes she met those of the german lady fixed upon her. they were kindly, inquisitive brown eyes behind glasses. nobody spoke to nancy at luncheon, the sulphur-haired lady and the witty man talking most of the time of their own affairs and their opinion of sarah bernhardt. nancy was kept busy telling anne-marie in italian not to stare at the two little girls, who seemed to fascinate her by their execrable behaviour. in the evening nancy went down to dinner alone. after the soup the german lady spoke to her. "i hope the little girl is quite well," she said, nodding towards the empty place near nancy. "oh yes, thank you. she has early supper and goes to bed." "that is english habit," said the german lady. "were you in england?" "when i was a child," said nancy. then the fish came; and always nancy felt the brown eyes behind the glasses fixed on her face. at the mutton the german lady spoke again: "i heard you speak italian," she said. "are you from _il bel paese ove il sì suona_?" nancy laughed and said: "my mother was italian. my father was english. i was born in davos, in switzerland." for some unaccountable reason the german lady flushed deeply. she did not speak again until the sago pudding had gone round twice and the fruit once--very quickly. "you speak german?" she said. "i had a german governess," said nancy. again the german lady's smooth cheeks flushed. then every one rose and went into the drawing-room, and nancy went to her room and wrote to the unknown. "you ask me to talk about myself. nothing pleases me better; for i am selfish and subjective. "i am a gambler. i went to monte carlo some time ago. oh, golden-voiced, green-eyed roulette! i gambled away all my money and all the money of everyone else that i could lay hands on. i laid hands on a good deal. i have rather pretty hands. "i am a dreamer. i have wandered out in deserted country roads dreaming of you, my unknown hero, and of uhland's mysterious forests, and of maeterlinck's lost princesses, until i could feel the warmth welling up at the back of my eyes, which is the nearest approach to tears that is vouchsafed me. "i am a heathen. i have a hot, unruly worship for everything beautiful, man, woman, or thing. i believe in joy; i trust in happiness; i adore pleasure. "i am a savage--an overcivilized, hypercultivated savage with some of the growls and the hankerings after feathers still left in him. i adore jewels. i have some diamonds--diamonds with blue eyes and white smiles--as large as my heart. no, no! larger! i wear them at all seasons and everywhere; round my throat, my arms, my ankles, all over me! i like men to wear jewels. if ever i fall in love with you, i shall insist upon your wearing rings up to your finger-tips. do not protest, or i will _not_ fall in love with you. "i am feminine; over- and ultra-feminine. i wear nothing but fluffinesses--trailing, lacey, blow-away fluffinesses, floppy hats on my soft hair, and flimsy scarves on my small shoulders. i have no views. i belong to no clubs. i drink no cocktails--or, when i do, i make delicious little grimaces over them, and say they burn. they _do_ burn! i smoke russian cigarettes scented with white heliotrope, because surely no man would dream of doing such a sickening thing. "i am careless; i am extravagant; i am lazy--oh, exceedingly lazy. i envy la belle au bois dormant, who slept a hundred years. until prince charming.... "good-bye, prince charming. "eve." xi the next day at luncheon the german lady stared again, and looked away quickly. anne-marie asked her mother: "what is irish stew when he is alive?" nancy smiled and dimpled. then the german lady, who had seen the dimple and the smile, said in a sudden, loud voice, over which she had no control: "is your name nancy?" nancy looked up with a start. "yes!" she said. and everyone was silent. "my name is fräulein müller," said the german lady, taking a pink-edged handkerchief from her pocket and making ready for tears. "fräulein müller! fräulein müller!" said nancy dreamily. "you read uhland to me, and lenau, and ... 'shine out little head sunning over with curls.'" then fräulein müller wept in her handkerchief, and nancy rose from her seat and went round and kissed her. then it was fräulein müller's turn to get up and go round and kiss anne-marie; whereupon the sulphur-haired lady remarked how small the world was; and the witty man said they would next discover that he and she were brother and sister, and had she not a strawberry mark on her left shoulder? after lunch fräulein müller asked nancy to her room, and she held anne-marie on her lap, and had to say the baby rhyme, "da hast du 'nen thaler, geh' auf den markt" about fifty times, with the accompanying play on anne-marie's pink, outstretched palm, before she was allowed to talk to nancy. then she told them all about the years she had passed in an american family after leaving the grey house, and about the little house she had just rented on staten island--a tiny little house in a garden, where she was going to live for the rest of her life. she was furnishing it now, and it would be ready next week. "you must come to see it. you must stay with me there," said fräulein müller, looking for a dry spot on the sodden handkerchief. "oh, meine kleine nancy! my little genius! und was ist mit der poesie?" the following week fräulein müller left lexington avenue for her "gartenhaus," as she called it, and three days later nancy and anne-marie went to stay with her for a fortnight. "what for an education has the child?" inquired the old governess, when anne-marie had been put to bed after a day of wonders. what? strawberries grew on plants? anne-marie had always thought they came in baskets. "she seems to know nothing," said fräulein müller. "i tried her with a little arithmetic. did she know the metric system? oh yes, she said she did, and wanted to speak about something else. but i kept her to it," said fräulein sternly, "and asked her: 'what are millimetres?' do you know what the child said? she said that she supposed they were relations of the centipedes!" nancy laughed, and told fräulein müller about the sixth avenue school. fräulein clasped horrified hands. "i will educate her myself. i suppose she is also a genius." "no, i am afraid not," said nancy, shaking her head regretfully. "i wish she were!" the two women were silent; and from the little bedroom upstairs, through the open window, came anne-marie's voice, like tinkling water. "she is singing," said fräulein müller. "oh yes; she always sings herself to sleep. she likes music." and nancy told her about the violin. "we shall buy her a violin to-morrow," said fräulein müller. and so she did. the violin was new and bright and brown; it was labelled "guarnerius," and cost three dollars. anne-marie pushed the bow up and down on it with great pleasure for a short time. then she became very impatient, and took it out into the garden, and looked for a large stone. "... it made ugly voices at me," she said, standing small and unrepentant by the broken brown pieces, while fräulein müller and nancy shook grieved heads at her. "i do not think that music is her vocation after all," said fräulein müller. "but we shall see." xii "good-morning, my tenebrious unknown. i am in the country, perched up on a stone wall with nothing in sight but vague, distant hills and sleepy fields. queer insects buzz in the sun, and make me feel pale. i dread buzzing insects with a great shivery dread. "why are you not here? i am wearing a large straw hat with blue ribbons, and a white dress and a blue sash, like the _ingénue_ in a drawing-room comedy. and there is no one to see me. and the fields are full of flowers, and i pick them, and have no one to give them to. surely it is the time in all good story-books when the heroine in a white dress and blue sash is sitting on a wall for prince charming to pass and see her, and stop suddenly.... but life is a badly constructed novel; uninteresting people walk in and walk out, and all is at contra-tempo, like a brahms hungarian dance. "prince charming, why have you gone three thousand miles away?" * * * * * "good-morning again. "this is a divine day--cool winds and curtseying grasses. "i am still here, living on herbs and sunsets and memories of things that have not been. you are a thing that has not been. perhaps that is why you are so much in my thoughts. i have many friends whom i seldom think of. i have a few lovers whom i never think of. and i have you who are nothing, and whom i always think of. it is absurd and wonderful. "my lovers! you ask me who they are and why i have them. i have them because they make me look pretty. i look pretty when i laugh. a woman's beauty depends entirely upon how much she is loved. did you not know that? the best 'fard pour la beauté des dames' is other people's adoration. "my lovers therefore have their use, but they are not entertaining. they are uniformly sad or angry. yet i am good to my lovers. i let them trot in and out of their tempers like nice tame animals that nobody need mind. i do not require them to perform in public; i sit and watch their innocent tricks with kind and wondering eyes. "et vous, mon prince charmant? what of you? who are you making to look prettier? whose cheeks are you tinting? whose eyes are you brightening? whose heart are you making to flutter by the hurry of yours? who smiles and dimples and blushes for your sake? i suppose you are falling in love with your fair countrywomen--tall, tennis-playing english girls, with cool, unkissed mouths and white, inexperienced hands. ah, prince charming, whom do you love? "eve." he replied: "you have spoken. whom do i love? eve." she was glad. she lived a life of fevered joy. she was not nancy. she was the girl in the letters; and the girl in the letters was a wild, unfettered, happy creature. nothing seemed sweeter to her than this subtle _amor di lontano_--this love across the distance. ah, how modern and piquant and recherché! and, again, how thirteenth-century! was it not jaufré rudel, the poet-prince, who had loved the unseen countess melisenda for so many years? "amore di terra lontana, per voi tutto il core mi duol," and who at last, coming to her, had died at her feet? could they not also love each other across the distance, wildly and blindly, without the aid of any one of their senses? surely that was the highest, the divinest, the most perfect way of love! so nancy lived her dream, and tossed the tender little love-letters across the ocean with light hands. * * * * * "cher inconnu, "i write to you because it is raining and the sky is of grey flannel. you will say that i wrote to you yesterday because the weather was fine and the sky was of blue silk. "ah, dear unknown! it is true. you have grown into my life, like some strange, startling modern flower, out of place, out of season, yet sweet to my unwondering eyes. you are a black and white flower of words, growing through your brief wild letters into the garden of my heart. "what a garden, mon ami! what a growth of weeds! what a burst of roses! what a burgeoning of cabbages! an unnatural, degenerate garden, where the trees carry _marrons glacés_ and the flowers are scented with patchouli. "into this luxuriance of perversity, this decadent brilliance of vegetation, you have blossomed up, strange and new, for the delight of my soul. that you should say you love me, you who have never seen me, is sweeter perfume to my sated senses than the incense of all the thousand seraph-flowers that bow and swing at my feet. "good-bye. my name is nancy." to this letter he replied by cable: "nancy, come here at once." "'come here at once!' the arrogant words go with a shock of pleasure to my heart. i am unused to the imperative; nobody has ever bullied me or told me to do this and that. i think i like it. i like being meek and frightened, and having to obey. "'come here at once!' i find myself timidly looking round for my hat and gloves, and wondering whether i shall wear my blue or my grey dress on the journey. i am nice on journeys. i am good-tempered, and wear mousie-coloured clothes that fit well, and i have a small waist. all this is very important in travelling, and makes people overlook and forgive the many, many small packages i carry into the compartment, and the hatboxes i lose, and the umbrellas i forget. when i am tired i can put my head down anywhere and go to sleep; i sleep nicely and quietly and purrily, like a cat. "i am really very nice on journeys. also i am very popular with useful people, like conductors and porters and guards. they take care of me and give me advice, and open and shut my windows, and lock my compartments even when it does not matter; and they bring me things to eat, and run after all the satchels and parcels i leave about. "your last letter says you are going to switzerland. how nice! i should like to be with you, throbbing away on excitable little channel steamers, puffing along in smoky, deliberate continental trains, driving the bell-shaking horses slowly up the wide white roads that coil like wind-blown ribbons round the swelling breasts of the alps; table-d'hôting at st. moritz; tennis-playing at maloya; clattering and rumbling over the covered bridges near splügen; wandering through the moonlike sunshine of sufer's pine-forest, where beady-eyed squirrels stop and look, and then scuttle, tail flourishing, up the trees. i am friends with every one of those squirrels. greet them from me. "nancy." * * * * * new york. "amor mio di lontano, "i am in the city again the horrible, glaring, screaming city, all loud and harsh in the uncompromising july sun. how i long to-day for the shade of the closed italian houses, the friendly, indrawn shutters, the sleeping silence of the empty streets, and, far-off, the cerulean sweep of the mediterranean! "and a new lover at my side! a brand-new lover, whose voice would sound strange to my ears, whose eyes i had not fathomed, whose feelings i did not understand, whose thoughts i could only vaguely and wrongly guess at, whose nerves would respond strangely, like an unknown instrument, to the shy touch of my hand. "your letter is brought to me. written at the hotel bellevue, andermatt. _andermatt!_ how cool and buoyant and scintillant it sounds. it falls on my heart like a snowflake in the humid heat of this town. "i have opened the letter. what? only three words! "again: 'come at once.' again the words, with their brief, irresistible imperiousness, thrill my lazy soul. "if you write it a third time ... by all that is sweet and unlikely, i shall come! "will you be glad? will you kiss my white hands gratefully? shall we be simple and absurd and happy? or shall we fence and be brilliant, antagonistic, keen-witted? no matter! no matter! the fever of my heart will be stilled. my eyes will see you and be satisfied." * * * * * a cablegram to andermatt. reply paid. (money borrowed from fräulein müller.) "dreamt that you had long black beard. tell me that not true.--nancy." reply from andermatt: "not true. come at once." * * * * * nancy did not go at once. she had no money to go with; and, of course, she never intended to go at all. he wrote: "will you meet me in lucerne?" and she replied: "impossible." he: "i shall expect you in interlaken." she: "out of the question." he: "i shall be in london in october. after that i am off to peru." so in september she wrote to him again. "i lay awake last night dreaming of our first meeting. it will be framed in the conventional luxury of a little sitting-room in a grand hotel. it will be late in the afternoon--late enough to have the pretty pink-shaded lights lit, like shining fairy-tale flowers, all over the room. then a knock at the door. and you will come into my life. what then, what then, dear unknown? my hands will lie in yours like prisoned butterflies; my wilfulness and my courage, my flippancy and effrontery will throb away, foolishly, weakly, before your eyes. what then? will convention guide the steed of our destiny gently back into the well-kept stables of the common-place? or shall we take the reins into our own hands, and lash it rearing and foaming over the precipice of the forbidden, down into the flaming depths of passionate happiness? "good-bye. of course i shall not come." xiii fräulein müller came to town three times a week and taught anne-marie arithmetic and geography. of arithmetic anne-marie understood little; of geography no word. she pointed vaguely with a ruler at the map, and said: "skagerrack and kattegat," which were the words whose sounds pleased her most. "the child is not at all a genius," said fräulein müller, much depressed. one day george and peggy came to visit them at the boarding-house. and with them they brought mr. markowski and his violin. in the drawing-room after tea nancy asked the shy and greasy-looking hungarian to play: and the fiddle was taken tenderly out of its plush-lined case. markowski was young and shabby, but his violin was old and valuable. markowski had a dirty handkerchief, but the fiddle had a clean, soft white silk one. markowski placed a small black velvet cushion on his greasy coat-collar, and raised the violin to it; he adjusted his chin over it, raised his bow, and shut his eyes. then markowski was a god. do you know the hurrying anguish of grieg's f dur sonata? do you know the spluttering shrieks of laughter of bazzini's "ronde des lutins"? the sobbing of the unwritten tzigane songs? the pattering of wing-like feet in ries's "perpetuum mobile?" little anne-marie stood in the middle of the room motionless, pale as linen, as if the music had taken life from her and turned her into a white statuette. ah, here was the little neoteric statue that nancy had tried to fix! the child's eyes were vague and fluid, like blue water spilt beneath her lashes; her colourless lips were open. nancy watched her. and a strange dull feeling came over her heart, as if someone had laid a heavy stone in it. what was that little figure, blanched, decolorized, transfigured? was that anne-marie? was that the little silly anne-marie, the child that she petted and slapped and put to bed, the child that was so stupid at geography, so brainless at arithmetic? "anne-marie! anne-marie! what is it, dear? what are you thinking about?" anne-marie turned wide light eyes on her mother, but her soul was not in them. for the spirit of music had descended upon her, and wrapped her round in his fabulous wings--wrapped her, and claimed her, and borne her away on the swell of his sounding wings. xiv "fräulein, i have no more money--not one little brown cent in the wide world," said nancy, sitting on the lawn of the gartenhaus, and drinking afternoon tea out of fräulein's new violet-edged cups. "so?" said fräulein. for a long time her lips moved in mental calculation. then she said: "i could let you have forty-seven dollars." nancy put down the cup, and, bending forward, kissed fräulein's downy cheek. "dear angel!" she said; "and then?" "what is to be done?" said fräulein, drying her lips on her new fringed serviette, and folding it in a small neat square. "_mah!_" said nancy, raising her shoulders, swayed back into italian by the stress of the moment. "no news from your husband?" "bah!" said nancy, shrugging her shoulders again, and waving her hand from the wrist downwards in a gesture of disdain. fräulein sighed, and looked troubled. then she said: "you must come and live here, you and anne-marie. i will send elisabeth away--anyhow, she has broken already three lamp-glasses and a plate--and we must live with economy." fräulein, who had lived with that lean and disagreeable comrade all her life, then coughed and looked practical. "yes, i shall be glad to get rid of that clumsy girl, elisabeth." nancy put one arm round her neck and kissed her again. then she said: "i have only one hope." "what is that?" asked fräulein. it was nancy's turn to cough. she did so, and then said: "there is ... there are ... some ... some people in england who are interested in me--in my writings. i think ... they might help ... i ought to go over and see them." "certainly," said fräulein, "you must go. and i will keep anne-marie here with me. then she need not interrupt her violin-lessons." "yes," said nancy. "you could keep anne-marie...." she sighed deeply. "of course she must not interrupt her lessons. i suppose you think i _ought_ to go?" "of course," said fräulein, who was practical. "a firm like that won't do anything without seeing you and talking business. but mind, mind they do not cheat! authoresses are always being cheated." nancy smiled. "i shall try not to let them." "being english, perhaps they will not. in berlin----" and here fräulein repeated a discourse she had made many, many years ago in wareside when nancy's first poem had been read aloud. fräulein remembered that day, and spoke of it now with tearful tenderness. she also believed she remembered bits of the poem: "this morning in the garden i caught the little birds; this morning in the orchard i picked the little words." "what!" said nancy. "why did i 'pick the little words'?" "perhaps it was 'plucked,'" said fräulein, looking vague. "this morning in the garden i caught the little words; this morning in the orchard i plucked ... or picked the little birds----" --"or caught them," continued fräulein, much moved. "i cannot say that that sounds very beautiful," said nancy. "oh, but it was. it may have been a little different. but it was lovely. and you were a little tiny thing, like anne-marie!" "listen to anne-marie," said nancy. anne-marie had insisted upon bringing her violin to the gartenhaus, and was now practising on it in the dining-room. the windows were open. she was playing a little cradle-song very softly, very lightly, in perfect tune. "that is indeed a wonderchild," said fräulein. markowski had called her a wonderchild directly. when he had seen her weeping convulsively after he had played, he had exclaimed: "this is a wonderchild. i will teach her to play the fiddle." and sure enough he had come to the house on the following day, with a little old half-sized fiddle, like a shabby reproduction of the dead guarnerius, and had given anne-marie her first lesson. the lesson had been long, and anne-marie had emerged from it with feverish eyes and hot cheeks, and with anger in her heart. for the bird, or the fairy, or the sorcerer, or the witch that made music in other violins, did not seem to be inside the little shabby fiddle markowski had brought her. "be gentle, be gentle! and do what i say," said markowski, with his stringy black hair falling over his vehement eyes. "one day the birds and the witches will be in it, and they will sing to you. now, practise scale of c." and anne-marie had practised scale of c--to nancy's amazement, for she thought that in one lesson no one could have learnt so much. in ten lessons anne-marie had learnt fifteen scales and a cradle-song. in two months she had learnt what other children learn in two years. so said markowski, who got more and more excited, and gave longer and longer lessons, and came every day instead of twice a week. "what do i owe you?" nancy asked him. "i can't keep count of the lessons. you seem to be always coming." "never mind! never mind!" said markowski, waving excited, unwashed hands. and as he had heard about their financial position from george and peggy, he added, "you will pay me ... when she plays you the bach chaconne!" "very well," said nancy, who thought that that meant in a week or two. "just as you please, herr markowski." and then she thought he must be insane, because he was bent with laughter as he packed away his violin. fräulein müller made accounts in a little black book all one day and half one night, and in the morning she went to lexington avenue to see nancy. "i can give you eighty dollars. will that pay your journey to england to see the firm of publishers?" oh yes, nancy thought so. and how good of her! and how could nancy ever thank her? "of course, those people will be glad to advance you something at once, even if the manuscript is not quite ready," said fräulein, who was romantic besides being practical. "i suppose so," said nancy. "see that you have a proper contract. you had better ask a barrister to make it for you." and nancy promised that she would. so fräulein hurried off to the deutsche bank, and drew out eighty dollars and a little extra, because anne-marie would have to have puddings and good soups while she was with her. the thought of giving puddings to anne-marie made her hurriedly take her handkerchief from her pocket and blow her nose. "one day it shall be sago, one day it shall be rice, and one day it shall be tapioca, with _konfitüre_." and fräulein müller hurried with her eighty dollars to nancy. but then a strange thing happened. nancy would not go. day after day passed, and nancy always had some excuse for not having packed her trunk or taken her berth. surely it was not so difficult to pack the little things she wanted for a short business journey. her new navy-blue serge, observed fräulein, was very good, and the brown straw hat for autumn would do nicely. "you must dress sensibly in a business-like way to go and see those people," said fräulein. "it would never do if you went looking like a flimsy fly-away girl." "no, indeed," said nancy, smiling with pale lips. that evening she wrote to george. he came up to town at the lunch-hour next day, and asked to see her. she left anne-marie at table eating stewed steak, to go and speak to him. "george," she said, keeping in hers the cool damp hand he held out, "i want money. i want a lot of money." george slowly withdrew his hand, and pulled at a little beard he had recently and not very successfully grown on his receding chin. "then i guess you must have it," he said. "but i want a great deal. two or three hundred dollars," said nancy. "or four----" "stop right there," said george. "don't go on like that, or i can't follow." and he pulled his beard again. "oh, george, how sweet of you! how dear of you!" and she clasped his moist left hand, which he left limply in hers. "the bother of it is, i don't know how i shall get it," said george. "i'm just thinking that"---- "oh, don't tell me--please don't tell me!" said nancy. "i--i'd rather not know! i know you won't steal, or murder anyone, but get it, george! oh, thank you! thank you so much! good-bye!" and nancy, as she looked out of the window after him, at his cheap hat and his sloping shoulders, and saw him board a cable-car going down-town, felt that she was a vulture and a harpy. "the girl in the letters has demoralized me," she said. he brought her four hundred dollars on the following monday, and she wept some pretty little tears over it, and covered her ears with her hands, and dimpled up at him, when he began to tell her how he had got them. she was the girl in the letters. she was practising. and with george it answered very well--too well! she had to stop quickly and be herself again. then he went away. and she went out and bought dresses. she bought drooping, trailing gowns and flimsy fly-away gowns, and an unbusiness-like hat, and shoes impossible to walk in. she bought _crème des crèmes_ for her face, and _crème simon_ for her hands, and liquid varnish for her nails, and violet unguent for her hair. then she waited for the unknown's next letter, saying "come." the letter did not arrive. a day passed, and another. and he did not write. a week passed, and another, and he did not write. nancy sat in the boarding-house with her dresses and her hats and her _crème des crèmes_. the entire four hundred dollars of george, and fifteen dollars out of fräulein's eighty, were gone. nancy sat and looked out of the window, and thought her thoughts. could she write to the unknown again? no. hers had been the last letter. he had not answered it. should she telegraph? where to? and to say what? he had gone to peru. she knew, she felt, he had gone to peru. the pretty, silly, romantic story was ended--ended as she had wished it to end, without the banal _dénouement_ of their meeting. better so. much better so. nancy was really very glad that things were as they were. and now what was going to happen to her? she said to herself that she must have been insane to borrow all that money and buy those crazy dresses, those idiotic hats. what should she do? the terror of life came over her, and she wished she were safely away and asleep in the little nervi cemetery between her father and her mother, cool and in the dark, with quiet upturned face. oh yes, she was really exceedingly glad that things were as they were! half-way through the third week a telegram was brought to her. it came from paris. "why not dine with me next thursday at the grand hôtel?" to-day was thursday. she cabled back. "why not? at eight o'clock.--nancy." oh, the excitement, the packing, the telegraphing to fräulein, the hurry, the joy, the confusion! the stopping every minute to kiss anne-marie; the sitting down suddenly and saying, "perhaps i ought not to go!" and then, the jumping up again at the thought of the boat that left to-morrow at noon. fräulein came to fetch anne-marie at ten in the morning. she arrived joyful and agitated, bringing a fox-terrier pup in her arms, a present for anne-marie, to prevent her crying. "why should i cry?" said anne-marie, with the hardness of tender years. "why, indeed!" said nancy, buttoning anne-marie's coat, while quick tears fell from her eyes. "mother will come back very soon--very soon." "of course," said anne-marie, holding the puppy tightly round the neck, and putting up a shoe to have it buttoned. "don't let her catch cold, fräulein," sobbed nancy, bending over the shoe; and when it was fastened, she kissed it. "no," said fräulein, beaming. "she shall wear flannel pellipands that i am making for her." the second shoe was buttoned and kissed. her hat was put on with the elastic in front of her ears. her gloves? yes, in her coat-pocket. handkerchief? yes. the mice? yes; fräulein had them, and the violin, and the music-roll, and the satchel. the box was already downstairs in the carriage. they were ready. "let me carry down the puppy," said nancy on the landing, with a break in her voice. "then i can hold your dear little hand." "oh no!" said anne-marie. "i'll carry the puppy. you can hold on to the bannisters." so nancy walked down behind anne-marie and the puppy. fräulein was in front, dreading the moment of leave-taking, and thinking with terror of the possibility of travelling all the way to staten island with a loud and tearful anne-marie. so she started a new topic of conversation. "you shall have pudding every day," she said, trying to turn round on the second landing to anne-marie, close behind her, and nearly dropping the satchel and the mice, as the violin-case caught in the bannisters. "one day it shall be sago, another day tapioca...." "i don't like tapioca," said anne-marie, walking down the stairs. "i don't like nothing of all that." they were at the door. by request of nancy, nobody was there to speak to them. but all the boarders who were in the house were looking at them from behind the drawing-room curtains. "then what do you like for dessert?" said fräulein, going down the stone steps by anne-marie's side, while nancy still followed. "i like peppermint bullseyes," said anne-marie, "and pink jelly." and she added: "nothing else," while the pimply boy and the maid hoisted her into her carriage. fräulein got in after her, with the many packages. and the puppy barked at the mice. "good-bye, anne-marie! good-bye, darling!" cried nancy, kissing her with great difficulty through the carriage-window across fräulein, and the violin, and the mice, that were on fräulein's lap. "god bless you! god bless you and keep you, my own darling!" the puppy barked deafeningly. the pimply boy nodded to the cabman, and off they were. nancy walked slowly back into the house, and up the stairs, and into the desolate rooms. xv peggy and george accompanied her to the boat, peggy excited and talkative, george depressed and silent. in his murky down-town office george had felt himself of late more poet than clerk, and now he was all elegy. she was leaving! she was going away with his heart, and she might perhaps never return! she might perhaps never return the four hundred dollars either. they belonged to a friend of george's--a mean and sordid soul. george stifled the unlovely thought, born of the clerk, and surrendered his spirit to the grief of the poet. farewell! farewell! the ship turned its cruel side, and hid the little waving figure from his sight. it throbbed away like a great, unfaithful heart, abandoning the land. farewell! what were four hundred dollars, belonging to a friend, compared with the torn and quivering heart-strings of a lover? the ship heaved forward towards the east, rising and sinking as ships rise and sink, carrying nancy and her dresses, and her hats, and her little pots of cream, to the unknown. and the nearer they got to him, the more frightened was nancy. what if she should reach paris, with the fourteen dollars she still possessed, and he were not there? what if he turned out to be a brute and a beast? what--oh, terrible thought!--if he were to think her not as pretty as he had expected? she was not really pretty. oh, why had she not the pale sunshiny hair of the american girl opposite her at table? why not the youth-splashed eyes of the little girl from the west, who was going to paris to study art? why not the long, up-curling lashes of her light and starry glance? nancy comforted herself by hoping that he himself might be hideous. but if he were? how should she smile at him and talk to him if he were a repugnant, odious monster? then she reasoned that if he were a monster, he would not have asked her to come. "why not dine with me on thursday?" is not the kind of telegram a monster would send. no, he was not a monster. what would he say to her when they met? everything depended on the first moment. she pictured it in a thousand different ways. the pictures always began in the same manner. she arrived in paris; she drove from the gare du nord, not to the grand hôtel where he was staying, but to the continental. she engaged a gorgeous suite of rooms. what! with fourteen dollars? exactly so! what did it matter? it was rouge or noir. if rouge came up, all was well. if noir--_la débâcle_! _le déluge_! fifty francs more or less made absolutely no difference. a few hours' rest. an hour or two for an elaborate toilette; all the creams used, all the details perfect. then she would send a messenger, at a quarter to eight, to his hotel: "dear unknown, i am here!" then--ah! then, what? he arrives, he enters, he sees her. then she must say something. ah! what? what are her first words to be? "_how do you do?_" dreadful! no, never that! "_here i am!_" worse, worse still. in french, perhaps? "_me voilà!_" ridiculous! no; she will say nothing. he must speak first. then she imagines his opening phrases. after a long silence his voice, deep and trembling with emotion: "yes, you are the woman of my dreams!" that would be very nice. or, then: "ah! eve! eve! how i have longed for you!" that would strike the right note at once. or, then, with both hands outstretched: "so _this_ is nancy!" that would be rather nice. but perhaps he will say something more original: "why did you not tell me you had a dimple in your chin?" ah, how long nancy lay awake thinking of those first words! nancy tossed in her little berth, and turned her pillow's freshest side to her hot cheek; and she palpitated and trembled, smiled and feared, repented and defied, until the huge boat creaked against the landing stage of the havre dock. she arrived at the gare du nord at three o'clock. she drove to the continental, and engaged a suite of rooms that cost eighty francs a day: a sitting-room, all tender greens and delicate greys, looking as if it were seen through water, and adjoining it a gorgeous scarlet bedroom, with a dozen mirrors a-shine, all deferentially awaiting the elaborate toilette. sleep was out of the question. by four o'clock the note that was to be sent at half-past seven was written, and nancy began her elaborate toilette. she thought of ordering the coiffeur, but she remembered that coiffeurs had always dressed her hair in wonderful twists and coils and rolls, until her head looked like a cake to which her face did not in any way belong. so she did her hair _à la carmen_, parted on one side. it seemed the style of hair-dress that the girl in the letters would adopt. but when it was done it looked startling and impertinent. so she unpinned it again and decided in favour of a simple, unaffected coiffure. she parted her hair in the middle, plaited it, and pinned it round her head. it _was_ unaffected and simple. she looked like the youngest of the two swedish girls in the boarding-house. she did not look at all like the girl in the letters. so once more she unpinned it, and did it _à la pierrot_--a huge puff in the middle, waving down over her forehead, and two huge puffs, one on each side. it looked pretty and unladylike. by this time it was six o'clock. the creams! first a little cold cream; then _crème impératrice_; then--she remembered the directions given her by the person in the shop perfectly--a tiny amount of leichner's rouge, mixed with a little _crème des crèmes_ in the palm of the hand, gently rubbed into the cheeks and chin; then powder--rose-coloured and rachel. now a _soupçon_ of rouge on the lobes of the ears and in the nostrils. this, the person in the shop said, was very important. then the eyebrows brushed with an atom of _mascaro_, a touch of leichner on the lips, an idea of shadow round the eyes--and behold! nancy beheld. her face looked mauve, and her nostrils suggested a feverish cold. her eyes looked large, and tired, and intense, like the eyes of the prairie chickens at monte carlo. seven o'clock! she had forgotten her nails! for twenty minutes she painted her nails with the pink varnish, which was sticky, and, once on, would not wash off. her fingers looked as if she had dipped them in blood. half-past seven! she must send the note. she rang the bell, and a waiter came. he had been a nice, well-behaved german waiter, as he had shown her respectfully to her expensive rooms. when he saw her as she now appeared--she had hastily slipped into the lightest of the three trailing dresses--the waiter stared; he stared rudely, with raised eyebrows, at her, and took the note from her hand. he read the address, nodded, and said: "jawohl! all right. c'est bon!" and then he smiled. he smiled--at her!--and went down the passage whistling softly. nancy shut her door. she took off the trailing dress, and went to her bathroom. she turned on the hot water and washed her face. she washed off the shades and _soupçons_, the _crèmes_ and the _mascaro_ from her eyebrows and her chin, her ears and her nostrils. then she pinned her hair loosely on the top of her head, as she always did, and put on the darkest of the three trailing gowns. but her nails she scrubbed in vain. they remained aggressively rose-coloured, and nancy blushed hotly every time she saw them. she decided to put her hat and gloves on. she did so. then she sat down in her sitting-room and waited. she waited fifteen minutes. then somebody knocked. nancy started to her feet as if she had been shot. with beating heart she ran back into the bedroom and shut the door after her. no, it was not quite shut; it swung lightly ajar, and nancy left it so. she heard the knock repeated more loudly at the outer door; she heard the door open, and someone enter. then the door closed, and steps--the waiter's steps--went back along the hall. somebody was in that room. somebody! a man! a man whom she had never seen. a man to whom she had written forty or fifty letters, whom she had called "mon ami" and "mes amours," "prince charming," and "my unknown lover"! nancy stood motionless, petrified with shame, her face hidden in her white-gloved hands. she would never go in--never! not if she had to stand here for years! she could not face that silent man next door. the situation was becoming ridiculous. the silence was tense in both rooms. ah, when three thousand miles had separated them, how near she had felt to him! and now, with a few feet of carpet and an open door between them, he was far away--incommensurably far away! a stranger, an intruder, an enemy! utter silence. was he there? yes. nancy knew he was there, waiting. suddenly nancy was frightened. the one idea possessed her to get away from that unseen, silent man. she would slip through the bathroom, and out into the passage and away! she took a step forward. her trailing dress rustled. her high-heeled boots creaked. and in the next room the man coughed. nancy stood still again, transfixed--turned to stone. another long silence, ludicrous, untenable. then in the next room the first words were spoken. he spoke them in a calm and well-bred voice. "our dinner will be cold." nancy laughed suddenly, softly, convulsively. her voice was treble and sweet as she replied: "what have you ordered?" the man in the next room said: "fillet of sole." "fried?" asked nancy earnestly; and, knowing that unless she slid in on that fillet of sole she would never do so, she passed quickly under the draped portière and entered the room. they looked each other in the face. she saw a large and stalwart figure, a hard mouth, and a strong, curved nose in a sunburnt face, two chilly blue eyes under a powerful brow, and waving grey hair. he looked down at her, and was satisfied. his cool blue gaze took her in from the top of her large black feathered hat to the tips of her louis xv. shoes. "come," he said, offering his arm. and they went out together. the dinner was not cold. nancy hardly spoke at all. she was nervous and charming. she sipped liebfraunmilch, and dimpled and rippled while he told her that he had mines in peru, and that he had been away from civilization for twenty years. "i went down to the mines when i was twenty, and came back when i was forty. that is four years ago. i have been fighting my way ever since, trying to keep clear of the wrong woman. i am afraid of women." "so am i," said nancy, which was not true. he laughed, and said: "and of what else?" "spiders," said nancy, with her head on one side. "and what else?" "lions," said nancy. "and what else?" "thunderstorms." and, as he seemed to be waiting, she added: "and of you, of course." he did not believe it. but she was. after dinner he took her to the folies bergères and then to the boîte à fursy; and he watched her narrowly, and was glad that she did not laugh. then he took her back to the hotel. they went up together in the lift, and along the red-carpeted, boot-adorned corridor to her green and grey salon. he did not ask permission, but walked in and sat down--large and long--in the small brocaded armchair. "are you tired?" he said. nancy said, "no," and remained standing. he said, "sit down," and she obeyed him. he sat staring before him for a while, with his underlip pushed up under his upper-lip, making his straight, short-cut moustache stand out. he was a strong, large, ugly man. nancy suddenly remembered that she had called him "toi," and said, "adieu, mes amours" to him in her letters, and she felt faint with shame. he made a little noise, something between a cough and a growl, and looked up at her. "what are you thinking?" he said. she laughed. "i am thinking that i called you prince charming, whereas you really are the ogre." "yes," he said, and stared at her a long time. then he got up suddenly and put out his large hand. "good-night, miss brown," he said. he took his hat and stick, and went out, shutting the door decidedly behind him. the next morning at half-past eleven he came; he had a small bunch of lilies of the valley in his hand. "will you invite me to lunch?" he said. yes, nancy would be very pleased. she thought of the twenty-two francs in her purse; but nothing mattered. they lunched in the dining-room, and he was very silent. nancy spoke of music, but he did not respond. "do you sing?" she asked at last. he looked up at her like an offended wild beast. "do i look as if i could sing?" "no, you don't," she said. "you look as if you could growl." he smiled slightly under his clipped moustache, and did not answer. nancy gave up all attempt at conversation. her heart beat fast. things were going wrong. he was tired of her already. he looked bored--well, no, not bored, but utterly indifferent and hard, as if he were alone. after their coffee he got up--every time he rose nancy wondered anew at his breadth and length--and led the way out. nancy trotted after him with short steps. he went into the lounge and took a seat near a table in the window, pushing a chair forward for nancy. "may i smoke?" he said, taking a large cigar-case from his pocket. nancy nodded. he chose his cigar carefully, clipped the end off, and lit it. nancy could not think of a word to say. all her pretty, frivolous conversation, all the bright remarks and witty repartee, wavered away from her mind. she had not prepared herself for monologues. after the first puff he said: "you don't smoke, do you?" "oh no!" said nancy. as soon as she had said it a wave of crimson flooded her face. she remembered writing that she smoked russian cigarettes perfumed with heliotrope. he had not believed her. how could she have written such an idiotic thing? and suddenly she realized that she was not the girl in her letters at all, and that he must be bored and disappointed. but no more was he the man of his letters; at least, she had imagined him quite different, with fair hair and droopy grey eyes, and a poet's soul. then she remembered that he had never spoken about himself in his letters at all. at this point he looked up and said: "i like a woman who can keep quiet. you have not spoken for half an hour." and she laughed, and was glad. when he had finished his cigar, he said: "i hope you have not left any valuables in your room. it is not safe." "oh no," said nancy; "i haven't." "have you given them to the office?" "no," said nancy--"no;" and suddenly she remembered that she had told him in her letters that she wore jewels all over her. without looking up, he said: "will you give me your purse? i will take care of it." nancy felt that if she went on flushing any more her hair would catch fire. she drew out her purse and handed it to him. he opened it slowly and deliberately. he took out the three sous and the two francs, and put them into his pocket. then he opened the middle division, and looked at the twenty-franc piece. he took it out and placed it on the table. then he went through all the other compartments, gazing pensively at an unused tramway ticket and at a medal of the madonna del monte. he put those back again, and handed nancy the purse. the twenty-franc piece he put into a purse of his own, and into his pocket. "now let us go for a drive," he said. nancy, feeling dazed, rustled away, and took the lift to her room. she pinned on her hat, took her coat and gloves, and just caught the lift again as it was passing down. when he saw her, he said "that was quick," and they went out together. a victoria was waiting for them. the porter was profusely polite, and the horses started off at a loose trot down the boulevards and towards the Étoile. he asked her many questions during the drive, and in her answers she was as much as possible the girl of the letters. he sounded her about monte carlo, and she was glad that she was quite _au courant_, and could mention systems and the café de paris. "would you like to go there again?" he asked. "yes--oh yes!" she said, clasping her mauve kid gloves. then she fell into a reverie, and she kept her hands clasped in her lap, for she was saying an _ave_ and _a pater_ for anne-marie. the carriage was turning into the bois when her companion said: "where do you want to go?" nancy said: "this is very nice. the bois is lovely." "i mean where do you want to go to to-morrow, or the day after, or next week. you do not want to stay in paris for ever, do you?" she drew a little quick breath, and said, "oh!" and then again, "oh, really?" and looked up at him with uncertain eyes. "do not look at me as if i were the spider, or the lion, or the thunderstorm. tell me if there is any place on earth that you have longed to go to. and when. and with whom." nancy's eyes filled quickly with glowing tears. "i should like to go to italy," she said, "to a little village tip-tilted over the sea, called porto venere." the ogre, who had read "elle et lui," nodded, and said: "i know. anywhere else?" "i should like to stay a few days in milan--to see some people who are dear." "et après?" "i should like to go to switzerland. only to one or two little places there--the via mala, splügen, sufers--" "h'm--h'm," said he, and waited to hear more. "and then--and then--yes, perhaps to monte carlo--and oh, to naples and to rome! but i want to stay longest in porto venere." he nodded, and said: "when do you want to start?" "to-morrow," said nancy. "and how? in a train? or by motor? or by boat?" "i don't mind," said nancy, hiding her face in her handkerchief and beginning to weep. "and with whom?" there was a pause. "what about a maid?" "oh, no maid!" said nancy. then she looked up. "with you," she said, because the girl in the letters would have said it, and also because she wanted him to come. "all right. don't take much luggage," he said. xvi they went. they went through switzerland. they drove down the wide white roads that coil like wind-blown ribbons round the swelling breasts of the alps; they went up the barren julier pass, and through the shuddering via mala, breakfasting at st. moritz, table d'hôting at maloya, wandering through the moonlike sunshine of splügen's pine-forests, clattering and rumbling over the covered bridges of sufers. the snow-tipped pine-trees, like regiments of monks with nightcaps on, nodded at them in stately gravity; the squirrels stopped with quick, beady glances, and scuttled away, tail-flourishing, up the branches, while the bland helvetian cows stood in the green meadows to watch them pass. every evening they went together down boot-adorned passages to the door of nancy's room. and there he said, "good-night, miss brown," and left her. they went on into italy--straight down to naples without stopping in milan, for nancy would not see anyone she loved after all; for she could not explain anything, and did not know what to say, and did not want to think of anything just now. she would think afterwards. they clambered up the vesuvius; they wandered through pompei; they went to spezia, and remembered shelley; they went on to porto venere, and trembled to think that the sharks might have eaten byron when he swam across the bay; they rowed about the golfo, and ate _vongole_ and other horrible, ill-smelling _frutti di mare_. and every evening, in the boot-adorned passages of the hotels, he took her to the door of her room, and said, "good-night, miss brown." in spezia a little steamer that was coasting northwards took them on board. they were sliding on blue waters into genoa, when nancy, seated on a basket of oranges, felt the touch of the ogre's hand on her shoulder. she looked up and smiled. he sat down on another basket beside her. it creaked and groaned under his weight, so he got up and fetched a heavy wooden case, dragging it along the deck to nancy's side. "now what?" he said. nancy had grown to understand him well. not for an instant did she think that he was talking of the moment, or the next hour, as she had thought when they had driven in the bois, now more than a month ago. she knew that he looked at life in large outlines, and seldom spoke of small, immediate things. "now what?" she echoed. he put his large brown hand on her small one, and it was his first caress. it thrilled nancy to the heart. his chilly blue eyes watched her face, and saw it paling slowly under his gaze. "now you must go home," he said. "yes," said nancy, "now i must go home." and she wondered vaguely whether home was the boarding-house in lexington avenue or mrs. johnstone's flat in nd street. she decided that it was the flat, where the bunch of orchids and maidenhair had come and lived almost a week. peggy and george would be her friends again, and the dead mr. johnstone, and the naked baby, and the chinless young man would be with her in the evenings. and anne-marie must leave fräulein müller's _gartenhaus_, and go back to school on sixth avenue. "what are your thoughts," said the ogre. "... i was wondering what made you send that messenger-boy with the flowers and the letter--the letter to the girl in blue.... it was not a bit like you," she said. and, looking into the hard face, she added: "you are not at all like that." "i know i'm not," he said. then he added, with a laugh, "thank god! but we all do things that are not like ourselves now and then. don't we?" she did not answer. "don't you?" he insisted. nancy sighed and wondered. "i don't know. what is like me, and what is not like me? i do not know at all. i do not know myself." "i do," said the ogre. and there was another long silence. he had the aggravating habit of stopping short after a sentence that one would like to hear continued. "speak," said nancy. "say more." "it was not like me to send those useless and expensive flowers out into the world to nobody, and to write a crazy letter _in's blaue hinein_--into space. but we all have mad moments in our lives when we do things that are quite unlike us." a pause again. "it was not like you to write me those letters describing your old-rose curtains--afterwards they were blue velvet--and your scented cigarettes, and your jewels, and your lovers. and it was not like you to cross the atlantic and come to paris and to supper with a man you had never met, in order to see whether you could get money out of him." nancy covered her face. "oh!" she said, "have you thought that?" "oh!" he said, "have you done that?" and there was silence. the captain passed and remarked on the fine weather, adding that they would arrive in less than an hour. then he went by. "i liked your first letter--poor little truthful letter on the cheap paper. you said you were the wrong girl. you were dressed in brown. i could see you in your shabby brown dress--i knew it must be shabby--and i liked the idea of doing something unexpected with a little money. then i was amused at your letter saying you were not miss brown. after that the lies began." nancy quivered. the houses of quarto were coming into sight; the red hotel of quinto was gliding past. "how could you think that i would believe in the old-rose curtains in the 's of east nd street, i who have lived five or six years in new york? that showed me that you were a foreigner, or you would have known that street numbers in new york tell their own tale. then your letters told me that you were a fanciful creature, and they told me that you were lonely, or you would not have found time to write so much--a cultivated, little fibber, who quoted every poet under the sun, especially the out-of-the-way ones. then, when i found out that you had a child--" "oh!" gasped nancy, and the tears welled over. "you know about anne-marie!" "i know about anne-marie. i even have a picture of her." he unbuttoned his coat, and drew out his pocket-book, and from it a little snapshot photograph, which he handed to nancy. it was herself and anne-marie in front of a toy-shop. they were in the act of turning from it, and anne-marie's foot was lifted in the air. they were both laughing, and neither of them looking their best. "oh, but that's hideous of her," said nancy. "she is quite different from that." he smiled, and put the picture back into his pocket-book, and the pocket-book into his breast-pocket. "when i had found out that you had a child, and that your husband"--he hesitated--"was--er--neapolitan, i understood what you were after, and decided that i would--walk into it--que je marcherais, as the french say. et j'ai marché." a long silence, and then he said: "and now, what do you want?" but nancy was crying, and could not answer. "do you want to go on living in america?" nancy shook her head. "what are you crying for?" and he took her wrist, and pulled one hand from her face. nancy raised her reddened eyes. "i am crying," she said brokenly, "because all the--the prettiness has been taken out of everything. yes, i was poor--yes, i was miserable, and i was inventing things in my letters; but i thought you believed them--and i thought you--you loved me, like jaufré rudel. and i have never, never been so happy as when--as when--i loved you across the distance--and you were the unknown--and now it is all broken and spoilt--and all the time you thought i wanted money--i mean you knew i wanted money, and you had that hideous picture, and"--here nancy broke into weak, wild sobs--"you thought i looked like that!" "that's so," said jaufré rudel. and he let her cry for a long time. quarto had slipped back into the distance, and san francesco d'albaro was moving smoothly into view. "i can't go on crying for ever," said nancy, raising her face with a quivering smile, "and the captain will think you are a huge, horrid, scolding english ogre." they were nearly in. "get your little bag and things," he said to her, and she rose quickly and complied. everybody was standing up waiting to land. oh, how good it was to be taken care of and ordered about, to be told to do this and that! she stood behind him small and meek, holding her travelling-bag in one hand, and in the other the umbrellas and sticks strapped together. his large shoulders were before her like a wall. she raised the bundle of umbrellas to her face and kissed the curved top of his stick. and now, what? they drove to the hotel. then they had dinner. in the evening they sat on the balcony, and watched the people passing below them. handsome italian officers, moustache-twisting and sword-clanking, passed in twos and threes, eyeing the hurrying modistes and the self-conscious _signorine_ that walked beside their portly mothers and fathers. the military band was playing in the piazza vittorio emanuele, and the music reached the balcony faintly. then nancy told him about her work. about the first book of verse that had set all italy aflame, about the second, the book, the work of her life, that had been interrupted. he listened, smoking his cigar, and making no comment. then he spoke. "there is a boat from here on wednesday. the _kaiser wilhelm_. a good old boat. go over and fetch the child." then he halted, and said: "or do you like her to be brought up in america?" "oh no!" said nancy. "well, fetch her," he said. "and fetch the old fräulein across too, if she likes to come. then go to porto venere, or to spezia, or anywhere you like, and take a house, and sit down and work." she could not speak. she saw porto venere white in the sunshine, tip-tilted over the sea, and she saw the book that was to live, to live after all. as she did not answer he said: "don't you like it?" she took his hand, and pressed it to her lips, and to her cheek, and to her heart. she could not answer. and his chilly blue eyes grew suddenly lighter than usual. "dear little miss brown," he said; "dear, dear, foolish, little miss brown." and, bending forward, he kissed her forehead. xvii the _gartenhaus_ on staten island in the twilight, with lamplight and firelight gleaming through its casements, and a little hat of snow on its roof, looked like a christmas-card, when nancy hurried through the narrow garden-gate, and ran up the tiny gravel-path. she had left all her belongings at the dock in order not to lose an instant. anne-marie's pink fingers were dragging at her heart. fräulein, foggy as to time-tables and arrivals of boats, had thought it wisest not to attempt a meeting at the crowded, draughty, new york landing-station. she had kept anne-marie indoors for the last three days, saying: "your mother may be here any moment." after the first thirty-six hours of poignant expectancy and frequent runnings to the gate, anne-marie had silently despised fräulein for telling naughty untruths, and had whispered in the hairy ear of schopenhauer that she would never again believe a word fräulein ever said again. schopenhauer--whose name had been chosen by fräulein for educational purposes, namely (as she wrote in her diary), "to enlarge the childish mind by familiarity with the names of authors and philosophers"--was sympathetic and equally sceptical when fräulein müller sibilantly urged him: "schoppi, schoppi, mistress is coming. go seek mistress! seek mistress, sir." but schoppi, who had searched and sniffed every corner of the hedge, and dug rapid holes round the early cabbages and in the flower-bed, knew that "mistress" was a pleasurably exciting, but merely delusive and empty sound. and so nobody expected nancy as she ran up the path in the twilight, and saw the lights shining through the casement. her heart beat in trepidant joy. she had been so anxious about anne-marie. during the last few hours of the journey she had had ghostly and tragic imaginings. what if anne-marie had been running about the island, and had fallen into the sea? what if a motor-car--her heart had given a great leap, and then dropped, like a ball of lead, turning her faint with reminiscent terror. she would not think about it. no, she would not think of such things any more. but what if anne-marie had scarlet fever? yes! suddenly she felt convinced that anne-marie had scarlet fever, that she would see the little red flag of warning hanging out over the _gartenhaus_ door.... nancy made ready to knock; then, before doing so, she dropped quickly to her knees on the snowy doorstep, and folded her hands in a childlike attitude of prayer: "o god! let me find anne-marie safe and happy!" almost in answer a sound struck her ear--a chord of sweetness and harmony, then a long, lonely note, and after it a quick twirl of running notes like a ripple of laughter. the violin! nancy sprang from the doorstep, and ran under the window that was lit up. she scrambled on to the rockery under it, and, scratching her hand against the climbing rose-branches, she grasped the ledge and looked in through the white-curtained glass. it was anne-marie. standing in the circle of light from the lamp, with the violin held high on her left arm, and her cheek resting lightly against it, she looked like a little angel musician of beato angelico. her eyes were cast down, her floating hair rippled over her face. nancy's throat tightened as she looked. then nancy's brain staggered as she listened. for the child was playing like an artist. trills and arpeggios ran from under her fingers like clear water. now a full and sonorous chord checked their springing lightness, and again the bubbling runs rilled out, sprinkling the twilight with music. nancy's hand slipped from the sill, and a rose-branch hit the window. then the fox-terrier's sharp bark rang through the house; there were hurrying feet in the hall; the door was opened by the smiling elisabeth--and fräulein was exclaiming and questioning, and anne-marie was in her mother's arms. warm, and living, and tight she held her creature, thanking god for the touch of the fleecy hair against her face, for the fresh cheek that smelt of soap, and the soft breath that smelt of grass and flowers. "anne-marie! anne-marie! have you missed me, darling?" anne-marie was sobbing wildly. "no! no! i haven't! only now! only now!" "but now you have me, my own love." "but now i miss you! now i miss you," sobbed anne-marie, incoherent and despairing. and her mother understood. mothers understand. "anne-marie! i shall never go away from you again! i promise!" anne-marie looked up through shimmering tears. "honest engine?" she asked brokenly, putting out a small damp hand. "honest engine," said nancy, placing her hand solemnly in the hand of her little daughter. schopenhauer, squirming with barks, was patted and admired, and made to sit up leaning against the leg of the table; and fräulein told the news about anne-marie having _doch gegessen_ the tapioca-puddings, but never the porridge, and seldom the vegetables. then, as it was late, anne-marie was conducted upstairs by everybody, including schopenhauer, and while elisabeth unfastened buttons and tapes, fräulein brushed and plaited the golden hair, and nancy, on her knees before the child, laughed with her and kissed her. when she was in bed elisabeth and schopenhauer had to sit in the dark beside her until she slept. "but, fräulein, that will never do!" said nancy, as they went down the little staircase together arm-in-arm. "you spoil her shockingly." "hush!" said fräulein. and as they entered the cheerful drawing-room, where the violin lay on the table, and the bow on a chair, and a piece of rosin on the sofa, fräulein stopped, and said impressively, "you do not know that that child is a genius!" in fräulein's voice, as she said the word "genius," was awe and homage, service and genuflexion. nancy sat down, and looked at the little piece of rosin stuck on its green cloth on the sofa. "a genius!" the word and the awestruck tone brought a recollection to her mind. years ago, when she had stepped into the dazzling light of her first success, and all the poets of italy had come to congratulate and to flatter, one had not come. he was the great and sombre singer of revolt, the pagan poet of modern rome. he was the genius, denounced, anathematized and exalted in turn by the hot-headed youth of italy. he lived apart from the world, aloof from the clamour made around his name, shunning both laudators and detractors, impassive alike to invective and acclamation. to him, with his curt permission, nancy herself had gone. a disciple and apostle of his, long-bearded and short of words, had come to conduct her to the poet's house in bologna. it was an old house on the broad, ancient ramparts of the city, where an armed sentinel marched, gun on shoulder, up and down. nancy remembered that she had laughed, and said frivolously: "i suppose the poet has the soldier on guard to prevent his ideas being stolen." the apostle had not smiled. then she had entered the house alone, for the apostle was not invited. the spirit of silence was on the cold stone staircase. the door had been opened by a pale-faced, stupid-looking servant, whose only mission in life seemed to be not to make a noise. three hushed figures, the daughters of the poet, had bidden her in a half-whisper to sit down. they all had a look about them as if they lived with something that devoured them day by day. and they looked as if they liked it. they lived to see that the genius was not disturbed. then the genius had entered the room--a fierce and sombre-looking man of sixty, with a leonine head and impatient eyes. and she, seeing him, understood that one should be willing to tiptoe through life with subdued gesture and hushed voice, so that he were not disturbed. she understood that he had the right to devour. he carried her little book in his hand, and spoke in brief, gruff tones. "three women," he said, his flashing eyes looking her up and down as if he were angry with her, "have been poets: sappho, desbordes valmore, elizabeth browning. and now--you. go and work." that was all. but it had been enough to send nancy away dazed with happiness. the devoured ones had opened the door for her, and silently shown her out; and as she went tremblingly down the steps she had heard a heavy tread above her, and had stopped to look back. he had come out on to the landing, and was looking after her. she stood still, with a beating heart. and he had spoken again. three words: "aspetto e confido--i wait and trust." she had replied, "grazie," and then had gone running down the stairs, trembling and stumbling, knowing that his eyes were upon her. "_aspetto e confido_." he had waited and trusted in vain. she had never written another book. and now he would never read what she might write, for he was dead. nancy still stared at the little piece of rosin stuck on its dentelated green cloth--stared at it vaguely, unseeing. what? anne-marie was a genius? the little tender, wild-eyed birdling was one of the devourers? yes, already in the _gartenhaus_ there was the atmosphere of hushed reverence, the attitude of sacrifice and waiting. fräulein spoke in whispers; elisabeth and the fox-terrier sat in the dark while the genius went to sleep. her violin possessed the table, her bow the armchair, her rosin the sofa. fräulein had all the amazed stupefaction of one of the devoured. "the child is a genius," she was repeating. "she will be like wagner. only greater." then she seemed to awake to the smaller realities of life. "what did the firm say? when does your book appear? my poor dear, you must be tired! you must be hungry! but, hush! the child's room is just overhead, so, if you do not mind, i will give you your supper in the back-kitchen. anne-marie, when she is not eating, does not like the sound of plates." xviii so nancy did not go to porto venere after all. nor to spezia. for there was no great violin teacher in either of those blue and lovely places. there were only balconied rooms, with wide views over the mediterranean sea, where nancy could have written her book, and seen visions and dreamed dreams; but surely, as fräulein said, she could write her book in any nice quiet room, with a table in it, and pen and ink, while anne-marie must cultivate her gift and her calling. anne-marie must study her violin. so nancy wrote, and explained this to the ogre, and then she went with anne-marie and fräulein to prague, where the greatest of all violin-teachers lived, fitting left hands with wonderful technique, and right hands with marvellous pliancy; teaching slim fingers to dance and scamper and skip on four tense strings, and supple wrists to wield a skimming, or control a creeping, bow. and this greatest of teachers took little anne-marie to his heart. he also called her the _wunderkind_, and set her eager feet, still in their white socks and button shoes, on the steep path that leads up the hill of glory. nancy unpacked her manuscripts in an apartment in one of the not very wide streets of old prague; opposite her window was a row of brown and yellow stone houses; she had a table, and pen and ink, and there was nothing to disturb her. true, she could hear anne-marie playing the violin two rooms off, but that, of course, was a joy; besides, when all the doors were shut one could hardly hear anything, especially if one tied a scarf or something round one's head, and over one's ears. so nancy had no excuse for not working. she told herself so a hundred times a day, as she sat at the table with the scarf round her head, staring at the yellow house opposite. through the open window came the sound of loud, jerky czech voices. the strange new language, of which nancy had learned a few dozen words, rang in her ears continuously: kavarna ... vychod ... lekarna ... the senseless words turned in her head like a many-coloured merry-go-round. even at night in her dreams she seemed to be holding conversations in czech. but that would pass, and she would be able to work; for now she had no anxieties and no preoccupations. fräulein looked after anne-marie, body and soul, with unceasing and agitated care, deeming it as important that she should have her walk as that she should play the "zigeunerweisen," that she should say her prayers as that she should eat her soup. and nancy had no material preoccupations either. she had decided to accept gratefully, and without scruple, all that she needed for two years from her friend the ogre. long before then the book would be out, and she could repay him. and what mattered repaying him? all he wanted was that she should be happy, and live her own life for two years. he would have to go back to peru, and stay there for about that period of time. let her meanwhile live her own life and fulfil her destiny--thus he wrote to her. and the prager bankverein had money for her when she needed it. so nancy sat before her manuscripts and lived her own life, and tried not to hear the violin, and not to mind interruptions. in her heart was a great longing--the longing to see the ogre again before he left europe, a great, aching desire for the blue chilliness of his eyes, for his stern manner, and his gruff voice, and for the shy greatness of his heart that her own heart loved and understood. and besides this ache was the yearn and strain and sorrow of her destiny unfulfilled. for once again the sense of time passing, of life running out of her grasp, bit at her breast like an adder. "la belle qui veut, la belle qui n'ose cueillir les roses du jardin bleu." she sat down and wrote to him. "i cannot work. i cannot work. i am swept away and overwhelmed by some chimeric longing that has no name. my soul drowns and is lost in its indefinite and fathomless desire. will you take me away before you go, away to some rose-lit, jasmine-starred nook in italy, where my heart may find peace again? i feel such strength, such boundless, turbulent power, yet my spirit is pinioned and held down like a giant angel sitting in a cave with huge wings furled.... "you have unclosed the sweep of heaven before me; i will bring the sunshot skies down to your feet...." the door opened, and fräulein's head appeared, solemn and sibylline, with tears shining behind her spectacles. "nancy, to-day for the first time anne-marie is to play beethoven. will you come?" yes, nancy would come. she followed fräulein into the room where anne-marie was with the professor and his assistant. the professor did not like to play the piano, so he had brought the assistant with him, who sat at the piano, nodding a large, rough black head in time to the music. anne-marie was in front of her stand. the professor, with his hands behind him, watched her. the beethoven romance in f began. the simple initial melody slid smoothly from under the child's fingers, and was taken up and repeated by the piano. the willful crescendo of the second phrase worked itself up to the passionate high note, and was coaxed back again into gentleness by the shy and tender trills, as a wrathful man by the call of a child. martial notes by the piano. the assistant's head bobbed violently, and now beethoven led anne-marie's bow, gently, by tardigrade steps, into the first melody again. once more, the head at the piano bobbed over his solo. then, on the high f, down came the bow of anne-marie, decisive and vehement. "that's right!" shouted the professor suddenly. "fa, mi, sol--play that on the fourth string." anne-marie nodded without stopping. eight accented notes by the piano, echoed by anne-marie. "that is to sound like a trumpet!" cried the master. "yes, yes; i remember," said anne-marie. and now for the third time the melody returned, and anne-marie played it softly, as in a dream, with a _gruppetto_ in _pianissimo_ that made the professor push his hands into his pockets, and the assistant turn his head from the piano to look at her. at the end the slowly ascending scales soared and floated into the distance, and the three last, calling notes fell from far away. no one spoke for a moment; then the professor went close to the child and said: "why did you say, 'i remember' when i told you about the trumpet notes?" "i don't know," said anne-marie, with the vague look she always had after she had played. "what did you mean?" "i meant that i understood," said anne-marie. the professor frowned at her, while his lips worked. "you said, 'i remember.' and i believe you remember. i believe you are not learning anything new. you are remembering something you have known before." fräulein intervened excitedly. "ach! herr professor! i assure you the child has never seen that piece! i have been with her since the first day she _überhaupt_ had the violin, and--" the professor waved an impatient hand. he was still looking at anne-marie. "who is it?" and he shook his grey head tremulously. "whom have we here? is it paganini? or mozart? i hope it is mozart." then he turned to the man at the piano, who had his elbows on the notes, and his face hidden in his hands. "what say you, bertolini? who is with us in this involucrum?" "i know not. i am mute," said the black-haired man in moved tones. "thank the fates that you are not deaf," said the professor, looking vaguely for his hat, "or you would not have heard this wonder." then he took his leave, for he was a busy man. bertolini remained to pack up the professor's precious guarnerius del gesù, dearer to him than wife and child, and his music, and his gloves, and his glasses, and anything else that he left behind him, for the professor was an absent-minded man. then nancy said to the assistant: "are you italian?" "sissignora," said bertolini eagerly. "so am i," said nancy. and they were friends. bertolini came the next day to ask if he might practise with "little wunder," as he called her. he also came the next day, and the day after, and then every day. he was a second-rate violinist, and a third-rate pianist; but he was an absolutely first-rate musician, an extravagant, impassioned, boisterous musician, whose shouts of excitement, after the first half-hour of polite shyness, could be heard all over the house. anne-marie loved to hear him vociferate. she used to watch his face when she purposely played a false note; she liked to see him crinkle up his nose as if something had stung him, and open a wild mouth to shout. once she played through an entire piece in f, making every b natural instead of flat. "si bemolle! b flat!" said bertolini the first time. "_bemolle!_" cried bertolini the second time. "bemolle!" he roared, trampling on the pedals, and with his hand grasping his hair, that looked like a curly black mat fitted well over his head. "what is the matter with bemolle?" asked fräulein, raising bland eyes from her needlework. anne-marie laughed. "i don't know what is the matter with him. i think he's crazy." and thus signor bertolini was christened bemolle for all time. bemolle, who was a composer, now composed no more. he soon became one of the devoured. his mornings were given up to the professor; his afternoons he gave to anne-marie. he would arrive soon after lunch, and sit down at the piano, tempting the child from playthings or story-book by rippling accompaniments or dulcet chords. and because the professor had said: "with this child one can begin at the end," bemolle lured her long before her ninth birthday across the ditches and pitfalls of ernst and paganini, over the peaks and crests of beethoven and bach. on the day that nancy was called from her writing to hear anne-marie play bach's "chaconne," nancy folded up the scarf that she had used to cover her ears with, and put it away. then she took her manuscripts, and kissed them, and said good-bye to them for ever, and put them away. * * * * * soon afterwards the ogre came to prague. he had received nancy's letter about italy, and had come to answer it in person. it was good to see him again. his largeness filled the room, his mastery controlled and soothed the spirit. he was the "wall" that clarissa had spoken of in the villa solitudine long ago. lucky is the woman who belongs to a wall. when she has bruised and fretted herself in trying to push through it, and get round it, and jump over it, let her sit down quietly in its protecting shadow and be grateful. an hour after his arrival the imperious anne-marie was subjugated and entranced, fräulein was a-bustle and a-quiver with solicitude as to his physical welfare, and nancy sat back in a large armchair, and felt that nothing could hurt, or ruffle, or trouble her any more. in the evening, when fräulein had taken anne-marie to bed, the ogre smoked his long cigar, and said to nancy: "there is no jasmine in this season in italy. and not many roses. but the place that you asked for is ready. it has a large garden. when i have settled you there, i am going to peru." "oh, must you?" said nancy. "must you really?" "the mina de l'agua needs looking after. something has gone wrong with it. i ought to have gone three months ago, when i first wrote to you that i should," said the ogre. "but enough. that does not concern you." nancy looked very meek. "i am sorry," she said apologetically. "very well," said the ogre "now let us talk about your work and italy. when do you start?" those four words thrilled nancy with indescribable joy. "when do you start?" what a serene, what an attractive phrase! "can you be ready on thursday?" again the balm and charm of the question ran into nancy's veins. she felt that she could listen to questions of this kind for ever. but he stopped questioning, and expected an answer. it was a hesitant answer. she said: "what about anne-marie's violin?" he waited for her to explain, and she did so. anne-marie was going to be a portentous virtuosa. the great master had said so. it would never do to take her away from prague. nowhere would she get such lessons, nowhere would there be a bemolle to devote himself utterly and entirely to her. the ogre listened with his eyes fixed on nancy. "well? then what?" "ah!" said nancy. "then what!" and she sighed. "do you want to leave her here?" asked the ogre. "no," said nancy. "do you want to take her with you?" "n-no," said nancy. "then what?" said the ogre again. nancy raised her clouded eyes under their wing-like eyebrows to his strong face. "help me," she said. he finished smoking his cigar without speaking; then he helped her. he looked in her face with his firm eyes while he spoke to her. he said: "you cannot tread two ways at once. you said your genius was a giant angel sitting in a cave, with huge wings furled." "yes; but since then the genius of anne-marie has flown with clarion wings into the light." "you said that your unexpressed thoughts, your unfulfilled destiny, hurt you." "yes; but am i to silence a singing fountain of music in order that my silent, unwritten books may live?" he did not speak for some time. then he said: "has it never occurred to you that it might be better for the little girl to be just a little girl, and nothing else?" "no," said nancy. "it never occurred to me." "might it not have been better if you yourself, instead of being a poet, had been merely a happy woman?" "ah, perhaps!" said nancy. "but glory looked me in the face when i was young--glory, the sorcerer!--the pied piper!--and i have had to follow. through the days and the nights, through and over and across everything, his call has dragged at my heart. and, oh! it is not his call that hurts; it is the being pulled back and stopped by all the outstretched hands. the small, everyday duties and the great loves that hold one and keep one and stop one--they it is that break one's heart in two. yes, _in two_, for half one's heart has gone away with the piper." she drew in a long breath, remembering many things. then she said: "and now he is piping to anne-marie. she has heard him, and she will go. and if her path leads over my unfulfilled hopes and my unwritten books, she shall tread and trample and dance on them. and good luck to her!" "well, then--good luck to her!" said the ogre. and nancy said: "thank you." "now you are quite clear," he said after a pause; "and you must never regret it. if you want your child to be an eagle, you must pull out your own wings for her." "every feather of them!" said nancy. "and when you have done so, then she will spread them and fly away from you." "i know it," said nancy. "and you will be alone." "yes," said nancy. and she closed her eyes to look into the coming years. xix the ogre remained in prague a week, and took anne-marie on the moldau and to the white mountain, to the stromovka and the petrin hill. bemolle was frantic. for six days anne-marie had not touched the violin. he had looked forward to long hours of music with anne-marie, and had prepared her entire repertoire carefully in contrasting programmes for the english visitor's pleasure. but the english visitor would have none of it, or very little, and that little not of the best. not much beethoven, scarcely any bach, no brahms! only schubert and grieg. short pieces! then the large man would get up and shake hands, first with anne-marie, then with bemolle, and say "thank you, thank you," and the music was over. on the last day of his stay he came before luncheon, and went to the valley of the sarka alone with "miss brown"--he never called nancy anything else, and she loved the name. it was a clear midsummer day. the country was alight with poppies, like a vulgar summer hat. the heart of miss brown was sad. "i leave this evening," he said, "at . ." "you have told me that twenty times," said miss brown. "i like you to think of it," he said; and she did not answer. "i am going back to the mines, back to peru--" "you have said that two hundred times," said miss brown pettishly. he paid no attention. "to peru," he continued, "and i may have to stay there a year, or two years ... to look after the mine. then i return." he coughed. "or--i do not return." no answer. "you have not changed your mind about going to italy and writing your book?" "no," said nancy, with little streaks of white on each side of her nostrils. "i thought not." then they walked along for a quarter of an hour in silence. the wind ran over the grasses, and the birds sang. "nancy!" he said. it was the first time he had called her by her name. she covered her face and began to cry. he did not attempt to comfort her. after a while he said, "sit down," and she sat on the grass and went on crying. "do you love me very much?" he asked. "dreadfully," said nancy, looking up at him helplessly through her tears. he sat down beside her. "and do you know that i love you very much?" "yes, i know," sobbed nancy. there was a short silence. then he said: "in one of your letters long ago you wrote: 'this love across the distance, without the aid of any one of our senses, this is the blue rose of love, the mystic marvel blown in our souls for the delight of heaven.' shall we pluck it, nancy, and wear it for our own delight?" the grasses curtseyed and the river ran. he took her hand from her face. nancy looked at him, and the tears brimmed over. "then," she said brokenly, "it would not be the blue rose any more." "true," he said. "then it would be a common, everyday, pink-faced flower like every other." "true," he said again. she withdrew her hand from his. then his hand remained on his knee in the sunshine, a large brown hand, strong, but lonely. "oh, dear unknown!" said nancy; and she bent forward and kissed the lonely hand. "do not let us throw our blue dream-rose away!" "very well," he said--"very well, dear little miss brown." and he kissed her forehead for the second time. that evening he went back to his mines. xx the following winter, when nancy had been in prague nearly a year, the professor said: "next month anne-marie will give an orchestral concert." "oh, herr professor!" gasped nancy. "was giebt's?" asked the professor. "was giebt's?" asked anne-marie. "she is only nine years old." "well?" said the professor. "well?" said anne-marie. who can describe the excitement of the following days? the excitement of bemolle over the choice of a programme! the excitement of fräulein over the choice of a dress! the excitement of nancy, who could close no eye at night, who pictured anne-marie breaking down or stopping in the middle of a piece, or beginning to cry, or refusing to go on to the platform, or catching cold the day before! everyone was febrile and overwrought except anne-marie herself, who seemed to trouble not at all about it. she was to play the max bruch concerto? _gut!_ and the fantasia appassionata? all right. and the paganini variations on the g string? very well. and now might she go out with schop? for schopenhauer, long-bodied and ungainly, had come with them to europe, and was now friends with all the gay dogs of prague. "i will order the pink dress," said fräulein. "oh no! let it be white," said nancy. "i want it blue," said anne-marie. so blue it was. one snowy morning anne-marie went to her first rehearsal with the orchestra. there was much friendly laughter among the strings and wind, the brass and reeds, when the small child entered through the huge glass doors of the rudolfinum, followed by bemolle carrying the violin, nancy carrying the music, fräulein carrying the dog, and the professor in the rear, with his hat pulled down deeply over his head, and a large unlit cigar twisting in his fingers. anne-marie was introduced to the bohemian chef d'orchestre, and was hoisted up to the platform by fräulein and the professor. violins and violas tapped applause on their instruments. and now jaroslav kalas raps his desk with the bâton and raises his arm. then he remembers something. he stops and bends down to anne-marie. has she the a? yes, thank you. and the little girl holds the fiddle to her ear and plucks lightly and softly at the strings. she raises it to her shoulder, and stands in position. again the conductor taps and raises his arms. b-r-r-r-r-r roll the drums. re-do-si, re-do-si, re-e, whisper the clarinets. a pause. anne-marie lifts her right arm slowly, and strikes the low g--a long vibrating note, like the note of a 'cello. then she glides softly up the cadenza, and ends on the long pianissimo high d. bemolle, who has been standing up, sits down suddenly. the professor, who has been sitting down, stands up. now anne-marie is purling along the second cadenza. fräulein, beaming in her lonely stall in the centre of the empty hall, nods her head rapidly and continuously. nancy has covered her face with her hands. but the little girl, with her cheek on the fiddle, plays the concerto and sees nothing. only once she gives a little start, as the brass instruments blare out suddenly behind her and she turns slightly towards them with an anxious eye. then she forgets them; and she carries the music along, winding through the andante, gliding through the adagio, tearing past the allegro, leaping into the wild, magnificent finale. perfect silence. the orchestra has not applauded. kalas folds his arms and turns round to look at the professor. but the professor is blowing his nose. so kalas steps down from his desk, and, taking anne-marie's hand, lifts it, bow and all, to his lips. then, stepping back briskly to the desk, he raps for silence. "vieuxtemps' fantasie," he says, and the music-sheets are fluttered and turned. * * * * * all prague sat expectant--rustling and murmuring and coughing--in the stalls and galleries of the rudolfinum, on the night of the concert. the bohemian orchestra were in their seats. kalas stepped up to his desk, and an overture was played. a short pause. then, in the midst of a tense silence, anne-marie appeared, threading her way through the orchestra, with her violin under her arm. now she stands in her place, a tiny figure in a short blue silk frock, with slim black legs and black shoes, and her fair hair tied on one side with a blue ribbon. unwondering and calm, anne-marie confronted her first audience, gazing at the thousand upturned faces with gentle, fearless eyes. she turned her quiet gaze upwards to the gallery, where row on row of people were leaning forward to see her. then, with a little shake of her head to throw back her fair hair, she lifted her violin to her ear, plucked lightly, and listened, with her head on one side, to the murmured reply of the strings. kalas, on his tribune, was looking at her, his face drawn and pale. she nodded to him, and he rapped the desk. b-r-r-r-r-r-r rolled the drums. * * * * * in the artists' room at the close of the concert people were edging and pressing and pushing to get in and catch a glimpse of anne-marie. the directors and the uniformed men pushed the crowd out again, and locked the doors. the professor, who had listened to the concert hidden away in a corner of the gallery, elbowed his way through the crush and entered the artists' room. the doors were quickly locked again behind him. the professor had his old black violin-case in his hands. he went to the table, and, pushing aside a quantity of flowers that lay on it, he carefully put down his violin-case. it looked like a little coffin in the midst of the flowers. anne-marie was having her coat put on by kalas, and a scarf tied round her head by nancy, who was white as a sheet. the professor beckoned to her, and she ran to him, and stood beside him at the table. he opened his violin-case and lifted out the magnificent blond instrument that he had treasured for thirty years. he turned the key of the e string, and drew the string off. then he drew the a string off; then the d. the violin, now with the single silver g string holding up its bridge, lay in the professor's hands for a moment. he turned solemnly to the little girl. "this is my guarnerius del gesù. i give it to you." "yes," said anne-marie. "you will always play the paganini variations for the g string on this violin. put no other strings on it." "no," said anne-marie. the professor replaced the violin in the case, and shut it. "i have taught you what i could," he said solemnly. "life will teach you the rest." "yes," said anne-marie, and took the violin-case in her arms. the professor looked at her a long time. then he said: "see that you put on warm gloves to go out; it is snowing." he turned away quickly and left the room. nancy put her arm round anne-marie. "oh, darling, you forgot to thank him!" she said. anne-marie raised her eyes. she held the violin-case tightly in both her arms. "how can one thank him? what is the good of thanking him?" she said. and nancy felt that she was right. "where are my gloves?" said anne-marie. "he told me to put them on. and where is fräulein?" fräulein had gone. she had been sent home in a cab after the second piece, for she had not a strong heart. bemolle, who had been weeping copiously in a corner, stepped forward with the other violin-case in his hand. now they were ready. anne-marie was carrying the guarnerius and the flowers, so nancy could not take her hand. the men in uniform saluted and unlocked the doors, throwing them wide open. then anne-marie, who had started forward, stopped. before her the huge passage was lined with people, crowded and crushed in serried ranks, with a narrow space through the middle. at the end of the passage near the doors they could be seen pushing and surging, like a troubled sea. anne-marie turned to her mother. "mother, what are the people waiting for?" she asked. nancy smiled with quivering lips. "come, darling," she said. "no," said anne-marie; "i will not come. i am sure they are waiting to see something, and i want to wait, too." as the crowd caught sight of her and rushed forward, she was lifted up by a large policeman, who carried her on his shoulder and pushed his way through the tumult. anne-marie clutched her flowers and the violin-case, which knocked against the policeman's head with every step he took. nancy followed in the crush, laughing and sobbing, feeling hands grasping her hands, hearing voices saying: "gebenedeite mutter! glückliche mutter!" and she could only say: "thank you! thank you! oh, thank you!" then they were in the carriage. the door was shut with a bang. many faces surged round the windows. "wave your hand," said nancy. and anne-marie waved her hand. cheers and shouts frightened the plunging horses, and they started off at a gallop through the nocturnal streets. nancy put her arm round anne-marie, and the child's head lay on her shoulder. the guarnerius was at their feet. the flowers fell from anne-marie's hand on to the professor's old black case, that was like a shabby little coffin. so they drove away out of the noise and the lights into the dark and silent streets, holding each other without speaking. then anne-marie said softly: "did you like my concert, liebstes?" she had learned the tender german appellative from fräulein. "yes," whispered nancy. "did i play well, liebstes?" "yes, my dear little girl." a long pause. "are you happy, liebstes?" "oh yes, yes, yes! i am happy," said nancy. xxi before a week had passed nancy had discovered how difficult a thing it was to be the mother of a wonderchild, and had grown thin and harassed by the stream of visitors and the deluge of letters that overwhelmed their modest apartment in the vinohrady. as early as eight o'clock in the morning rival violinists walked beneath the windows to hear if anne-marie was practising, and how she was practising, and what she was practising. as they did not hear her, they concluded that she practised on a mute fiddle, and were wrathful and disappointed. by ten o'clock lori, the smiling maid, had introduced a reporter or two, an impresario or two, a mother or two with a child or two, and none of them seemed to need to go home to luncheon. questions were asked, and advice was tendered. "how long did the child practise every day?" "two or three hours," said nancy. "too much," cried the mothers. "too little," said the impresarios. "at what age did she begin?" "when she was between seven and eight." "too young," said the mothers. "too old," said the impresarios. "how does she sleep?" asked the mothers. "what fees do you expect?" asked the impresarios. "why do you dress her in blue?" asked the mothers. "why not in white or in black velvet?" "why don't you cut her hair quite short and dress her in boy's clothes, and say she is five years old?" asked the impresarios. "how old is she _really_?" "does her father beat her?" there seemed to be no restraint to the kind and the quantity of questions people were prepared to ask. meanwhile the fame of anne-marie had flashed to vienna, and she was invited to play in the musikverein saal. they said good-bye to the professor with tears of gratitude, and left--taking away with them his best violin and his only assistant, for bemolle was to go with them and carry the violin, and run the messages, and see after the luggage, and attend to the business arrangements. this last duty neither fräulein nor anne-marie, and least of all nancy, was capable of undertaking. bemolle himself was nervous about it, but the professor (who knew as much about business as anne-marie) had coached him. "all you have to do is to count the tickets they give you, and the money they give you. and there must be no discrepancy. do you see?" yes, bemolle saw. and so that was what he did, everywhere and after each concert. he counted the tickets, and he counted the money that was given him very carefully and lengthily, while the smiling manager stood about and smoked, or went out and refreshed himself; and it was always all right, and there was never any discrepancy anywhere. so _that_ was all right. the great hall of the musikverein was filled for anne-marie's first concert. it was crowded and packed for her second, and third, and fourth. a blond archduchess asked her to play to her children, and anne-marie's lips were taught to frame phrases to royal highnesses, and her little black legs were trained to obeisance and curtsey. then berlin telegraphed for the wonderchild, and the wonderchild went to berlin and played bach and beethoven in the saal der philharmonic. two tall, white-haired gentlemen came into the artists' room at the end of the concert. solemnly they kissed the child's forehead, and invoked god's blessing upon her. when they had left, nancy saw bemolle running after them and shaking their hands. nancy said: "what are you doing, bemolle?" the emotional bemolle, who, since anne-marie's début, passed his days turning pale and red, and always seemed on the verge of tears, exclaimed: "i have shaken hands with max bruch and with joachim. i do not care if now i die." and always at the end of the concerts crowds waited at the doors for the child to appear. anne-marie passed through the cheering people with her arms full of flowers, nodding to the right, nodding to the left, smiling and thanking and nodding again, with nancy nodding and smiling and thanking close behind her. sometimes the crowd was so great that they could not pass, and anne-marie had to be lifted up and carried to the carriage buoyantly, laughing down at everybody and waving her hands. then there was a rush round the carriage door. nancy, crushed and breathless, tearful and laughing, managed to get in after her, the door banged, and off they were, anne-marie still nodding first at one window then at the other, and rapping her fingers against the glass in farewell.... at last the running, cheering crowds were left behind, and she would drop her head with a little sigh of happiness against nancy's arm. "did you like my concert, mother dear? did i play well, liebstes?" that was the hour of joy for nancy's heart. the concerts themselves turned her into a statue of terror, enveloped her with fear as with a sheet of ice. while anne-marie played, swaying slightly like a flower in a breeze, her spirit carried away on the wing of her own music, nancy sat in the audience petrified and blenched, her hands tightly interlaced, her heart thumping dull and fast in her throat and in her ears. if the blue dream-light of anne-marie's eyes wandered round and found her, and rested on her face, nancy would try to smile--a strained, panic-stricken smile, which made anne-marie, even while she was playing, feel inclined to laugh. especially if she were at that moment performing something very difficult, spluttering fireworks by bazzini, or a romping, breakneck bravura by vieuxtemps, she would look fixedly at her mother, while an impish smile crept into her eyes, and her fingers rushed and scampered up and down the strings, and her bow swept and skimmed with the darting flight of a swallow. nancy, watching her and trying, with ashen lips, to respond to her smile, would say to herself: "she will stop suddenly! she will forget. she cannot possibly remember all those thousands and thousands of notes. she will let her bow drop. the string will break. something will happen! and if my heart goes on hammering like this, i shall fall down and die." but nothing happened, and she did not die, and the piece ended. and the applause crackled and crashed around them. and the concert ended, and soon they were alone together in the flower-filled, fragrant penumbra of the moving carriage. "are you happy, mother dear?" "yes, yes, yes! i am so happy, my own little girl!" * * * * * in the gentle month of may they went to london. london! nancy's father's home! london! close to hertfordshire, where nancy had lived the first eight years of her life. on board the channel steamer nancy, with beating heart, full of tenderness and awe, pointed out the white cliffs to anne-marie. "that is england." "yes," said anne-marie, "i know." "you must love england, darling," said nancy. "we shall see," said the wonderchild, who was not prepared to love by command. fräulein was bubbling over with reminiscences. it was in dover that nancy's mother had come to meet her twenty-four years ago. they had had tea and sponge-cakes in the train. they had bought an umbrella somewhere, because she had left hers on the boat, and it was raining. so it was to-day, raining drearily, heavily on the sad green landscapes as the train ran through kent and towards london. they went to a hotel, close to the hall where anne-marie was to play. and all the way driving to it bemolle wept, with emotion at being in london, and with emotion at not being in italy; for in a little village at the foot of the appenines, his old mother still lived, following him with anxious letters while he rushed across europe carrying the violin for anne-marie. the first london concert was to be the week after their arrival. the manager, pink-faced and blue-eyed, came to the hotel to talk about the programme. "england is not berlin. don't make it too heavy," he said. so the beethoven concerto was taken out, and the vieuxtemps concerto put in its stead. the chaconne was taken out, and the faust phantasie put in its stead. the manager said, "that's right," and went out to play golf. the london audience and the london critics came _en masse_ to hear anne-marie. the london audiences clapped and shouted. the london critics carped and reproved. how sad it was, said they, that a child with such a marvellous gift should waste her genius on music of the cheap virtuoso kind! what a responsibility on the shoulders of parents and masters who withheld from her the classic glories of beethoven and bach! the manager, coming for the programme of the second concert, said: "pile it on. give it to them heavy. it's the heavy stuff they want." then he went out and played golf. so anne-marie played the beethoven concerto and the beethoven romance, the bach chaconne and fugue, prelude and sarabande. and the audience shouted and clapped. but the critics carped and reproved. how can a mere child understand beethoven and bach? how wrong to overweight the puerile brain with the giants of classic composition! it is almost a sacrilege to hear a little girl venturing to approach the chaconne. let her play handel and mozart. so in the third concert anne-marie played handel and mozart, and the audience shouted and clapped. but the critics said that, though she played the easy, simple music very nicely for her age, still, in a london concert hall one expected to hear something more puissant and authoritative. and why did she give concerts at all? why not do something else? study composition, for instance? "that's england all over," said the manager, and went out and played golf. nancy was bewildered and unhappy. bemolle danced about in helpless latin rage, and fräulein sat down and wrote a long letter to the _times_. but it is uncertain whether the _times_ printed it. anne-marie, who did not know that critics existed, nor care what critics said, was happy and cheerful, and bought a dog in regent street, to replace the quarantined schopenhauer. he was a young and thin and careless dog, and answered to the name of ribs. then anne-marie decided that she loved england very much. many people called at the hotel to ask for autographs, and to express their views. one elderly musician was very stern with anne-marie, and sterner still with nancy. he began by asking nancy what she thought her child was going to be in the future. "i do not know," said nancy. "i am grateful for what she is now." "ah! but you must think of the future. you want her to be a great artist--" "i don't know that i do," said nancy. "she is a great artist now. if she degenerates"--and nancy smiled--"into merely a happy woman, she will have had more than her share of luck." "take care! the prodigy will kill the artist!" repeated the stern man. "you pluck the flower and you lose the fruit." nancy laughed. "it is as if you said: 'beware of being a rose-bud lest you never be an apple!' i am content that she should bloom unhindered, and be what she is. why should she not be allowed to play bach like an angel to-day, lest she should not be able to play him like joachim ten years hence?" "yes, why not!" piped up anne-marie, who had paid no attention to the conversation, but who liked to say "why not?" on general principles. the stern man turned to her. "bach, my dear child----" he began. anne-marie gave a little laugh. "oh, i know!" she said cheerfully. "what do you know?" asked the gentleman severely. "you are going to say, '_always_ play bach; nothing else is worthy,'" said anne-marie, regretting that she had joined in the conversation. "i was not going to say anything of the kind," said the stern man. "oh, then you were going to say the other thing: 'do not _attempt_ to play bach--no child can understand him.' professors always say one or the other of those two things. much stupid things are said about music." "it is so," said the gentleman severely. "you cannot possibly understand bach." anne-marie suddenly grasped him by the sleeve. "what do _you_ understand in bach? i want to know. you must tell me what you understand. exactly what it is that you understand and i don't. bemolle!" she cried, still holding the visitor's sleeve. "give me the violin!" bemolle jumped up and obeyed with beaming face. "anne-marie, darling!" expostulated nancy. but anne-marie had the violin in her hand and wildness in her eye. "stay here," she said to the visitor, relinquishing his sleeve with unwilling hand, and hastily tuning the fiddle. "now you have got to tell me what you understand in bach." she played the first five of the thirty-two variations of the chaconne; then she stopped. "what does bach mean? what have you understood?" she cried. the english musician leaned back in his chair and smiled with benevolent superiority. "and now--now i play it differently." she played it again, varying the lights and shades, the piani and the forti. "what different thing have you understood?" "and now--now i play it like joachim. so, exactly so, he played it for me and with me... "... now what have you understood that i have not? what has bach said to you, and not to me, you silly man?" nancy took anne-marie's hand. "hush, anne-marie! for shame!" "i will not hush!" cried anne-marie, with flaming cheeks. "i am tired of hearing them always say the same stupid things." the visitor, smiling acidly, stood up to go. "i am afraid too much music is not good for a little girl's manners," he said. "mother," said anne-marie, with her head against her mother's breast. "tell him to wait. i want to say a thing that i can't. help me." "what is it, dear?" "when we were to have gone to a country that you said was hot and pretty--and dirty--where was that?" "spain?" "yes, yes, yes! you said something about the little hotels there ... the funny little hotels. what did you say about them?" nancy thought a moment. then she smiled and remembered. "i said: 'you can only find in them what you bring with you yourself.'" "yes, yes!" cried anne-marie, raising her excited eyes. "now say that about music." and nancy said it. "you will only find in music what you bring to it from your own soul." "yes," said anne-marie, turning to the visitor; "how can you know what i bring? how can you know that what you bring is beautifuller or gooder? how can you know that bach meant what _you_ think and not what i think?" "don't get excited, you funny little girl," said the visitor; and he took his leave with dignity. but anne-marie was excited, and did not sleep all night. xxii "anne-marie, the king wants to hear you play!" "the king? the real king?" "yes." "not a fairy-tale king?" "no." "the king who was ill when i had a birthday-cake long ago?" "yes." "and that i made get well again?" "oh, did you, dear?" laughed nancy. "i did not know that." "i did it," said anne-marie, with deep and serious mien. "i made him get well. do you remember the seven candles round my cake?" "i heard of them. you were seven when you were at the _gartenhaus_; and i was away from you." and nancy sighed. "and you know about the birthday wishes?" asked the eager anne-marie. "the poetry says: "the heart must be pure, the wish must be sure, the blow must be one-- the magic is done!" "what terrible lines!" said nancy. "fräulein did them, from the german," said anne-marie. "what is the blow?" "the blowing-out of the candles. you may only blow once. and 'the wish must be sure.' you must not change about, and regret, and wish you hadn't. fräulein told me it would be safest to make a list of all my wishes beforehand. so i made a list days and days before my birthday. they were to be seven things--one for each candle. there was a white pony, and a kennel for schopenhauer, and a steamer to go and fetch you home in, and a lovely dress for fräulein, and a gold watch for you, and something else for elisabeth, and another dog for me, and to go to the theatre every day, and--" "there seem to be more than seven things already," said nancy. "well, they were most beautiful. especially the pony and the steamer.... and then you wrote about the king." "i remember," said nancy. "you said he was ill, and that he was your papa's king, and that he was good and forgave everybody: whole countries-full of bad people! and you wrote that i was to say a prayer, and ask god to make him well." "i remember." "well, i didn't, i said to god: 'wait a minute!' because next day was my birthday, and i had the cake with the seven wishes. i thought first i would just give up the kennel, and wish _once_ for the king to get well. so i did it, and blew out one candle; then i gave up the present for elisabeth, and wished for the king again. then i thought i could do without the dress for fräulein. and without the theatre.... and then i let the steamer and the pony go too. and i blew out all seven candles for the king!" anne-marie folded her hands in her lap. "so that's how i made him get well." "how nice," said nancy. "and now i am going to see him, and to play to him," said anne-marie dreamily. "it is very strange." she raised her simple eyes to her mother. "do you think i ought to tell him about my having saved him?" "i think not," said nancy. "it is much nicer to have saved him without his knowing it." so anne-marie did not tell him. ... but he knew. "i know that he knew!" sobbed anne-marie in the evening of the great day, trembling with emotion in her mother's arms. "i saw it in the kindness of his eyes. and mother! mother! i think that was why he kissed me." xxiii the piper piped tunes into anne-marie's ear, tunes that she had to hum, and to sing, and to play; tunes that enraptured her when she created them, and hurt her when she forgot them. so bemolle had to write them down. everything she heard wandered off into melodies, melted into harmonies, divided itself up into rhythms. mother goose rhymes and struwwelpeter were put to music, and all the favourites in andersen's märchen--the princess and the mermaid, the swineherd and the goblins--corresponded to some special bars of music in anne-marie's mind. "she has the sense of the leitmotiv," said bemolle, with awestruck eyes and oracular forefinger. it had been arranged that bemolle should have his mornings to himself for his own compositions. he had, two years before, by dint of much scraping, paid five hundred francs to secure a good libretto for his much-dreamed-of opera, of which he had already composed the principal themes when he first went with the professor to play for anne-marie; he was also half-way through a tone-poem on edgar allan poe's "eldorado." he played it occasionally to anne-marie; frequently to nancy: "gaily bedight, a gallant knight, in sunshine and in shadow----" "do you hear?" he would say, playing with much pedal, while his rough black head bounced and dipped. "do you hear the canter and gallop and thump? it is the horse, and the heart, and the hope of the knight!" yes; nancy could hear the horse, and the heart, and the hope quite clearly. "now!" bemolle's curly black mat would swoop over the keys and stay there quite near to his fingers, "now--the hag appears! do you hear the hag murmur and mumble? this is the hag murmuring and mumbling." "i should make her mumble in d flat," said anne-marie airily. and then she trotted out of the room, leaving in bemolle's heart a vague sense of dissatisfaction with his hag, because she was mumbling in a natural. soon, as there was much to do, programmes to prepare, letters to answer, engagements to accept, tours to refuse, and they were all four rather unbusiness-like and confusionary, bemolle had to put aside his opera and his tone-poem, and dedicate himself exclusively to the business arrangements of the party. they frequently got confused in their dates. "the costanzi in rome has telegraphed, asking for three concerts in february, and i have accepted!" cried bemolle triumphantly, when nancy and anne-marie returned from one of the dreaded and inevitable afternoon receptions given in their honour. "i thought we had accepted stockholm for february," said nancy, with troubled brow. "so we had!" exclaimed bemolle. "oh dear! now we must cancel it." "oh, don't cancel rome! cancel stockholm," said nancy. and so they cancelled stockholm with great difficulty, promising stockholm a date in march, immediately after rome, and immediately before berlin, where anne-marie was to play for the kaiserfest the max bruch concerto, accompanied by the great composer himself. a week later, nancy, looking at bemolle's little book of dates and engagements, said: "how can we get from rome to stockholm, and from stockholm to berlin in six days, and give three concerts in between?" "we cannot do so," said fräulein. "from berlin to warnemünde--" "oh, never mind details, fräulein," sighed nancy. "it cannot be done." "we must cancel rome," said fräulein. "no, you can't do that," said bemolle. "well, then, we must cancel berlin," said nancy. "impossible!" "then i suppose we must cancel stockholm again." so they cancelled stockholm again, by telegrams that cost one hundred and fifty francs, and by paying damages to the extent of two thousand francs, and by swallowing and ignoring threats of lawsuits and acrimonious letters. "i think we ought to have an impresario," said nancy. "we do not seem to manage our business affairs well." so they decided to have an impresario. after wavering for a long time between a little black man from rome, who had followed them all over the continent, and a great paris impresario who had only telegraphed twice, they decided on a nice-looking man in vienna, who had seemed honest, and had promised them many things. he was telegraphed for--nobody ever wrote letters if it could be helped; indeed, the correspondence which flowed in on them from all parts of the world was only half read and a quarter answered. the impresario from vienna replied, asking for two hundred kronen for travelling expenses. these were sent to him by telegraph. and then he did not come. "we must not put up with it," said fräulein. so they did not put up with it. they went to a solicitor, who asked for the correspondence and ten pounds for preliminary expenses, which were given to him. and that was all--except that about a year afterwards, when they had forgotten all about it, a bill from the solicitor for four pounds two shillings followed them across europe, and finally reached them in st. petersburg. and they paid it. but meanwhile they decided upon the paris impresario. he was a great man, and had "launched" everybody who was anybody in the artistic world. he needed no travelling expenses. he arrived, gorgeous of waistcoat, resplendent of hat. he said he had already fixed up two colonne concerts in paris for anne-marie. he was none of your slow, sleepy, impresarios. here was a contract in duplicate ready for them to sign. his bright brown eye wandered critically over bemolle. then he took fräulein in at a glance, and looking at nancy's helpless and bewildered face he seemed to be satisfied with anne-marie's surroundings. to anne-marie herself he paid no attention. he had heard her play twice. that was enough. anne-marie, as anne-marie, interested him not at all. anne-marie as artist still less. anne-marie was a musical-box, ten years old, with yellow hair, whom he had wanted to get hold of for the last six months. here was the contract. no father? well, nancy could sign it in the father's stead. nancy, bemolle, and fräulein read the contract over very carefully, while the impresario drank claret and smoked cigarettes. he had a way of sniffing the air up through his nostrils, and of swallowing with his lips turned up at the corners in an expectant, self-satisfied manner that distracted nancy, and interfered with her understanding of the contract. there were fourteen clauses. "it seems all right," said nancy softly to bemolle. bemolle frowned a businesslike frown, and fräulein said, "sprechen wir deutsch," which they did, to the placid amusement of the paris impresario, who was born in klagenfurt. after much reading and considering, bemolle turned with his business frown to the impresario. "you say forty per cent to the artist?" the impresario sniffed and swallowed. "that's right," he said. "i have the risks and the expenses." "of course," said nancy. bemolle touched her arm lightly and warningly. "forty per cent of the _gross_ receipts?" asked bemolle suspiciously. "of the _net_ receipts," said the impresario. "ah, that is better!" said the unenlightened fräulein. and bemolle put out his foot gently and kicked her. "now, what is this clause about three years?" "that's right," said the impresario. "you do not think i am to have all the trouble of launching her for you to take her away after six months, while i sit sucking my fingers." "gemeiner kerl!" said fräulein to nancy. but nancy said: "she is already launched." "is she?" said the impresario. "i don't think so." and he sniffed and swallowed. "she must make about two million francs in the next two years. otherwise she may as well quit." "zwei millionen!" gasped fräulein, under her breath. bemolle kicked her again. "and what does this mean? clause eight. 'the party of the second part agrees to give a minimum of one hundred and forty concerts per year for three years'?" "that is a matter of form," said the impresario. "we put that into all contracts lest we should feel inclined to sit about with our hands in our pockets doing nothing. now, if you don't like it, you can leave it. i've not come over for this. i have a contract with the biggest star singer in europe to sign here to-day. that is what i came for. look at it." and he pulled out a contract made in the name of a world-famed tenor, and dotted over with tens of hundreds of pounds as a field is with daisies. fräulein was much impressed. "better take him quick," she said in german. "he might go." so they took him quick, and signed the contract. and bemolle was careful to have it stamped. "und nun ist alles in ordnung," said the "gemeiner kerl," grinning at fräulein. and then he sniffed and swallowed. they soon found out what clause eight meant. the party of the second part was bound to give a minimum of one hundred and forty concerts a year--and the party of the second part was anne-marie. anne-marie was certainly not to be allowed to sit about with her hands in her pockets. in sixteen days she gave twelve concerts with eleven journeys between. she went from town to town, from platform to platform, looking like a little dazed seraph playing in its dreams. fräulein broke down on the sixth journey, and was left behind, half-way between cologne and mainz. bemolle said nothing. he could only look at anne-marie dozing in the train, and great tears would gather in his round black eyes, linger and roll down, losing themselves in his dark moustache, that drooped over his mouth like a seal's. when the impresario travelled with them, smoking cigarettes in their faces, and going to sleep with his hands in his pockets, and his long legs stretched across the compartment, there was murder--black and scarlet murder--in bemolle's eyes, and his gaze would wander from the impresario's flowered waistcoat to his blond, pointed beard, searching for a place. during the concerts the impresario was everywhere to be seen, with his hands in his pockets and his legs wide apart. between the pieces he sat in the artists' room and talked to everyone who came in to see anne-marie, scenting out the journalists with the _flair_ of a dog. nancy could hear him inventing startling anecdotes about anne-marie. he talked to the enthusiastic musicians and the tearful ladies that came to congratulate, and always could nancy hear him recounting the same untrue and unlikely anecdotes. yes, this child he had discovered playing the piano when she was three years old. when she was five she had, with the aid of her little brother, built a violin out of a soap-box. she had been kidnapped by some nihilists in russia, and had been kept by them three weeks in a kind of vault, where she had to play to them for hours when they asked her to. she had jewels and decorations worth ten thousands pounds. she had three strads; one of them had belonged to wagner and the other to the tsar. at the end of the concerts the impresario got into the carriage with them. the impresario bore anne-marie through the clapping crowds. the impresario carried her flowers and her violin, and waved his hand out of the window to the people when anne-marie was too tired to do so. anne-marie sat in her corner of the carriage and fell asleep. nancy bit her lips and tried not to cry. and bemolle sat outside on the box, thinking evil italian thoughts, and murmuring old italian curses that had never been known to fail. this lasted just a fortnight. on the fifteenth day anne-marie said: "i don't want to see that man any more. and i want to have a picnic in the grass," she added, "with things to eat in parcels, and milk in a bottle." "very well, dear," said nancy. "you shall have it." and they had it. and it was very nice. when the impresario came that evening anne-marie was not to be seen. she was in bed and asleep, rosy and worn out by her long day in the open air. "are you ready?" said the impresario, looking round. nancy said: "anne-marie cannot play to-night. she is tired. i did not know where to find you, or i should have let you know before." "oh, indeed!" said the impresario. and he sniffed and swallowed. "and really," said nancy. "i have come to the conclusion that this won't do. anne-marie must play only when she wants to. one or two concerts in a month, if she feels like it, and not more. she shall not play because she must, but because she loves to." "gelungen!" said the impresario, sitting down and taking out his cigarette case. "so i think you had better just pay for the concerts she has given, and let us go." the impresario laughed long and loud. his shoulders shook with amusement. "na, gelungen!" he said again, leaving off laughing to light his cigarette, and stretching out his long legs. "how much did you say i was to pay?" and he shook with laughter again. "well, our share, i suppose," said nancy timidly. "that's right," said the impresario, and he stopped laughing suddenly, and looked at his watch. "now hurry up and come along. it is time to start." "anne-marie is asleep," said nancy. "then wake her," said the impresario. nancy felt herself turning pale. "get on," said the impresario; "it won't kill her to play to-night. and the concert-hall is sold out." "i am sorry," said nancy; "but anne-marie never plays when she is tired." "that is foolish, my dear woman," said the impresario, getting up. "i shall be obliged to wake her myself if you don't." and he took a step towards the closed door which led into the room where anne-marie was sleeping. now anne-marie's sleep was a sacred thing. a thing watched over and hallowed, approached on tip of toe, spoken of with finger on lip and bated breath. if anne-marie slept perfect silence was kept, and the world must stop. if bemolle chanced to open a door or creak a careless shoe, he was frowned at with horrified brows. anne-marie's sleep was a thing inviolate and sacrosanct. bemolle had been standing near the window looking out into the darkness while the impresario spoke to nancy; but with the first step in the direction of the closed door bemolle darted forward with a growl like that of a angry dog. bemolle was short and stout, but his long accumulated anger and hatred stood him in lieu of height and muscles. he jumped at the impresario, he pulled his beard, he scratched his face, he pummelled him in the chest, and with short, excited legs he kicked him. when the big man recovered from the amazement caused by this unexpected onslaught, he lifted bemolle off his legs and sat him on the floor. the he took his hat and his umbrella and walked out of the room, and out of the hotel. "has he gone?" said bemolle, after a while, sitting up, with papery cheeks and a reddened eye. "yes, he has gone," said nancy. "poor bemolle! did he hurt you?" bemolle did not rise from the floor. he shook his head, and muttered hoarsely: "he wanted to wake anne-marie. he actually wanted to wake anne-marie!" ... it cost them twenty-five thousand francs to annul the contract, and five hundred francs in legal expenses. but they considered that it was cheap for the joy of having got rid of the impresario. they had picnics and played about until fräulein was well enough to join them again, and then they went to rome, where they arrived with a fortnight to spare before the orchestral concerts at the teatro costanzi. thither from milan came aunt carlotta, bent and wrinkled, and zio giacomo, trembling and slow; and adèle and nino and carlo and clarissa in a noisy and affectionate group. many tender tears were shed in memory of valeria, who had not lived to see her little grandchild's fame. "but she saw _your_ glory, nancy," said nino. they lived again in memory nancy's visit to the queen with her little volume of poems, as they all went one sunshiny afternoon up the hill of the quirinal and past the palace. nino, whose hair was quite grey, and who, according to aunt carlotta, was rather difficult to please and easy to irritate, walked in front of them, and anne-marie trotted beside him, holding his hand. he told her interesting tales about a pink pinafore her mother had worn when she was eight years old, and what fräulein looked like when she was apple-cheeked and twenty-five. fräulein, who really did not show the twenty years' difference very much, walked beside them, deeply moved by these reminiscences; and bemolle, who was to go and visit his lonely old mother as soon as the costanzi concerts were over, walked behind them all, tearful on general principles. "by the way," said nino to nancy, "i saw the dear old grey house again. i went to england on carlo's affairs two months ago. i ran down to hertfordshire and looked at it. it seemed to be empty." "oh," said fräulein, "what a beautiful place it was! don't you remember it, nancy?" "i remember the garden," said nancy, with vague eyes, "and the swing----" "what swing?" said anne-marie, taking an interest. nancy told her about the swing in the orchard of that far-away home, where she had stood swinging and singing in the placid english sunshine when she was a little girl. ... after a very few days the well-remembered envelope with the golden arms of the royal house was put into anne-marie's small hands. on the following evening, adèle, carlotta, and clarissa were in a flutter preparing nancy and anne-marie for their audience at the quirinal. bemolle was fevered with excitement, for he was to play anne-marie's accompaniments on the piano. he walked, pale and happy, carrying the violin and the music, behind nancy and anne-marie, as they passed, with right hands bared, through the red room, and the yellow room, and the blue room, and at last into the white and gold room where the king and the queen and many officers and ladies were waiting for them. the queen was not the same queen whom nancy had known, and whose name--the name of a flower--was written on the first page of her old diary. but the little boy whose picture, framed in diamonds, nancy had received on her wedding-day, was king. the queen embraced anne-marie many times, and laughed when anne-marie talked, and wept when anne-marie played. anne-marie gazed at the tall, dark-eyed queen with adoration, sparing a glance or two for a gorgeous man in scarlet tunic, with many decorations, whom she took to be the king. as the adagio of mendelssohn's concerto ended, a stern-faced man in plain evening-dress, sitting slightly apart from the others, said: "i do not care much for music, but this music i love." the queen turned to him with a smile on her beautiful face--a smile that startled anne-marie. anne-marie followed the track of that shining smile, and her eyes fastened on the face of the stern man. where had she seen that face before? why was it so dear and familiar? why did it make her think of new york, and her mother weeping over letters from home. stamps! she had seen it on stamps! _he_ was the king of italy! how could she have looked at that silly, yellow-haired man in the red tunic! anne-marie's small loyal heart prostrated itself in penitence before him who did not care for music. and as she played, he smiled back at her with piercing, friendly eyes. bemolle, who had made his deep obeisance on entering the door, and had then stopped beside the piano, bent under the awful joy of the majestic presence, never straightened himself out again, but sat down and stood up when spoken to, in a tense curvilinear posture that was painful to look upon. he also played many wrong notes in the accompaniments, and could feel the anger of anne-marie flashing upon him, even though her small blue back was turned. nancy sat beside the queen, smiling through tear-lit eyes, replying to the many intimate and kindly questions the beautiful lips asked. the queen addressed her by her maiden name that was famous, and quoted her poems to her with softly cadenced voice; and the past and the present melted into one in nancy's heart, and she could not separate their beauty. they drove back to the hotel in moved and grateful spirit. anne-marie, fluffy and feathery in her mother's arms, chatted all the way home, for she had much to say. xxiv a year of dream-like travels from triumph to triumph, from success to success, scattered roses and myrtles at the feet of anne-marie. she went through life as a child wanders through a fairy-tale garden, alight with flowers that bow and bend to her hand. the concerts were her joy. music filled her soul to overflowing, and, like a pure and chosen vessel, anne-marie poured it forth again upon the listening world. when she played she was fulfilling her destiny, as a lark must sing. one day in genoa she was taken to see paganini's violin, hanging mute and sealed in its glass case at the town hall. she looked at it silently and turned away. "what are you thinking, dear heart?" said nancy. "you look so sad." "i am thinking," said anne-marie, with solemn eyes, "how it must hurt that violin and ache it, to be kept locked up, and not be allowed to sing!" the remark was heard, and repeated, and reached the ears of the mayor of genoa. one afternoon, with great pomp, anne-marie was invited to the palace of the municipio, and, before a few invited guests, the seals were broken, and the hallowed instrument of the immortal nicolò was placed in the little girl's hands. anne-marie had not slept for three nights thinking of that moment, imagining the joy of the imprisoned voice when her hands should let it loose. she drew a new e string quickly over the tarnished bridge. now she plucked lightly at it, bending her head to listen. then, raising her bow, she struck the bonds of silence from the quivering strings. the chord in d minor rippled out, hoarse and feeble. anne-marie struck a second chord, pressing down her fingers with a vehement vibrato. again the reply came--muffled, quavering, weak. anne-marie's face grew white and tense. she removed the violin from her shoulder with a little sob. "it is dead," she said. years after, if ever nancy thought that it might have been better had anne-marie been held back, and not been allowed to play her heart out to the world, the memory of the silent violin, locked in its glass case, came back to her--the violin that had died of its own silence. and she was glad that her little skylark had been allowed to sing. and sing it did, in many climes and under many skies. was it in turin that the horses were taken from the carriage, and anne-marie and nancy drawn in triumph through the cheering, waving streets? was it in bern that the police had to hold the crowd back, and clear the squares for their plunging horses to pass? where was it that she was serenaded and called to the balcony twenty times by a crowd that seemed to have gone mad? where did men lift little children up that they might touch her dress, and women, jostled in the crowd, with hats awry, fight for a glimpse of the fair nodding head, for a touch of the little gloved hand? was it at naples that they called her _la bambino, assistita_, and thought her possessed by a spirit, and begged her to predict to them the winning numbers of the following saturday's lottery? yes, that was in naples. in the confused glory of the shifting scenes some memories stood out clearly, and held nancy's recollection. it was in naples that no seat had been reserved for her in the immense and crowded concert-hall, and that the manager had told her of a lady who would give her a seat in her own box: box , tier --nancy remembered it still. and when anne-marie, duly kissed and blessed, stepped out, violin in hand, upon the platform, nancy was still running along the empty corridors of tier , looking for box . here it was! there was a lady in it alone. nancy bowed to her and took her seat, murmuring: "grazie." then, with tightly folded hands, she had whispered the little prayer she always said for god to help anne-marie. and, as always, the prayer was answered, for anne-marie played grandly and suavely, never even dreaming that help could be needed. nancy sat in the box, tense and terrified as usual, waiting for the tranquil eyes of anne-marie to wander round the auditorium and find her. there! they found her, and shone and twinkled. then the spirit of music dropped its great wings between them, and carried away little anne-marie, swinging and singing her out of reach--out of reach of her mother's love, farther than nancy could follow. the lady in black took her pocket-handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. nancy was used to the gesture, but it always moved her. she put her hand lightly on the arm of the unknown woman whose heart her little girl's music had wrung. the last piece was ended, and the well-known cries of applause were starting from all corners of the house, when nancy rose quickly to go back to anne-marie. the woman in black put back her veil, and said: "my name is villari." nancy remembered the name. all that aldo had told, all that nino had not told, years ago swept into her mind. she looked curiously into the tired face, under its helmet of dark-red tinted hair. there were many lines in the face. nancy thought it looked like a map, and along the many little lines nancy's eyes seemed to travel into a sad and distant country. she put out her hand. "i know your name well," said nancy. "i salute the great artist." the woman sighed deeply. "i salute the happy mother," she said. then she pulled down her veil and turned away. nancy hastened along the crowded corridors, where people in groups were discussing her little daughter, and the words, "wonderful! marvellous! incredible!" beat with their accustomed soft wing on her ears. "happy mother!" oh yes, she was a happy mother! she said it over and over again, and repeated it to herself as she tied the soft woollen scarf round anne-marie's head, and again as they made their way through the cheering crowd, and the outstretched hands, and the waving hats. she repeated it as she sat in the motor open to the balmy neapolitan night, and held anne-marie tightly as she stood up on the seat, waving both small hands to the surrounding throng. the little standing figure swayed as the carriage moved swiftly down the street. soon the shouting people were left behind, and anne-marie slid down to her place near her mother. beyond the gulf, vesuvius breathed its glowing rhythmic breath, and the waters glittered. nancy remembered that this was aldo's birthplace; and then she forgot it in the lilt of the usual dulcet words: "did you like my concert, mother dear?" the phrase had now become a formula which they repeated laughingly like the refrain of a song. of all the hours of the rushing turbulent day, this was the hour of joy for nancy. anne-marie, who was elfish and impish, made strange by her music, and made wild by the worship of many people, in this one hour became a little tender child again, softer and sweeter than the day-time anne-marie, nearer and more human than the concert anne-marie, who was a strange, inaccessible being that nancy sometimes thought could not really belong to her. fräulein and bemolle followed them in another carriage. no one since the impresario had ever dared to intrude upon this sacred starlit hour of their love. did nancy's heart ever regret her own hopes of glory? did she remember her unwritten book? did she feel the wounded place of the wings that she had torn out? never! she lived for anne-marie and in anne-marie. little by little the chimera of inspiration drew away from her. she forgot that she had once clasped fame to her own breast. no words, no visions, no dreams haunted her any more. she breathed in the music anne-marie played. she dreamed the music anne-marie composed. the pied piper had passed her; his call dragged at her soul no more. the eagle of her genius no more shook and shattered her with the wild beating of his wings. she was like the silent violin--the music that her soul had not sung was dead. xxv it was in paris that what nancy had so often vaguely dreaded and expected happened at last. she was alone in the hotel in her own quiet sitting-room when the lift-boy knocked at the door, and on her careless response a visitor was ushered in. it was aldo--aldo with a square beard and a dangling eyeglass, hat in hand, and faultlessly attired. he stood before her, gazing at her face. then he put his hat on a chair, extended both hands, and said in a deep, fervent voice: "nancy!" nancy had risen with quick, indrawn breath, and stood, slim and pale, in her soft-tinted dressing-gown. he took another step towards her, still with both hands outstretched. nancy put out a diffident hand, and her husband clasped it fervently in both his own. on his little finger was a diamond ring. he bent his sleek black head over nancy's hand and kissed it. "thank god!" he murmured, and sank into a chair. nancy wondered what he was thanking god for. aldo himself was not very clear about it, but it seemed an appropriate thing to say. and he had nothing else ready. the embarrassing silence was broken by aldo. he said: "nancy, i have returned!" nancy said, "yes," and thought disconnected thoughts about his beard and his diamond ring. "you have thought cruel thoughts of me during all this time?" no, nancy had not thought cruel thoughts. "you have left off loving me?" nancy looked at him with vague, dazed eyes, and smiled without knowing why. aldo tried not to notice the smile. he said: "will you never forgive me?" "oh yes, i suppose so," said nancy; and she smiled again. she thought it funny that this strange man with the square beard and the dangling eyeglass should be asking her to forgive him, and questioning her about love. nothing about him seemed in the least familiar. his hair, that used to be parted in the middle, now waved back from his forehead; his fan-shaped beard altered his face and made him look like a frenchman; even his hat, square and high and narrow-rimmed, lying on her chair, had in it an element of utter strangeness. "what are you laughing at?" said aldo. and some tone of offended vanity in his voice startled her memory, and suddenly it was up and awake. "i am not laughing," said nancy, and she began to cry. that was the attitude that aldo had expected, and knew how to cope with. a cold, light-eyed woman with an ambiguous smile was an uncomfortable and uncertain thing. but a woman in tears was a sight he had often seen, and he understood the meaning of the bowed head and the significance of the hidden face. he was beside her, his arm round her narrow shoulders. "nancy, don't cry, don't cry! i have been a brute. but i will atone. i will repay you in happiness a thousandfold for all that you have suffered!" still she wept with her face hidden in her hands. "i am rich. i have more money than we shall know how to spend." the heaving shoulders stopped heaving. they seemed to be waiting, listening. there was distrust in those waiting shoulders, so he hurried out: "it is all right. i have not gambled or done anything disreputable. the money has been left to me"--still the shoulders waited--"by a--by--an old person whom i befriended. she has died and left me her money. i deserved it. i was very good to her--" the shoulders heaved again in a deep sigh. relief? despair? aldo was uncertain. "so all your troubles are at an end, nancy. i have settled enough on you and the child, so that you need no more exploit anne-marie." nancy started up and away from him. "exploit anne-marie!"... exploit anne-marie! was that what he thought? was that what other people thought?--that she was _exploiting anne-marie_? nancy covered her face again and burst into wild, uncontrollable sobs of grief. she cried loud, like a child, and aldo felt that these were not the tears that he was used to and understood. in these tears were all nancy's broken hopes and lost aspirations, all that she had sacrificed and stifled and tried with prayers and fastings, for anne-marie's sake, not to regret. her work, her book, her hopes of fame, her dreams of glory, all that she had given up for love of anne-marie, laid down for anne-marie's little feet to trample on, stood up in her memory like murdered things. she remembered the beating wings of her own genius that she had torn out in order not to impede anne-marie in her flight, and the wounds burned and bled again. "i have not been exploiting anne-marie," she said, raising her tear-merged eyes to aldo. "all that she has earned in her concerts has been put away for her. it is sacrosanct. no one has touched it." "then how have you lived?" he said. "i have borrowed money," she said defiantly and angrily. "a lot of money, which i shall repay when i can." "from whom?" asked aldo. nancy did not answer. "you can repay it now," said aldo, frowning. and then he was silent. the frivolous hotel clock struck four in tinkling chimes. "where is anne-marie?" asked aldo, in a low voice. "she is out." and nancy's face grew hard as stone. "i do not want her to see you. she is not to be excited and upset." "nancy!"--and aldo's nostrils went white--"you must let me see her. i have longed for her day and night for the past three years. i have thought of nothing else. i have lain awake hours every night planning the meeting with her. when i should be free, when i should be rich"--nancy flinched and shivered--"i thought of finding you struggling and in need. and i planned our meeting. i was going to send something to her--with no name--every day for a week beforehand, every day something better than the day before. the first day only a box of sweets, or of toys. then a cageful of singing birds. then a bankbook with money, and the last day"--aldo's eyes were full of tears now, but nancy's were dry and hard--"it was to be a pony-carriage with two white ponies and a stiff little groom sitting behind"--aldo's voice broke--"and that was to fetch you both away, away from poverty, and misery, and loneliness, and bring you back to me!" aldo covered his face with his hands, and his tears fell over the diamond ring. "then i heard ... i read ... about anne-marie ... and i would not go to hear her. i could not go, i could not sit alone ... and see my own little girl ... standing there ... playing to a thousand strangers ... while i, her father----" he became incoherent with grief. "and i have never heard her, never heard her," he sobbed. nancy's lips were shut, and her heart was shut. she did not speak. aldo looked at her through his swimming orbs, and wished that she would weep too. he spoke in a broken whisper. "am i not to be forgiven? can we not all be happy again?" "no," said nancy. "do you mean never?" asked aldo, and his beard worked strangely. "never," said nancy, and a shudder of dislike tightened her elbows to her side. then aldo raved and wept. he had dreamed of this meeting for three years; he had always loved her; he had always loved anne-marie; he had done what he had done for her sake and for anne-marie; he had saved, and skimped, and schemed for her and for anne-marie; he could not have lived but for the thought of her and of anne-marie; and he would not live a day longer unless it were with her and with anne-marie! as he spoke thus it was truth, and became truer while he said it, and while he saw her and felt that she would never be anything in his life again. "oh, nancy! nancy! nancy!" he grasped her cold, limp hand, and crushed it in his own. "you will let me see anne-marie. you cannot refuse it! i shall abide by what she says. if she does not want me i will go away. but if she wants me--if she remembers me and says that i may stay--promise me that you will let me! promise! promise! i will not leave you--i will not leave you until you promise!" nancy would not promise. "nancy, remember how we loved each other! remember the days on lake maggiore! remember when you were writing your book, and you used to read it to me in the evening with your head against my arm. remember everything, nancy, and promise that i may see anne-marie, and that if she is willing you will let me stay. promise, nancy, promise!" but nancy would not promise. "nancy, have you forgotten the hard times in new york? the hunger and the misery we went through together? for the sake of those dark days, the days in the old schmidls' house, and in the little flat; for the sake of my dreary little dark room, that i have since so often longed for and regretted, because i could see you and the child asleep through the open door ... will you not promise, nancy?" no; nancy could not promise. "do you remember when anne-marie had the measles?" sobbed aldo. "and she would only eat the food i cooked?... and she would only go to sleep if she held my finger and i sang, 'celeste aïda!' to her?... will you remember that, and will you promise?" nancy remembered that. and she promised. they sat waiting for anne-marie to come back from her walk. neither spoke; but aldo took a little picture-postcard of anne-marie with her violin that lay on the table, and held it in his hand, gazing at it with his elbow on his knee. then his head drooped, and he sat with his forehead pressed against the little picture. the unconscious arbiter of destinies came running along the hotel passage with a balloon from the bon marché tied to her wrist. it was a large red balloon with the words "bon marché" in gold letters on it, and it had caused fräulein intense mortification as she had walked beside it down the boulevard des italiens to the hotel. "people will recognize you," she had said to anne-marie in the street, "and they will not take you and your music seriously any more. it is not for a great artist to walk about with a stupid balloon." "it is not stupider than any other balloon," said anne-marie, slapping its red inflated head, and watching it ascend slowly to the length of its string. then she pulled it down again, and a slight puff of wind made it knock lightly against fräulein's cheek. fräulein was exceedingly vexed. "i cannot imagine how any one who plays the beethoven sonata--" "which sonata?" asked anne-marie, who was an adept at changing the conversation. "the kreutzer or the frühling? i prefer the kreutzer." then she forcibly inserted her fingers under fräulein's hard and resisting arm, and trotted gaily beside her. the balloon bumped lightly against fräulein's hat, but fräulein did not mind; she merely said that she would have preferred if "louvre" had been written on it instead of "bon marché," which looked so cheap. anne-marie now entered the sitting-room, balloon in hand. fräulein, seeing a visitor there, withdrew to her room. anne-marie was used to people calling on her and waiting for her. she put out a small warm hand to the stranger, who had started to his feet, and was looking at her with vehement, tearful eyes.... anne-marie had seen many strangers and many tearful eyes. she was not moved or surprised. "bon jour," she said, judging by the beard. then she went to her mother. "look at my balloon, liebstes," she said, slipping the string off her wrist. the balloon rose quickly and gently, and before it could be stopped it was knock-knocking against the ceiling. anne-marie's despairing eyes followed it. the room was high. the piece of string hung beyond human reach. then the man with the beard took her hand, and said: "anne-marie!" anne-marie drew her hand away, rubbing it lightly against her dress. he again said: "anne-marie!" in a hoarse voice, with his hands clasped together. "look at me," he said, and the blue eyes obediently left the ceiling and rested on his face. "do you remember me?" "yes," said anne-marie promptly and unveraciously. she had often been chided by fräulein for saying an abrupt "no" on these occasions. "it is rude to say 'no' and it hurts people's feelings. you must say: 'i am not sure ... i think i remember ...' fräulein had admonished. "oh, if i must not say no, i had better say yes," said anne-marie, who believed in being brief. and so she did on this occasion. the hot blood had rushed like a flame to aldo's face. he dropped upon his knee and took her hands, pressing them to his eyes, and to his forehead, and to his lips. "my little girl! my little girl!" he said, and the quick southern tears flowed. anne-marie said to herself: "he must be a german musician." only german musicians had been as demonstrative as this. and she looked round to her mother, but her mother's face was turned away. "may i stay--may i stay, anne-marie? you don't want me to go away again, do you? tell your mother that you want me to stay with you and take care of you!" now it was for anne-marie to be bewildered. "i don't want to be taken care of, thank you," she said, as politely as she could. aldo laughed through his tears. "dear, funny little child of mine," he cried, kissing her hand and her sleeve. anne-marie was matter-of-fact. "good-bye," she said decisively. "if you want an autograph, i will give you one." aldo caught her by both arms, gazing into her face with blurred eyes. "anne-marie! anne-marie! you said you remembered me! don't you know who i am? don't you remember your father, anne-marie, who used to sing 'celeste aïda, forma divina' to you when you were ill, and who took you to see the squirrels in the park? anne-marie, don't you remember me?" anne-marie's underlip trembled. she shook her head. aldo rose from his knees. he turned away and hid his face in his hands. anne-marie tiptoed to her mother's side, and nestled in her encircling arm. then her eyes wandered upwards in search of the balloon. there it was, close to the ceiling. anne-marie thought that it looked smaller than it was before. she wondered how she would ever get it down again. nancy had turned her face--a pinched white face that also looked smaller, thought anne-marie--towards her, and spoke in a low voice. "anne-marie, he is your father." "is he?" said anne-marie, glancing at the tall figure with the sloping shoulders and the hidden face, and then at the hat on the chair. "shall he stay with us?" questioned nancy under her breath. "with us two?" asked anne-marie, with round, troubled eyes, and remembering the impresario. "with us two." "for always?" and anne-marie's eyes were larger and more troubled. "for always," said nancy. anne-marie glanced at the man again and at the hat again. then she put her cheek against her mother's arm, as she always did, when she asked a favour. "rather not, liebstes," she whispered. the arbiter had spoken. aldo said only a few words more to nancy. he placed his hands on anne-marie's head, and looked at her a long time. then he turned suddenly, took up his square hat, and left the room. "that was a strange man," said anne-marie. "was he really my father?" nancy, with pale lips, said: "yes." "are you sure?" questioned anne-marie, raising her eyes to the balloon. "yes, dear," said nancy; and her tears fell. suddenly anne-marie flew to the door. "father!" she cried in a shrill treble voice. aldo, on the stairs, heard and stood still. his hand gripped the bannisters, his heart leaped to his throat. "father!" he turned slowly, doubtingly. "father!" came the treble voice again; and he mounted the steps, and went trembling and stumbling along the passage. anne-marie was standing at the door. "do you think," she said, "you could catch my balloon before you go?" * * * * * he caught her balloon. then he went--out of the room, out of their lives, out of the story. xxvi * * * * * "mina de l'agua. "nancy,--the years and the yearning are over. i am leaving for europe. you will come to meet me in genoa; and we shall sit on the balcony where three years ago you told me of your book, which you feared would die like a babe unborn in your breast. "i am coming to take you to porto venere, 'white in the sunshine--tip-tilted over the sea'; and the book shall live at last. "and we, also, shall live. oh, nancy, nancy! i have been a silent and a lonely man so long, that my love has no words, my happiness no language. even now i can hardly believe that the years of exile and solitude are over. but i know that you, having loved me once, still love me and will love me. i know that your heart is not a heart that changes, and that the words that drew you to me across the ocean three years ago will bring you to me again. nancy, come to me. to my empty arms, to my sad and solitary heart, nancy, come at once. and for ever." * * * * * "dear ogre, dear friend and love of mine, your call has shaken my soul. all my longings, all my dreams, have joined their voices with yours, crying to me to go to you. alas! a little prayer that fräulein used to make me say when i was a child whispers to me, and its small voice drowns the cry of my desires. it is the prayer of the three angels that stand round one's bed in the night: "'one holds my hands, one holds my feet, and the third one holds my heart.' "can i come to you when i am thus bound--bound hands and feet by law and church? my small conventional soul shrinks from the unlawful and the forbidden. "but, believe me, were i free as air, were my hands unbound to lie in yours, my feet unloosed to fly to you, the third angel remains. 'and the third one holds my heart.' anne-marie is the third angel. anne-marie holds my heart. how could i bring her with me? think and reply for me. how could i leave her? think and reply. dear ogre, i am one of the devoured. little anne-marie has devoured me, and it is right that it should be so; she has absorbed me, and i am glad; she has consumed me, and i am grateful. for it is in the nature of things that to these lives given to us, our lives should be given. what matter that i fall back into the shadow--my course not run, my goal not reached, my mission unfulfilled? anne-marie will have what i have missed; anne-marie will reach the completeness that has failed me; for her will be the heights i have not conquered, the glory i have not attained. "oh, lover and friend of mine, understand and forgive me. there is no room for love in my life. my life is full of haste and turmoil, full of kings and queens, full of rushing trains, and shouting voices, and clapping hands.... "can you not see it all as in a picture--the pied piper whistling and dancing on ahead; little anne-marie, fame-drunken, music-struck, whirlwinding after him; and i following them in breathless, palpitant haste, leaving all that was once mine behind me--my books, my dreams, my love?... love in the picture is not a rose-crowned god of laughter and passion. love is a lonely figure, lonely and stern and sad. oh, love, forgive me, and understand! and say good-bye--good-bye to nancy!" * * * * * he forgave her, and understood, and said good-bye to nancy. xxvii the days swung on. and they swung anne-marie from triumph to triumph. and they poured sunshine into her hair, and sea-shine into her eyes. and they reared her into fulgent maidenhood, as a white lily is reared on a fragile stem. they swung nancy back into the shadow where mothers sit with gentle hands folded, and eyes whose tears no one counts. she learned to forget that she had even known a poem about "la belle qui veut, la belle qui n'ose, ceuillir les roses du jardin bleu!" the blue garden of youth closed its gates silently behind her, and the roses that nancy's hand had not gathered would bloom for her no more. but for anne-marie, when the time was ripe, the pied piper tossed his flute to another player. anne-marie stood still and listened to the new call--the far-away call of love. soon she faltered, and turned and followed the silver-toned call of love. * * * * * xxviii the carriage that was to take the bride and bridegroom to the station was waiting in the tuscan sunlight, surrounded by the laughing, impatient crowd. as anne-marie appeared--her rose-lit face half hidden in her furs, her travelling-hat poised lightly at the back of her shining head--the crowd shouted and cheered, just as it had always done after her concerts. and she smiled and nodded, and said, "good-bye! good-bye! thank you, and good-bye!" just as she always did at the close of her concerts. the bridegroom, tall and serious beside her, would have liked to hurry her into the carriage, but she took her hand from his arm and stopped, turning and smiling to the right and to the left, shaking hands with a hundred people who knew her and loved and blessed her. with one foot on the carriage-step, she still nodded and smiled and waved her hand. then the young husband lifted her in, jumped in beside her, and shut the carriage-door. cheers and shouts and waving hats followed them as the horses, striking fire from their hoofs, broke into a gallop, and carried them down the street and out of sight. ... nancy had not left the house. she had not gone to the window. she could hear the cheers and the laughter, and for a moment she pictured herself with anne-marie in the carriage, driving home after the concerts--anne-marie still nodding, first out of one window, then out of the other, laughing, waving her hand; then falling into her mother's arms with a little sigh of delight. at last they were alone--alone after all the crowd--in the darkness and the silence, after all the noise and light. and anne-marie's hand was in hers; anne-marie's soft hair was on her breast. again the well-known dulcet tones: "did you like my concert, liebstes? are you happy, mother dear?" then silence all the way home--home to strange hotels, no matter in what town or in what land. it was always home, for they were together. nancy stepped to the window, both hands held tightly to her heart. the road was empty. the house was empty. the world was empty. then she cried, loud and long--cried, stretching her arms out before her, kneeling by the window: "oh, my little girl! my own child! what shall i do? what shall i do?" but there was nothing left for nancy to do. * * * * * now it was late. her book was dead. her child had left her. and the blue garden was closed. book iii i anne-marie stirred, sighed, and awoke. the room was dim and silent. but soon a gentle, rhythmical sound fell on her ears, and pleased her. it was a soft, regular sound, like the ticking of a clock, like the beating of a heart--it was the rocking of a cradle. anne-marie smiled to herself, and her soul sank into peacefulness. the gentle clicking sound lulled her near to sleep again. she was utterly at peace--utterly happy. life opened wider portals over wider shining lands. then, with the awakening of memory, came the thought of her violin. with a soft tremor of joy, she realized that the brief silence of the past year was over. music would stream again from her hands over the world. her violin! under her closed lashes she thought of it. she could see the gold-brown curves of the volute, the soft swing of the f's, the tense, sensitive strings resting on the lithe, slim bridge--all waiting for her, waiting for the touch of her wild young fingers to spring into life and song again. the tears welled into her closed eyes. how she would work! what songs, what symphonies she would create! how much she would say that nobody had yet said.... already inspiration, nebulous and wan, laid soft hands upon her--drawing faint harmonies, like floating ribbons, through her brain. then joy rushed through her like a living thing, and she saw her life before her. she would ascend the wide white road of immortality with love upholding her, with genius burning and exalting her like a flaming star that had fallen into her soul.... * * * * * in the shadowy cradle the baby opened its eyes and said: "i am hungry." _a selection from the catalogue of_ g. p. putnam's sons complete catalogues sent on application "_no one who reads it can ever forget it._" _albany times-union._ poppy _the story of a south african girl_ by cynthia stockley "breezy freshness, strong masculinity, and almost reckless abandon in the literary texture and dramatic inventions."--_phila. north american._ "has a charm that is difficult to describe." _st. louis post-dispatch._ "a book of many surprises, and a fresh new kind of heroine--strong, sweet, and unconventional."--_st. paul pioneer press._ "extremely interesting--so much life, ardor, and color."--_new york herald._ "shows undoubted power."--_n.y. times._ _second printing_ _with frontispiece. $ . net ($ . by mail)_ new york g. p. putnam's sons london "_clever, original, entertaining, thrilling._" cincinnati times-star. the master girl by ashton hilliers author of "as it happened," etc. a vivid story of prehistoric times, when the wife-hunter prowled around the cave of the savage woman he intended to appropriate. into this life of hard necessity, of physical conflict, of constant peril and unceasing vigilance, is introduced a love affair between a savage man and a savage woman that presents a blending of tenderness and savagery typical of an age when love and hate were more deeply rooted passions than they are to-day. "_this tale of the master girl and her amazing doings has only one fault. it is too short._"--new york sun. _at all booksellers. $ . net ($ . by mail)_ new york g. p. putnam's sons london _an ideal love story_ the rosary by florence l. barclay "once in a long while there appears a story like _the rosary_, in which there is but one adventure, the love of the two real persons superbly capable of love, the sacrifices they make for it, the sorrows it brings them, the exceeding reward. this can only be done by a writer of feeling, of imagination, and of the sincerest art. when it is done, something has been done that justifies the publishing business, refreshes the heart of the reviewer, strengthens faith in the outcome of the great experiment of putting humanity on earth. _the rosary_ is a rare book, a source of genuine delight."--_the syracuse post._ _crown vo. $ . net. ($ . by mail.)_ g. p. putnam's sons new york london anna katharine green's _great new novel_ the house of the whispering pines this is one of the strongest and best detective stories ever written, in which the popular author of "the leavenworth case" reaches the culmination of her peculiar powers. _imagine the situation!_ a rambling old country house surrounded by pines. enter a man at midnight, believing it deserted. he sees a beautiful girl come down the stairs and depart. upstairs he finds her sister, his fiancée, strangled. as he bends over the lifeless body, enter the police, summoned by a mysterious call. he is arrested. _crown vo. $ . _ _with frontispiece in color by arthur i. keller_ new york g. p. putnam's sons london transcriber's notes: there were a few printer's errors which have been corrected. the oe ligature is indicated by [oe]. a book of sibyls mrs barbauld miss edgeworth mrs opie miss austen by miss thackeray (mrs richmond ritchie) london smith, elder, & co., waterloo place [_all rights reserved_] [_reprinted from the cornhill magazine_] _to_ _mrs oliphant_ _my little record would not seem to me in any way complete without your name, dear sibyl of our own, and as i write it here, i am grateful to know that to mine and me it is not only the name of a sibyl with deep visions, but of a friend to us all._ _a. t. r._ preface. not long ago, a party of friends were sitting at luncheon in a suburb of london, when one of them happened to make some reference to maple grove and selina, and to ask in what county of england maple grove was situated. everybody immediately had a theory. only one of the company (a french gentleman, not well acquainted with english) did not recognise the allusion. a lady sitting by the master of the house (she will, i hope, forgive me for quoting her words, for no one else has a better right to speak them) said, 'what a curious sign it is of jane austen's increasing popularity! here are five out of six people sitting round a table, nearly a hundred years after her death, who all recognise at once a chance allusion to an obscure character in one of her books.' it seemed impossible to leave out jane austen's dear household name from a volume which concerned women writing in the early part of this century, and although the essay which is called by her name has already been reprinted, it is added with some alteration in its place with the others. putting together this little book has been a great pleasure and interest to the compiler, and she wishes once more to thank those who have so kindly sheltered her during her work, and lent her books and papers and letters concerning the four writers whose works and manner of being she has attempted to describe; and she wishes specially to express her thanks to the baron and baroness von hÜgel, to the ladies of miss edgeworth's family, to mr. harrison, of the london library, to the miss reids, of hampstead, to mrs. field and her daughters, of squire's mount, hampstead, to lady buxton, mrs. brookfield, miss alderson, and miss shirreff. contents. page mrs. barbauld [ - ] maria edgeworth [ - ] mrs. opie [ - ] jane austen [ - ] a book of sibyls. _mrs. barbauld._ - . 'i've heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.' _measure for measure._ i. 'the first poetess i can recollect is mrs. barbauld, with whose works i became acquainted--before those of any other author, male or female--when i was learning to spell words of one syllable in her story-books for children.' so says hazlitt in his lectures on living poets. he goes on to call her a very pretty poetess, strewing flowers of poesy as she goes. the writer must needs, from the same point of view as hazlitt, look upon mrs. barbauld with a special interest, having also first learnt to read out of her little yellow books, of which the syllables rise up one by one again with a remembrance of the hand patiently pointing to each in turn; all this recalled and revived after a lifetime by the sight of a rusty iron gateway, behind which mrs. barbauld once lived, of some old letters closely covered with a wavery writing, of a wide prospect that she once delighted to look upon. mrs. barbauld, who loved to share her pleasures, used to bring her friends to see the great view from the hampstead hill-top, and thus records their impressions:-- 'i dragged mrs. a. up as i did you, my dear, to our prospect walk, from whence we have so extensive a view. 'yes,' said she, 'it is a very fine view indeed for a flat country.' 'while, on the other hand, mrs. b. gave us such a dismal account of the precipices, mountains, and deserts she encountered, that you would have thought she had been on the wildest part of the alps.' the old hampstead highroad, starting from the plain, winds its way resolutely up the steep, and brings you past red-brick houses and walled-in gardens to this noble outlook; to the heath, with its fresh, inspiriting breezes, its lovely distances of far-off waters and gorsy hollows. at whatever season, at whatever hour you come, you are pretty sure to find one or two votaries--poets like mrs. barbauld, or commonplace people such as her friends--watching before this great altar of nature; whether by early morning rays, or in the blazing sunset, or when the evening veils and mists with stars come falling, while the lights of london shine far away in the valley. years after mrs. barbauld wrote, one man, pre-eminent amongst poets, used to stand upon this hill-top, and lo! as turner gazed, a whole generation gazed with him. for him italy gleamed from behind the crimson stems of the fir-trees; the spirit of loveliest mythology floated upon the clouds, upon the many changing tints of the plains; and, as the painter watched the lights upon the distant hills, they sank into his soul, and he painted them down for us, and poured his dreams into our awakening hearts. he was one of that race of giants, mighty men of humble heart, who have looked from hampstead and highgate hills. here wordsworth trod; here sang keats's nightingale; here mused coleridge; and here came carlyle, only yesterday, tramping wearily, in search of some sign of his old companions. here, too, stood kind walter scott, under the elms of the judges' walk, and perhaps joanna baillie was by his side, coming out from her pretty old house beyond the trees. besides all these, were a whole company of lesser stars following and surrounding the brighter planets--muses, memoirs, critics, poets, nymphs, authoresses--coming to drink tea and to admire the pleasant suburban beauties of this modern parnassus. a record of many of their names is still to be found, appropriately enough, in the catalogue of the little hampstead library which still exists, which was founded at a time when the very hands that wrote the books may have placed the old volumes upon the shelves. present readers can study them at their leisure, to the clanking of the horses' feet in the courtyard outside, and the splashing of buckets. a few newspapers lie on the table--stray sheets of to-day that have fluttered up the hill, bringing news of this bustling now into a past serenity. the librarian sits stitching quietly in a window. an old lady comes in to read the news; but she has forgotten her spectacles, and soon goes away. here, instead of asking for 'vice versâ,' or ouida's last novel, you instinctively mention 'plays of the passions,' miss burney's 'evelina,' or some such novels; and mrs. barbauld's works are also in their place. when i asked for them, two pretty old quaker volumes were put into my hands, with shabby grey bindings, with fine paper and broad margins, such as mr. ruskin would approve. of all the inhabitants of this bookshelf mrs. barbauld is one of the most appropriate. it is but a few minutes' walk from the library in heath street to the old corner house in church row where she lived for a time, near a hundred years ago, and all round about are the scenes of much of her life, of her friendships and interests. here lived her friends and neighbours; here to church row came her pupils and admirers, and, later still, to the pretty old house on rosslyn hill. as for church row, as most people know, it is an avenue of dutch red-faced houses, leading demurely to the old church tower, that stands guarding its graves in the flowery churchyard. as we came up the quiet place, the sweet windy drone of the organ swelled across the blossoms of the spring, which were lighting up every shabby corner and hillside garden. through this pleasant confusion of past and present, of spring-time scattering blossoms upon the graves, of old ivy walks and iron bars imprisoning past memories, with fragrant fumes of lilac and of elder, one could picture to oneself, as in a waking dream, two figures advancing from the corner house with the ivy walls--distinct, sedate--passing under the old doorway. i could almost see the lady, carefully dressed in many fine muslin folds and frills with hooped silk skirts, indeed, but slight and graceful in her quick advance, with blue eyes, with delicate sharp features, and a dazzling skin. as for the gentleman, i pictured him a dapper figure, with dark eyes, dressed in black, as befitted a minister even of dissenting views. the lady came forward, looking amused by my scrutiny, somewhat shy i thought--was she going to speak? and by the same token it seemed to me the gentleman was about to interrupt her. but margaret, my young companion, laughed and opened an umbrella, or a cock crew, or some door banged, and the fleeting visions of fancy disappeared. many well-authenticated ghost stories describe the apparition of bygone persons, and lo! when the figure vanishes, a letter is left behind! some such experience seemed to be mine when, on my return, i found a packet of letters on the hall table--letters not addressed to me, but to some unknown miss belsham, and signed and sealed by mrs. barbauld's hand. they had been sent for me to read by the kindness of some ladies now living at hampstead, who afterwards showed me the portrait of the lady, who began the world as miss betsy belsham and who ended her career as mrs. kenrick. it is an oval miniature, belonging to the times of powder and of puff, representing not a handsome, but an animated countenance, with laughter and spirit in the expression; the mouth is large, the eyes are dark, the nose is short. this was the _confidante_ of mrs. barbauld's early days, the faithful friend of her latter sorrows. the letters, kept by 'betsy' with faithful conscientious care for many years, give the story of a whole lifetime with unconscious fidelity. the gaiety of youth, its impatience, its exuberance, and sometimes bad taste; the wider, quieter feelings of later life; the courage of sorrowful times; long friendship deepening the tender and faithful memories of age, when there is so little left to say, so much to feel--all these things are there. ii. mrs. barbauld was a schoolmistress, and a schoolmaster's wife and daughter. her father was dr. john aikin, d.d.; her mother was miss jane jennings, of a good northamptonshire family--scholastic also. dr. aikin brought his wife home to knibworth, in leicestershire, where he opened a school which became very successful in time. mrs. barbauld, their eldest child, was born here in , and was christened anna lætitia, after some lady of high degree belonging to her mother's family. two or three years later came a son. it was a quiet home, deep hidden in the secluded rural place; and the little household lived its own tranquil life far away from the storms and battles and great events that were stirring the world. dr. aikin kept school; mrs. aikin ruled her household with capacity, and not without some sternness, according to the custom of the time. it appears that late in life the good lady was distressed by the backwardness of her grandchildren at four or five years old. 'i once, indeed, knew a little girl,' so wrote mrs. aikin of her daughter, 'who was as eager to learn as her instructor could be to teach her, and who at two years old could read sentences and little stories, in her _wise_ book, roundly and without spelling, and in half a year or more could read as well as most women; but i never knew such another, and i believe i never shall.' it was fortunate that no great harm came of this premature forcing, although it is difficult to say what its absence might not have done for mrs. barbauld. one can fancy the little assiduous girl, industrious, impulsive, interested in everything--in all life and all nature--drinking in, on every side, learning, eagerly wondering, listening to all around with bright and ready wit. there is a pretty little story told by mrs. ellis in her book about mrs. barbauld, how one day, when dr. aikin and a friend 'were conversing on the passions,' the doctor observes that joy cannot have place in a state of perfect felicity, since it supposes an accession of happiness. 'i think you are mistaken, papa,' says a little voice from the opposite side of the table. 'why so, my child?' says the doctor. 'because in the chapter i read to you this morning, in the testament, it is said that "there is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons that need no repentance."' besides her english testament and her early reading, the little girl was taught by her mother to do as little daughters did in those days, to obey a somewhat austere rule, to drop curtsies in the right place, to make beds, to preserve fruits. the father, after demur, but surely not without some paternal pride in her proficiency, taught the child latin and french and italian, and something of greek, and gave her an acquaintance with english literature. one can imagine little nancy with her fair head bending over her lessons, or, when playing time had come, perhaps a little lonely and listening to the distant voices of the schoolboys at their games. the mother, fearing she might acquire rough and boisterous manners, strictly forbade any communication with the schoolboys. sometimes in after days, speaking of these early times and of the constraint of many bygone rules and regulations, mrs. barbauld used to attribute to this early formal training something of the hesitation and shyness which troubled her and never entirely wore off. she does not seem to have been in any great harmony with her mother. one could imagine a fanciful and high-spirited child, timid and dutiful, and yet strong-willed, secretly rebelling against the rigid order of her home, and feeling lonely for want of liberty and companionship. it was true she had birds and beasts and plants for her playfellows, but she was of a gregarious and sociable nature, and she was unconsciously longing for something more, and perhaps feeling a want in her early life which no silent company can supply. she was about fifteen when a great event took place. her father was appointed classical tutor to the warrington academy, and thither the little family removed. we read that the warrington academy was a dissenting college started by very eminent and periwigged personages, whose silhouettes mrs. barbauld herself afterwards cut out in sticking-plaster, and whose names are to this day remembered and held in just esteem. they were people of simple living and high thinking, they belonged to a class holding then a higher place than now in the world's esteem, that of dissenting ministers. the dissenting ministers were fairly well paid and faithfully followed by their congregations. the college was started under the auspices of distinguished members of the community, lord willoughby of parham, the last presbyterian lord, being patron. among the masters were to be found the well-known names of dr. doddridge; of gilbert wakefield, the reformer and uncompromising martyr; of dr. taylor, of norwich, the hebrew scholar; of dr. priestley, the chemical analyst and patriot, and enterprising theologian, who left england and settled in america for conscience and liberty's sake. many other people, neither students nor professors, used to come to warrington, and chief among them in later years good john howard with mss. for his friend dr. aikin to correct for the press. now for the first time mrs. barbauld (miss aikin she was then) saw something of real life, of men and manners. it was not likely that she looked back with any lingering regret to knibworth, or would have willingly returned thither. a story in one of her memoirs gives an amusing picture of the manners of a young country lady of that day. mr. haines, a rich farmer from knibworth, who had been greatly struck by miss aikin, followed her to warrington, and 'obtained a private audience of her father and begged his consent to be allowed to make her his wife.' the father answered 'that his daughter was there walking in the garden, and he might go and ask her himself.' 'with what grace the farmer pleaded his cause i know not,' says her biographer and niece. 'out of all patience at his unwelcome importunities, my aunt ran nimbly up a tree which grew by the garden wall, and let herself down into the lane beyond.' the next few years must have been perhaps the happiest of mrs. barbauld's life. once when it was nearly over she said to her niece, mrs. le breton, from whose interesting account i have been quoting, that she had never been placed in a situation which really suited her. as one reads her sketches and poems, one is struck by some sense of this detracting influence of which she complains: there is a certain incompleteness and slightness which speaks of intermittent work, of interrupted trains of thought. at the same time there is a natural buoyant quality in much of her writing which seems like a pleasant landscape view seen through the bars of a window. there may be wider prospects, but her eyes are bright, and this peep of nature is undoubtedly delightful. iii. the letters to miss belsham begin somewhere about . the young lady has been paying a visit to miss aikin at warrington, and is interested in everyone and everything belonging to the place. miss aikin is no less eager to describe than miss belsham to listen, and accordingly a whole stream of characters and details of gossip and descriptions in faded ink come flowing across their pages, together with many expressions of affection and interest. 'my dear betsy, i love you for discarding the word miss from your vocabulary,' so the packet begins, and it continues in the same strain of pleasant girlish chatter, alternating with the history of many bygone festivities, and stories of friends, neighbours, of beaux and partners; of the latter genus, and of miss aikin's efforts to make herself agreeable, here is a sample:--'i talked to him, smiled upon him, gave him my fan to play with,' says the lively young lady. 'nothing would do; he was grave as a philosopher. i tried to raise a conversation: "'twas fine weather for dancing." he agreed to my observation. "we had a tolerable set this time." neither did he contradict that. then we were both silent--stupid mortal thought i! but unreasonable as he appeared to the advances that i made him, there was one object in the room, a sparkling object which seemed to attract all his attention, on which he seemed to gaze with transport, and which indeed he hardly took his eyes off the whole time.... the object that i mean was his shoebuckle.' one could imagine miss elizabeth bennett writing in some such strain to her friend miss charlotte lucas after one of the evenings at bingley's hospitable mansion. and yet miss aikin is more impulsive, more romantic than elizabeth. 'wherever you are, fly letter on the wings of the wind,' she cries, 'and tell my dear betsy what?--only that i love her dearly.' miss nancy aikin (she seems to have been nancy in these letters, and to have assumed the more dignified lætitia upon her marriage) pours out her lively heart, laughs, jokes, interests herself in the sentimental affairs of the whole neighbourhood as well as in her own. perhaps few young ladies now-a-days would write to their _confidantes_ with the announcement that for some time past a young sprig had been teasing them to have him. this, however, is among miss nancy's confidences. she also writes poems and _jeux d'esprit_, and receives poetry in return from betsy, who calls herself camilla, and pays her friend many compliments, for miss aikin in her reply quotes the well-known lines:-- who for another's brow entwines the bays, and where she well might rival stoops to praise. miss aikin by this time has attained to all the dignity of a full-blown authoress, and is publishing a successful book of poems in conjunction with her brother, which little book created much attention at the time. one day the muse thus apostrophises betsy: 'shall we ever see her amongst us again?' says my sister (mrs. aikin). my brother (saucy fellow) says, 'i want to see this girl, i think (stroking his chin as he walks backwards and forwards in the room with great gravity). i think we should admire one another.' 'when you come among us,' continues the warm-hearted friend, 'we shall set the bells a-ringing, bid adieu to care and gravity, and sing "o be joyful."' and finally, after some apologies for her remiss correspondence, 'i left my brother writing to you instead of patty, poor soul. well, it is a clever thing too, to have a husband to write one's letters for one. if i had one i would be a much better correspondent to you. i would order him to write every week.' and, indeed, mrs. barbauld was as good as her word, and did not forget the resolutions made by miss aikin in . in comes some eventful news: 'i should have written to you sooner had it not been for the uncertainty and suspense in which for a long time i have been involved; and since my lot has been fixed for many busy engagements which have left me few moments of leisure. they hurry me out of my life. it is hardly a month that i have certainly known i should fix on norfolk, and now next thursday they say i am to be finally, irrevocably married. pity me, dear betsy; for on the day i fancy when you will read this letter, will the event take place which is to make so great an era in my life. i feel depressed, and my courage almost fails me. yet upon the whole i have the greatest reason to think i shall be happy. i shall possess the entire affection of a worthy man, whom my father and mother now entirely and heartily approve. the people where we are going, though strangers, have behaved with the greatest zeal and affection; and i think we have a fair prospect of being useful and living comfortably in that state of middling life to which i have been accustomed, and which i love.' and then comes a word which must interest all who have ever cared and felt grateful admiration for the works of one devoted human being and true christian hero. speaking of her father's friend, john howard, she says with an almost audible sigh: 'it was too late, as you say, or i believe i should have been in love with mr. howard. seriously, i looked upon him with that sort of reverence and love which one should have for a guardian angel. god bless him and preserve his health for the health's sake of thousands. and now farewell,' she writes in conclusion: 'i shall write to you no more under this name; but under any name, in every situation, at any distance of time or place, i shall love you equally and be always affectionately yours, tho' _not_ always, a. aikin.' * * * * * poor lady! the future held, indeed, many a sad and unsuspected hour for her, many a cruel pang, many a dark and heavy season, that must have seemed intolerably weary to one of her sprightly and yet somewhat indolent nature, more easily accepting evil than devising escape from it. but it also held many blessings of constancy, friendship, kindly deeds, and useful doings. she had not devotion to give such as that of the good howard whom she revered, but the equable help and sympathy for others of an open-minded and kindly woman was hers. her marriage would seem to have been brought about by a romantic fancy rather than by a tender affection. mr. barbauld's mind had been once unhinged; his protestations were passionate and somewhat dramatic. we are told that when she was warned by a friend, she only said, 'but surely, if i throw him over, he will become crazy again;' and from a high-minded sense of pity, she was faithful, and married him against the wish of her brother and parents, and not without some misgivings herself. he was a man perfectly sincere and honourable; but, from his nervous want of equilibrium, subject all his life to frantic outbursts of ill-temper. nobody ever knew what his wife had to endure in secret; her calm and restrained manner must have effectually hidden the constant anxiety of her life; nor had she children to warm her heart, and brighten up her monotonous existence. little charles, of the reading-book, who is bid to come hither, who counted so nicely, who stroked the pussy cat, and who deserved to listen to the delightful stories he was told, was not her own son but her brother's child. when he was born, she wrote to entreat that he might be given over to her for her own, imploring her brother to spare him to her, in a pretty and pathetic letter. this was a mother yearning for a child, not a schoolmistress asking for a pupil, though perhaps in after times the two were somewhat combined in her. there is a pretty little description of charles making great progress in 'climbing trees and talking nonsense:' 'i have the honour to tell you that our charles is the sweetest boy in the world. he is perfectly naturalised in his new situation; and if i should make any blunders in my letter, i must beg you to impute it to his standing by me and chattering all the time.' and how pleasant a record exists of charles's chatter in that most charming little book written for him and for the babies of babies to come! there is a sweet instructive grace in it and appreciation of childhood which cannot fail to strike those who have to do with children and with mrs. barbauld's books for them: children themselves, those best critics of all, delight in it. 'where's charles?' says a little scholar every morning to the writer of these few notes. iv. soon after the marriage, there had been some thought of a college for young ladies, of which mrs. barbauld was to be the principal; but she shrank from the idea, and in a letter to mrs. montagu she objects to the scheme of higher education for women away from their natural homes. 'i should have little hope of cultivating a love of knowledge in a young lady of fifteen who came to me ignorant and uncultivated. it is too late then to begin to learn. the empire of the passions is coming on. those attachments begin to be formed which influence the happiness of future life. the care of a mother alone can give suitable attention to this important period.' it is true that the rigidness of her own home had not prevented her from making a hasty and unsuitable marriage. but it is not this which is weighing on her mind. 'perhaps you may think,' she says, 'that having myself stepped out of the bounds of female reserve in becoming an author, it is with an ill grace that i offer these statements.' her arguments seem to have been thought conclusive in those days, and the young ladies' college was finally transmuted into a school for little boys at palgrave, in norfolk, and thither the worthy couple transported themselves. one of the letters to miss belsham is thus dated:--'_the th of july, in the village of palgrave (the pleasantest village in all england), at ten o'clock, all alone in my great parlour, mr. barbauld being studying a sermon, do i begin a letter to my dear betsy._' when she first married, and travelled into norfolk to keep school at palgrave, nothing could have seemed more tranquil, more contented, more matter-of-fact than her life as it appears from her letters. dreams, and fancies, and gay illusions and excitements have made way for the somewhat disappointing realisation of mr. barbauld with his neatly turned and friendly postscripts--a husband, polite, devoted, it is true, but somewhat disappointing all the same. the next few years seem like years in a hive--storing honey for the future, and putting away--industrious, punctual, monotonous. there are children's lessons to be heard, and school-treats to be devised. she sets them to act plays and cuts out paper collars for henry iv.; she always takes a class of babies entirely her own. (one of these babies, who always loved her, became lord chancellor denman; most of the others took less brilliant, but equally respectable places, in after life.) she has also household matters and correspondence not to be neglected. in the holidays, they make excursions to norwich, to london, and revisit their old haunts at warrington. in one of her early letters, soon after her marriage, she describes her return to warrington. 'dr. enfield's face,' she declares, 'is grown half a foot longer since i saw him, with studying mathematics, and for want of a game of romps; for there are positively none now at warrington but grave matrons. i who have but half assumed the character, was ashamed of the levity of my behaviour.' it says well indeed for the natural brightness of the lady's disposition that with sixteen boarders and a satisfactory usher to look after, she should be prepared for a game of romps with dr. enfield. on another occasion, in , she takes little charles away with her. 'he has indeed been an excellent traveller,' she says; 'and though, like his great ancestor, some natural tears he shed, like him, too, he wiped them soon. he had a long sound sleep last night, and has been very busy to-day hunting the puss and the chickens. and now, my dear brother and sister, let me again thank you for this precious gift, the value of which we are both more and more sensible of as we become better acquainted with his sweet disposition and winning manners.' she winds up this letter with a postscript:-- 'everybody here asks, "pray, is dr. dodd really to be executed?" as if we knew the more for having been at warrington.' dr. aikin, mrs. barbauld's brother, the father of little charles and of lucy aikin, whose name is well known in literature, was himself a man of great parts, industry, and ability, working hard to support his family. he alternated between medicine and literature all his life. when his health failed he gave up medicine, and settled at stoke newington, and busied himself with periodic literature; meanwhile, whatever his own pursuits may have been, he never ceased to take an interest in his sister's work and to encourage her in every way. it is noteworthy that few of mrs. barbauld's earlier productions equalled what she wrote at the very end of her life. she seems to have been one of those who ripen with age, growing wider in spirit with increasing years. perhaps, too, she may have been influenced by the change of manners, the reaction against formalism, which was growing up as her own days were ending. prim she may have been in manner, but she was not a formalist by nature; and even at eighty was ready to learn to submit to accept the new gospel that wordsworth and his disciples had given to the world, and to shake off the stiffness of early training. it is idle to speculate on what might have been if things had happened otherwise; if the daily stress of anxiety and perplexity which haunted her home had been removed--difficulties and anxieties which may well have absorbed all the spare energy and interest that under happier circumstances might have added to the treasury of english literature. but if it were only for one ode written when the distracting cares of over seventy years were ending, when nothing remained to her but the essence of a long past, and the inspirations of a still glowing, still hopeful, and most tender spirit, if it were only for the ode called 'life,' which has brought a sense of ease and comfort to so many, mrs. barbauld has indeed deserved well of her country-people and should be held in remembrance by them. her literary works are, after all, not very voluminous. she is best known by her hymns for children and her early lessons, than which nothing more childlike has ever been devised; and we can agree with her brother, dr. aikin, when he says that it requires true genius to enter so completely into a child's mind. after their first volume of verse, the brother and sister had published a second in prose, called 'miscellaneous pieces,' about which there is an amusing little anecdote in rogers's 'memoirs.' fox met dr. aikin at dinner. '"i am greatly pleased with your 'miscellaneous pieces,'" said fox. aikin bowed. "i particularly admire," continued fox, "your essay 'against inconsistency in our expectations.'" '"that," replied aikin, "is my sister's." '"i like much," returned fox, "your essay 'on monastic institutions.'" '"that," answered aikin, "is also my sister's." 'fox thought it best to say no more about the book.' these essays were followed by various of the visions and eastern pieces then so much in vogue; also by political verses and pamphlets, which seemed to have made a great sensation at the time. but mrs. barbauld's turn was on the whole more for domestic than for literary life, although literary people always seem to have had a great interest for her. during one christmas which they spent in london, the worthy couple go to see mrs. siddons; and mrs. chapone introduces mrs. barbauld to miss burney. 'a very unaffected, modest, sweet, and pleasing young lady,' says mrs. barbauld, who is always kind in her descriptions. mrs. barbauld's one complaint in london is of the fatigue from hairdressers, and the bewildering hurry of the great city, where she had, notwithstanding her quiet country life, many ties, and friendships, and acquaintances. her poem on 'corsica' had brought her into some relations with boswell; she also knew goldsmith and dr. johnson. here is her description of the 'great bear:'-- 'i do not mean that one which shines in the sky over your head; but the bear that shines in london--a great rough, surly animal. his christian name is dr. johnson. 'tis a singular creature; but if you stroke him he will not bite, and though he growls sometimes he is not ill-humoured.' johnson describes mrs. barbauld as suckling fools and chronicling small beer. there was not much sympathy between the two. characters such as johnson's harmonise best with the enthusiastic and easily influenced. mrs. barbauld did not belong to this class; she trusted to her own judgment, rarely tried to influence others, and took a matter-of-fact rather than a passionate view of life. she is as severe to him in her criticism as he was in his judgment of her: they neither of them did the other justice. 'a christian and a man-about-town, a philosopher, and a bigot acknowledging life to be miserable, and making it more miserable through fear of death.' so she writes of him, and all this was true; but how much more was also true of the great and hypochondriacal old man! some years afterwards, when she had been reading boswell's long-expected 'life of johnson,' she wrote of the book:--'it is like going to ranelagh; you meet all your acquaintances; but it is a base and mean thing to bring thus every idle word into judgment.' in our own day we too have our boswell and our johnson to arouse discussion and indignation. 'have you seen boswell's "life of johnson?" he calls it a flemish portrait, and so it is--two quartos of a man's conversation and petty habits. then the treachery and meanness of watching a man for years in order to set down every unguarded and idle word he uttered, is inconceivable. yet with all this one cannot help reading a good deal of it.' this is addressed to the faithful betsy, who was also keeping school by that time, and assuming brevet rank in consequence. mrs. barbauld might well complain of the fatigue from hairdressers in london. in one of her letters to her friend she thus describes a lady's dress of the period:-- 'do you know how to dress yourself in dublin? if you do not, i will tell you. your waist must be the circumference of two oranges, no more. you must erect a structure on your head gradually ascending to a foot high, exclusive of feathers, and stretching to a penthouse of most horrible projection behind, the breadth from wing to wing considerably broader than your shoulder, and as many different things in your cap as in noah's ark. verily, i never did see such monsters as the heads now in vogue. i am a monster, too, but a moderate one.' she must have been glad to get back to her home, to her daily work, to charles, climbing his trees and talking his nonsense. in the winter of her mother died at palgrave. it was christmas week; the old lady had come travelling four days through the snow in a postchaise with her maid and her little grandchildren, while her son rode on horseback. but the cold and the fatigue of the journey, and the discomfort of the inns, proved too much for mrs. aikin, who reached her daughter's house only to die. just that time three years before mrs. barbauld had lost her father, whom she dearly loved. there is a striking letter from the widowed mother to her daughter recording the event. it is almost spartan in its calmness, but nevertheless deeply touching. now she, too, was at rest, and after mrs. aikin's death a cloud of sadness and depression seems to have fallen upon the household. mr. barbauld was ailing; he was suffering from a nervous irritability which occasionally quite unfitted him for his work as a schoolmaster. already his wife must have had many things to bear, and very much to try her courage and cheerfulness; and now her health was also failing. it was in that they gave up the academy, which, on the whole, had greatly flourished. it had been established eleven years; they were both of them in need of rest and change. nevertheless, it was not without reluctance that they brought themselves to leave their home at palgrave. a successor was found only too quickly for mrs. barbauld's wishes; they handed over their pupils to his care, and went abroad for a year's sunshine and distraction. v. what a contrast to prim, starched scholastic life at palgrave must have been the smiling world, and the land flowing with oil and wine, in which they found themselves basking! the vintage was so abundant that year that the country people could not find vessels to contain it. 'the roads covered with teams of casks, empty or full according as they were going out or returning, and drawn by oxen whose strong necks seemed to be bowed unwillingly under the yoke. men, women, and children were abroad; some cutting with a short sickle the bunches of grapes, some breaking them with a wooden instrument, some carrying them on their backs from the gatherers to those who pressed the juice; and, as in our harvest, the gleaners followed.' from the vintage they travel to the alps, 'a sight so majestic, so totally different from anything i had seen before, that i am ready to sing _nunc dimittis_,' she writes. they travel back by the south of france and reach paris in june, where the case of the diamond necklace is being tried. then they return to england, waiting a day at boulogne for a vessel, but crossing from thence in less than four hours. how pretty is her description of england as it strikes them after their absence! 'and not without pleasing emotion did we view again the green swelling hills covered with large sheep, and the winding road bordered with the hawthorn hedge, and the english vine twirled round the tall poles, and the broad medway covered with vessels, and at last the gentle yet majestic thames.' there were dissenters at hampstead in those days, as there are still, and it was a call from a little unitarian congregation on the hillside who invited mr. barbauld to become their minister, which decided the worthy couple to retire to this pleasant suburb. the place seemed promising enough; they were within reach of mrs. barbauld's brother, dr. aikin, now settled in london, and to whom she was tenderly attached. there were congenial people settled all about. on the high hill-top were pleasant old houses to live in. there was occupation for him and literary interest for her. they are a sociable and friendly pair, hospitable, glad to welcome their friends, and the acquaintance, and critics, and the former pupils who come toiling up the hill to visit them. rogers comes to dinner 'at half after three.' they have another poet for a neighbour, miss joanna baillie; they are made welcome by all, and in their turn make others welcome; they do acts of social charity and kindness wherever they see the occasion. they have a young spanish gentleman to board who conceals a taste for 'seguars.' they also go up to town from time to time. on one occasion mr. barbauld repairs to london to choose a wedding present for miss belsham, who is about to be married to mr. kenrick, a widower with daughters. he chose two slim wedgwood pots of some late classic model, which still stand, after many dangers, safely on either side of mrs. kenrick's portrait in miss reid's drawing-room at hampstead. wedgwood must have been a personal friend: he has modelled a lovely head of mrs. barbauld, simple and nymph-like. hampstead was no further from london in those days than it is now, and they seem to have kept up a constant communication with their friends and relations in the great city. they go to the play occasionally. 'i have not indeed seen mrs. siddons often, but i think i never saw her to more advantage,' she writes. 'it is not, however, seeing a play, it is only seeing one character, for they have nobody to act with her.' another expedition is to westminster hall, where warren hastings was then being tried for his life. 'the trial has attracted the notice of most people who are within reach of it. i have been, and was very much struck with all the apparatus and pomp of justice, with the splendour of the assembly which contained everything distinguished in the nation, with the grand idea that the equity of the english was to pursue crimes committed at the other side of the globe, and oppressions exercised towards the poor indians who had come to plead their cause; but all these fine ideas vanish and fade away as one observes the progress of the cause, and sees it fall into the summer amusements, and take the place of a rehearsal of music or an evening at vauxhall.' mrs. barbauld was a liberal in feeling and conviction; she was never afraid to speak her mind, and when the french revolution first began, she, in common with many others, hoped that it was but the dawning of happier times. she was always keen about public events; she wrote an address on the opposition to the repeal of the test act in , and she published her poem to wilberforce on the rejection of his great bill for abolishing slavery:-- friends of the friendless, hail, ye generous band! she cries, in warm enthusiasm for the devoted cause. horace walpole nicknamed her deborah, called her the virago barbauld, and speaks of her with utter rudeness and intolerant spite. but whether or not horace walpole approved, it is certain that mrs. barbauld possessed to a full and generous degree a quality which is now less common than it was in her day. not very many years ago i was struck on one occasion when a noble old lady, now gone to her rest, exclaimed in my hearing that people of this generation had all sorts of merits and charitable intentions, but that there was one thing she missed which had certainly existed in her youth, and which no longer seemed to be of the same account: that public spirit which used to animate the young as well as the old. it is possible that philanthropy, and the love of the beautiful, and the gratuitous diffusion of wall-papers may be the modern rendering of the good old-fashioned sentiment. mrs. barbauld lived in very stirring days, when private people shared in the excitements and catastrophes of public affairs. to her the fortunes of england, its loyalty, its success, were a part of her daily bread. by her early associations she belonged to a party representing opposition, and for that very reason she was the more keenly struck by the differences of the conduct of affairs and the opinions of those she trusted. her friend dr. priestley had emigrated to america for his convictions' sake; howard was giving his noble life for his work; wakefield had gone to prison. now the very questions are forgotten for which they struggled and suffered, or the answers have come while the questions are forgotten, in this their future which is our present, and to which some unborn historian may point back with a moral finger. dr. aikin, whose estimate of his sister was very different from horace walpole's, occasionally reproached her for not writing more constantly. he wrote a copy of verses on this theme:-- thus speaks the muse, and bends her brows severe: did i, lætitia, lend my choicest lays, and crown thy youthful head with freshest bays, that all the expectance of thy full-grown year, should lie inert and fruitless? o revere those sacred gifts whose meed is deathless praise, whose potent charm the enraptured soul can raise far from the vapours of this earthly sphere, seize, seize the lyre, resume the lofty strain. she seems to have willingly left the lyre for dr. aikin's use. a few hymns, some graceful odes, and stanzas, and _jeux d'esprit_, a certain number of well-written and original essays, and several political pamphlets, represent the best of her work. her more ambitious poems are those by which she is the least remembered. it was at hampstead that mrs. barbauld wrote her contributions to her brother's volume of 'evenings at home,' among which the transmigrations of indur may be quoted as a model of style and delightful matter. one of the best of her _jeux d'esprit_ is the 'groans of the tankard,' which was written in early days, with much spirit and real humour. it begins with a classic incantation, and then goes on:-- 'twas at the solemn silent noontide hour when hunger rages with despotic power, when the lean student quits his hebrew roots for the gross nourishment of english fruits, and throws unfinished airy systems by for solid pudding and substantial pie. the tankard now, replenished to the brink, with the cool beverage blue-eyed maidens drink, but, accustomed to very different libations, is endowed with voice and utters its bitter reproaches:-- unblest the day, and luckless was the hour which doomed me to a presbyterian's power, fated to serve a puritanic race, whose slender meal is shorter than their grace. vi. thumbkin, of fairy celebrity, used to mark his way by flinging crumbs of bread and scattering stones as he went along; and in like manner authors trace the course of their life's peregrinations by the pamphlets and articles they cast down as they go. sometimes they throw stones, sometimes they throw bread. in ' and ' mrs. barbauld must have been occupied with party polemics and with the political miseries of the time. a pamphlet on gilbert wakefield's views, and another on 'sins of the government and sins of the people,' show in what direction her thoughts were bent. then came a period of comparative calm again and of literary work and interest. she seems to have turned to akenside and collins, and each had an essay to himself. these were followed by certain selections from the _spectator_, _tatler_, &c., preceded by one of those admirable essays for which she is really remarkable. she also published a memoir of richardson prefixed to his correspondence. sir james mackintosh, writing at a later and sadder time of her life, says of her observations on the moral of clarissa that they are as fine a piece of mitigated and rational stoicism as our language can boast of. in another congregation seems to have made signs from stoke newington, and mrs. barbauld persuaded her husband to leave his flock at hampstead and to buy a house near her brother's at stoke newington. this was her last migration, and here she remained until her death in . one of her letters to mrs. kenrick gives a description of what might have been a happy home:--'we have a pretty little back parlour that looks into our little spot of a garden,' she says, 'and catches every gleam of sunshine. we have pulled down the ivy, except what covers the coach-house we have planted a vine and a passion-flower, with abundance of jessamine against the window, and we have scattered roses and honeysuckle all over the garden. you may smile at me for parading so over my house and domains.' in may she writes a pleasant letter, in good spirits, comparing her correspondence with her friend to the flower of an aloe, which sleeps for a hundred years, and on a sudden pushes out when least expected. 'but take notice, the life is in the aloe all the while, and sorry should i be if the life were not in our friendship all the while, though it so rarely diffuses itself over a sheet of paper.' she seems to have been no less sociable and friendly at stoke newington than at hampstead. people used to come up to see her from london. her letters, quiet and intimate as they are, give glimpses of most of the literary people of the day, not in memoirs then, but alive and drinking tea at one another's houses, or walking all the way to stoke newington to pay their respects to the old lady. charles lamb used to talk of his two _bald_ authoresses, mrs. barbauld being one and mrs. inchbald being the other. crabb robinson and rogers were two faithful links with the outer world. 'crabb robinson corresponds with madame de staël, is quite intimate,' she writes, 'has received i don't know how many letters,' she adds, not without some slight amusement. miss lucy aikin tells a pretty story of scott meeting mrs. barbauld at dinner, and telling her that it was to her that he owed his poetic gift. some translations of bürger by mr. taylor, of norwich, which she had read out at edinburgh, had struck him so much that they had determined him to try his own powers in that line. she often had inmates under her roof. one of them was a beautiful and charming young girl, the daughter of mrs. fletcher, of edinburgh, whose early death is recorded in her mother's life. besides company at home, mrs. barbauld went to visit her friends from time to time--the estlins at bristol, the edgeworths, whose acquaintance mr. and mrs. barbauld made about this time, and who seem to have been invaluable friends, bringing as they did a bright new element of interest and cheerful friendship into her sad and dimming life. a man must have extraordinarily good spirits to embark upon four matrimonial ventures as mr. edgeworth did; and as for miss edgeworth, appreciative, effusive, and warm-hearted, she seems to have more than returned mrs. barbauld's sympathy. miss lucy aikin, dr. aikin's daughter, was now also making her own mark in the literary world, and had inherited the bright intelligence and interest for which her family was so remarkable. much of miss aikin's work is more sustained than her aunt's desultory productions, but it lacks that touch of nature which has preserved mrs. barbauld's memory where more important people are forgotten. our authoress seems to have had a natural affection for sister authoresses. hannah more and mrs. montague were both her friends, so were madame d'arblay and mrs. chapone in a different degree; she must have known mrs. opie; she loved joanna baillie. the latter is described by her as the young lady at hampstead who came to mr. barbauld's meeting with as demure a face as if she had never written a line. and miss aikin, in her memoirs, describes in johnsonian language how the two miss baillies came to call one morning upon mrs. barbauld:--'my aunt immediately introduced the topic of the anonymous tragedies, and gave utterance to her admiration with the generous delight in the manifestation of kindred genius which distinguished her.' but it seems that miss baillie sat, nothing moved, and did not betray herself. mrs. barbauld herself gives a pretty description of the sisters in their home, in that old house on windmill hill, which stands untouched, with its green windows looking out upon so much of sky and heath and sun, with the wainscoted parlours where walter scott used to come, and the low wooden staircase leading to the old rooms above. it is in one of her letters to mrs. kenrick that mrs. barbauld gives a pleasant glimpse of the poetess walter scott admired. 'i have not been abroad since i was at norwich, except a day or two at hampstead with the miss baillies. one should be, as i was, beneath their roof to know all their merit. their house is one of the best ordered i know. they have all manner of attentions for their friends, and not only miss b., but joanna, is as clever in furnishing a room or in arranging a party as in writing plays, of which, by the way, she has a volume ready for the press, but she will not give it to the public till next winter. the subject is to be the passion of fear. i do not know what sort of a hero that passion can afford!' fear was, indeed, a passion alien to her nature, and she did not know the meaning of the word. mrs. barbauld's description of hannah more and her sisters living on their special hill-top was written after mr. barbauld's death, and thirty years after miss more's verses which are quoted by mrs. ellis in her excellent memoir of mrs. barbauld:-- nor, barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse a tribute to thy virtues or thy muse; this humble merit shall at least be mine, the poet's chaplet for thy brows to twine; my verse thy talents to the world shall teach, and praise the graces it despairs to reach. then, after philosophically questioning the power of genius to confer true happiness, she concludes:-- can all the boasted powers of wit and song of life one pang remove, one hour prolong? fallacious hope which daily truths deride-- for you, alas! have wept and garrick died. meanwhile, whatever genius might not be able to achieve, the five miss mores had been living on peacefully together in the very comfortable cottage which had been raised and thatched by the poetess's earnings. 'barley wood is equally the seat of taste and hospitality,' says mrs. barbauld to a friend. 'nothing could be more friendly than their reception,' she writes to her brother, 'and nothing more charming than their situation. an extensive view over the mendip hills is in front of their house, with a pretty view of wrington. their home--cottage, because it is thatched--stands on the declivity of a rising ground, which they have planted and made quite a little paradise. the five sisters, all good old maids, have lived together these fifty years. hannah more is a good deal broken, but possesses fully her powers of conversation, and her vivacity. we exchanged riddles like the wise men of old; i was given to understand she was writing something.' there is another allusion to mrs. hannah more in a sensible letter from mrs. barbauld, written to miss edgeworth about this time, declining to join in an alarming enterprise suggested by the vivacious mr. edgeworth, 'a _feminiad_, a literary paper to be entirely contributed to by ladies, and where all articles are to be accepted.' 'there is no bond of union,' mrs. barbauld says, 'among literary women any more than among literary men; different sentiments and connections separate them much more than the joint interest of their sex would unite them. mrs. hannah more would not write along with you or me, and we should possibly hesitate at joining miss hays or--if she were living--mrs. godwin.' then she suggests the names of miss baillie, mrs. opie, her own niece miss lucy aikin, and mr. s. rogers, who would not, she thinks, be averse to joining the scheme. vii. how strangely unnatural it seems when fate's heavy hand falls upon quiet and common-place lives, changing the tranquil routine of every day into the solemnities and excitements of terror and tragedy! it was after their removal to stoke newington that the saddest of all blows fell upon this true-hearted woman. her husband's hypochondria deepened and changed, and the attacks became so serious that her brother and his family urged her anxiously to leave him to other care than her own. it was no longer safe for poor mr. barbauld to remain alone with his wife, and her life, says mrs. le breton, was more than once in peril. but, at first, she would not hear of leaving him; although on more than one occasion she had to fly for protection to her brother close by. there is something very touching in the patient fidelity with which mrs. barbauld tried to soothe the later sad disastrous years of her husband's life. she must have been a woman of singular nerve and courage to endure as she did the excitement and cruel aberrations of her once gentle and devoted companion. she only gave in after long resistance. 'an alienation from me has taken possession of his mind,' she says, in a letter to mrs. kenrick; 'my presence seems to irritate him, and i must resign myself to a separation from him who has been for thirty years the partner of my heart, my faithful friend, my inseparable companion.' with her habitual reticence, she dwells no more on that painful topic, but goes on to make plans for them both, asks her old friend to come and cheer her in her loneliness; and the faithful betsy, now a widow with grown-up step-children, ill herself, troubled by deafness and other infirmities, responds with a warm heart, and promises to come, bringing the comfort with her of old companionship and familiar sympathy. there is something very affecting in the loyalty of the two aged women stretching out their hands to each other across a whole lifetime. after her visit mrs. barbauld writes again:-- 'he is now at norwich, and i hear very favourable accounts of his health and spirits; he seems to enjoy himself very much amongst his old friends there, and converses among them with his usual animation. there are no symptoms of violence or of depression; so far is favourable; but this cruel alienation from me, in which my brother is included, still remains deep-rooted, and whether he will ever change in this point heaven only knows. the medical men fear he will not: if so, my dear friend, what remains for me but to resign myself to the will of heaven, and to think with pleasure that every day brings me nearer a period which naturally cannot be very far off, and at which this as well as every temporal affliction must terminate? '"anything but this!" is the cry of weak mortals when afflicted; and sometimes i own i am inclined to make it mine; but i will check myself.' but while she was hoping still, a fresh outbreak of the malady occurred. he, poor soul, weary of his existence, put an end to his sufferings: he was found lifeless in the new river. lucy aikin quotes a dirge found among her aunt's papers after her death:-- pure spirit, o where art thou now? o whisper to my soul, o let some soothening thought of thee this bitter grief control. 'tis not for thee the tears i shed, thy sufferings now are o'er. the sea is calm, the tempest past, on that eternal shore. no more the storms that wrecked thy peace shall tear that gentle breast, nor summer's rage, nor winter's cold that poor, poor frame molest. * * * * * farewell! with honour, peace, and love, be that dear memory blest, thou hast no tears for me to shed, when i too am at rest. but her time of rest was not yet come, and she lived for seventeen years after her husband. she was very brave, she did not turn from the sympathy of her friends, she endured her loneliness with courage, she worked to distract her mind. here is a touching letter addressed to mrs. taylor, of norwich, in which she says:--'a thousand thanks for your kind letter, still more for the very short visit that preceded it. though short--too short--it has left indelible impressions on my mind. my heart has truly had communion with yours; your sympathy has been balm to it; and i feel that there is _now_ no one on earth to whom i could pour out that heart more readily.... i am now sitting alone again, and feel like a person who has been sitting by a cheerful fire, not sensible at the time of the temperature of the air; but the fire removed, he finds the season is still winter. day after day passes, and i do not know what to do with my time; my mind has no energy nor power of application.' how much she felt her loneliness appears again and again from one passage and another. then she struggled against discouragement; she took to her pen again. to mrs. kenrick she writes:--'i intend to pay my letter debts; not much troubling my head whether i have anything to say or not; yet to you my heart has always something to say: it always recognises you as among the dearest of its friends; and while it feels that new impressions are made with difficulty and early effaced, retains, and ever will retain, i trust beyond this world, those of our early and long-tried affection.' she set to work again, trying to forget her heavy trials. it was during the first years of her widowhood that she published her edition of the british novelists in some fifty volumes. there is an opening chapter to this edition upon novels and novel-writing, which is an admirable and most interesting essay upon fiction, beginning from the very earliest times. in she wrote her poem on the king's illness, and also the longer poem which provoked such indignant comments at the time. it describes britain's rise and luxury, warns her of the dangers of her unbounded ambition and unjustifiable wars:-- arts, arms, and wealth destroy the fruits they bring; commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. her ingenuous youth from ontario's shore who visits the ruins of london is one of the many claimants to the honour of having suggested lord macaulay's celebrated new zealander:-- pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet each splendid square and still untrodden street, or of some crumbling turret, mined by time, the broken stairs with perilous step shall climb, thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, by scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, and, choked no more with fleets, fair thames survey through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way. it is impossible not to admire the poem, though it is stilted and not to the present taste. the description of britain as it now is and as it once was is very ingenious:-- where once bonduca whirled the scythèd car, and the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war, light forms beneath transparent muslin float, and tutor'd voices swell the artful note; light-leaved acacias, and the shady plane, and spreading cedars grace the woodland reign. the poem is forgotten now, though it was scouted at the time and violently attacked, southey himself falling upon the poor old lady, and devouring her, spectacles and all. she felt these attacks very much, and could not be consoled, though miss edgeworth wrote a warm-hearted letter of indignant sympathy. but mrs. barbauld had something in her too genuine to be crushed, even by sarcastic criticism. she published no more, but it was after her poem of ' ' that she wrote the beautiful ode by which she is best known and best remembered,--the ode that wordsworth used to repeat and say he envied, that tennyson has called 'sweet verses,' of which the lines ring their tender hopeful chime like sweet church bells on a summer evening. madame d'arblay, in her old age, told crabb robinson that every night she said the verses over to herself as she went to her rest. to the writer they are almost sacred. the hand that patiently pointed out to her, one by one, the syllables of mrs. barbauld's hymns for children, that tended our childhood, as it had tended our father's, marked these verses one night, when it blessed us for the last time. life, we've been long together, through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'tis hard to part when friends are dear; perhaps 'twill cost a sigh or tear, then steal away, give little warning, choose thine own time. say not good-night, but in some brighter clime, bid me 'good morning.' mrs. barbauld was over seventy when she wrote this ode. a poem, called 'octogenary reflections,' is also very touching:-- say ye, who through this round of eighty years have proved its joys and sorrows, hopes and fears; say what is life, ye veterans who have trod, step following steps, its flowery thorny road? enough of good to kindle strong desire; enough of ill to damp the rising fire; enough of love and fancy, joy and hope, to fan desire and give the passions scope; enough of disappointment, sorrow, pain, to seal the wise man's sentence--'all is vain.' there is another fragment of hers in which she likens herself to a schoolboy left of all the train, who hears no sound of wheels to bear him to his father's bosom home. 'thus i look to the hour when i shall follow those that are at rest before me.' and then at last the time came for which she longed. her brother died, her faithful mrs. kenrick died, and mrs. taylor, whom she loved most of all. she had consented to give up her solitary home to spend the remaining years of her life in the home of her adopted son charles, now married, and a father; but it was while she was on a little visit to her sister-in-law, mrs. aikin, that the summons came, very swiftly and peacefully, as she sat in her chair one day. her nephew transcribed these, the last lines she ever wrote:-- 'who are you?' 'do you not know me? have you not expected me?' 'whither do you carry me?' 'come with me and you shall know.' 'the way is dark.' 'it is well trodden.' 'yes, in the forward track.' 'come along.' 'oh! shall i there see my beloved ones? will they welcome me, and will they know me? oh, tell me, tell me; thou canst tell me.' 'yes, but thou must come first.' 'stop a little; keep thy hand off till thou hast told me.' 'i never wait.' 'oh! shall i see the warm sun again in my cold grave?' 'nothing is there that can feel the sun.' 'oh, where then?' 'come, i say.' one may acknowledge the great progress which people have made since mrs. barbauld's day in the practice of writing prose and poetry, in the art of expressing upon paper the thoughts which are in most people's minds. it is (to use a friend's simile) like playing upon the piano--everybody now learns to play upon the piano, and it is certain that the modest performances of the ladies of mrs. barbauld's time would scarcely meet with the attention now, which they then received. but all the same, the stock of true feeling, of real poetry, is not increased by the increased volubility of our pens; and so when something comes to us that is real, that is complete in pathos or in wisdom, we still acknowledge the gift, and are grateful for it. _miss edgeworth._ - . 'exceeding wise, fairspoken, and persuading.'--_hen. viii._ early days. i. few authoresses in these days can have enjoyed the ovations and attentions which seem to have been considered the due of many of the ladies distinguished at the end of the last century and the beginning of this one. to read the accounts of the receptions and compliments which fell to their lot may well fill later and lesser luminaries with envy. crowds opened to admit them, banquets spread themselves out before them, lights were lighted up and flowers were scattered at their feet. dukes, editors, prime ministers, waited their convenience on their staircases; whole theatres rose up _en masse_ to greet the gifted creatures of this and that immortal tragedy. the authoresses themselves, to do them justice, seem to have been very little dazzled by all this excitement. hannah more contentedly retires with her maiden sisters to the parnassus on the mendip hills, where they sew and chat and make tea, and teach the village children. dear joanna baillie, modest and beloved, lives on to peaceful age in her pretty old house at hampstead, looking through tree-tops and sunshine and clouds towards distant london. 'out there where all the storms are,' i heard the children saying yesterday as they watched the overhanging gloom of smoke which, veils the city of metropolitan thunders and lightning. maria edgeworth's apparitions as a literary lioness in the rush of london and of paris society were but interludes in her existence, and her real life was one of constant exertion and industry spent far away in an irish home among her own kindred and occupations and interests. we may realise what these were when we read that mr. edgeworth had no less than four wives, who all left children, and that maria was the eldest daughter of the whole family. besides this, we must also remember that the father whom she idolised was himself a man of extraordinary powers, brilliant in conversation (so i have been told), full of animation, of interest, of plans for his country, his family, for education and literature, for mechanics and scientific discoveries; that he was a gentleman widely connected, hospitably inclined, with a large estate and many tenants to overlook, with correspondence and acquaintances all over the world; and besides all this, with various schemes in his brain, to be eventually realised by others of which velocipedes, tramways, and telegraphs were but a few of the items. one could imagine that under these circumstances the hurry and excitement of london life must have sometimes seemed tranquillity itself compared with the many and absorbing interests of such a family. what these interests were may be gathered from the pages of a very interesting memoir from which the writer of this essay has been allowed to quote. it is a book privately printed and written for the use of her children by the widow of richard lovell edgeworth, and is a record, among other things, of a faithful and most touching friendship between maria and her father's wife--'a friendship lasting for over fifty years, and unbroken by a single cloud of difference or mistrust.' mrs. edgeworth, who was miss beaufort before her marriage, and about the same age as miss edgeworth, unconsciously reveals her own most charming and unselfish nature as she tells her stepdaughter's story. when the writer looks back upon her own childhood, it seems to her that she lived in company with a delightful host of little playmates, bright, busy, clever children, whose cheerful presence remains more vividly in her mind than that of many of the real little boys and girls who used to appear and disappear disconnectedly as children do in childhood, when friendship and companionship depend almost entirely upon the convenience of grown-up people. now and again came little cousins or friends to share our games, but day by day, constant and unchanging, ever to be relied upon, smiled our most lovable and friendly companions--simple susan, lame jervas, talbot, the dear little merchants, jem the widow's son with his arms round old lightfoot's neck, the generous ben, with his whipcord and his useful proverb of 'waste not, want not'--all of these were there in the window corner waiting our pleasure. after parents' assistant, to which familiar words we attached no meaning whatever, came popular tales in big brown volumes off a shelf in the lumber-room of an apartment in an old house in paris, and as we opened the books, lo! creation widened to our view. england, ireland, america, turkey, the mines of golconda, the streets of bagdad, thieves, travellers, governesses, natural philosophy, and fashionable life, were all laid under contribution, and brought interest and adventure to our humdrum nursery corner. all mr. edgeworth's varied teaching and experience, all his daughter's genius of observation, came to interest and delight our play-time, and that of a thousand other little children in different parts of the world. people justly praise miss edgeworth's admirable stories and novels, but from prejudice and early association these beloved childish histories seem unequalled still, and it is chiefly as a writer for children that we venture to consider her here. some of the stories are indeed little idylls in their way. walter scott, who best knew how to write for the young so as to charm grandfathers as well as hugh littlejohn, esq., and all the grandchildren, is said to have wiped his kind eyes as he put down 'simple susan.' a child's book, says a reviewer of those days defining in the 'quarterly review,' should be 'not merely less dry, less difficult, than a book for grown-up people; but more rich in interest, more true to nature, more exquisite in art, more abundant in every quality that replies to childhood's keener and fresher perception.' children like facts, they like short vivid sentences that tell the story: as they listen intently, so they read; every word has its value for them. it has been a real surprise to the writer to find, on re-reading some of these descriptions of scenery and adventure which she had not looked at since her childhood, that the details which she had imagined spread over much space are contained in a few sentences at the beginning of a page. these sentences, however, show the true art of the writer. it would be difficult to imagine anything better suited to the mind of a very young person than these pleasant stories, so complete in themselves, so interesting, so varied. the description of jervas's escape from the mine where the miners had plotted his destruction, almost rises to poetry in its simple diction. lame jervas has warned his master of the miners' plot, and showed him the vein of ore which they have concealed. the miners have sworn vengeance against him, and his life is in danger. his master helps him to get away, and comes into the room before daybreak, bidding him rise and put on the clothes which he has brought. 'i followed him out of the house before anybody else was awake, and he took me across the fields towards the high road. at this place we waited till we heard the tinkling of the bells of a team of horses. "here comes the waggon," said he, "in which you are to go. so fare you well, jervas. i shall hear how you go on; and i only hope you will serve your next master, whoever he may be, as faithfully as you have served me." "i shall never find so good a master," was all i could say for the soul of me; i was quite overcome by his goodness and sorrow at parting with him, as i then thought, for ever.' the description of the journey is very pretty. 'the morning clouds began to clear away; i could see my master at some distance, and i kept looking after him as the waggon went on slowly, and he walked fast away over the fields.' then the sun begins to rise. the waggoner goes on whistling, but lame jervas, to whom the rising sun was a spectacle wholly surprising, starts up, exclaiming in wonder and admiration. the waggoner bursts into a loud laugh. 'lud a marcy,' says he, 'to hear un' and look at un' a body would think the oaf had never seen the sun rise afore;' upon which jervas remembers that he is still in cornwall, and must not betray himself, and prudently hides behind some parcels, only just in time, for they meet a party of miners, and he hears his enemies' voice hailing the waggoner. all the rest of the day he sits within, and amuses himself by listening to the bells of the team, which jingle continually. 'on our second day's journey, however, i ventured out of my hiding-place. i walked with the waggoner up and down the hills, enjoying the fresh air, the singing of the birds, and the delightful smell of the honeysuckles and the dog-roses in the hedges. all the wild flowers and even the weeds on the banks by the wayside were to me matters of wonder and admiration. at almost every step i paused to observe something that was new to me, and i could not help feeling surprised at the insensibility of my fellow-traveller, who plodded along, and seldom interrupted his whistling except to cry 'gee, blackbird, aw woa,' or 'how now, smiler?' then jervas is lost in admiration before a plant 'whose stem was about two feet high, and which had a round shining purple beautiful flower,' and the waggoner with a look of scorn exclaims, 'help thee, lad, dost not thou know 'tis a common thistle?' after this he looks upon jervas as very nearly an idiot. 'in truth i believe i was a droll figure, for my hat was stuck full of weeds and of all sorts of wild flowers, and both my coat and waistcoat pockets were stuffed out with pebbles and funguses.' then comes plymouth harbour: jervas ventures to ask some questions about the vessels, to which the waggoner answers 'they be nothing in life but the boats and ships, man;' so he turned away and went on chewing a straw, and seemed not a whit more moved to admiration than he had been at the sight of the thistle. 'i conceived a high admiration of a man who had seen so much that he could admire nothing,' says jervas, with a touch of real humour. another most charming little idyll is that of simple susan, who was a real maiden living in the neighbourhood of edgeworthstown. the story seems to have been mislaid for a time in the stirring events of the first irish rebellion, and overlooked, like some little daisy by a battlefield. few among us will not have shared mr. edgeworth's partiality for the charming little tale. the children fling their garlands and tie up their violets. susan bakes her cottage loaves and gathers marigolds for broth, and tends her mother to the distant tune of philip's pipe coming across the fields. as we read the story again it seems as if we could almost scent the fragrance of the primroses and the double violets, and hear the music sounding above the children's voices, and the bleatings of the lamb, so simply and delightfully is the whole story constructed. among all miss edgeworth's characters few are more familiar to the world than that of susan's pretty pet lamb. ii. no sketch of maria edgeworth's life, however slight, would be complete without a few words about certain persons coming a generation before her (and belonging still to the age of periwigs), who were her father's associates and her own earliest friends. notwithstanding all that has been said of mr. edgeworth's bewildering versatility of nature, he seems to have been singularly faithful in his friendships. he might take up new ties, but he clung pertinaciously to those which had once existed. his daughter inherited that same steadiness of affection. in his life of erasmus darwin, his grandfather, mr. charles darwin, writing of these very people, has said, 'there is, perhaps, no safer test of a man's real character than that of his long-continued friendship with good and able men.' he then goes on to quote an instance of a long-continued affection and intimacy only broken by death between a certain set of distinguished friends, giving the names of keir, day, small, boulton, watt, wedgwood, and darwin, and adding to them the names of edgeworth himself and of the galtons. mr. edgeworth first came to lichfield to make dr. darwin's acquaintance. his second visit was to his friend mr. day, the author of 'sandford and merton,' who had taken a house in the valley of stow, and who invited him one christmas on a visit. 'about the year ,' says miss seward, 'came to lichfield, from the neighbourhood of reading, the young and gay philosopher, mr. edgeworth; a man of fortune, and recently married to a miss elers, of oxfordshire. the fame of dr. darwin's various talents allured mr. e. to the city they graced.' and the lady goes on to describe mr. edgeworth himself:--'scarcely two-and-twenty, with an exterior yet more juvenile, having mathematic science, mechanic ingenuity, and a competent portion of classical learning, with the possession of the modern languages.... he danced, he fenced, he winged his arrows with more than philosophic skill,' continues the lady, herself a person of no little celebrity in her time and place. mr. edgeworth, in his memoirs, pays a respectful tribute to miss seward's charms, to her agreeable conversation, her beauty, her flowing tresses, her sprightliness and address. such moderate expressions fail, however, to do justice to this lady's powers, to her enthusiasm, her poetry, her partisanship. the portrait prefixed to her letters is that of a dignified person with an oval face and dark eyes, the thick brown tresses are twined with pearls, her graceful figure is robed in the softest furs and draperies of the period. in her very first letter she thus poetically describes her surroundings:--'the autumnal glory of this day puts to shame the summer's sullenness. i sit writing upon this dear green terrace, feeding at intervals my little golden-breasted songsters. the embosomed vale of stow glows sunny through the claude-lorraine tint which is spread over the scene like the blue mist over a plum.' in this claude-lorraine-plum-tinted valley stood the house which mr. day had taken, and where mr. edgeworth had come on an eventful visit. miss seward herself lived with her parents in the bishop's palace at lichfield. there was also a younger sister, 'miss sally,' who died as a girl, and another very beautiful young lady their friend, by name honora sneyd, placed under mrs. seward's care. she was the heroine of major andré's unhappy romance. he too lived at lichfield with his mother, and his hopeless love gives a tragic reality to this by-gone holiday of youth and merry-making. as one reads the old letters and memoirs the echoes of laughter reach us. one can almost see the young folks all coming together out of the cathedral close, where so much of their time was passed; the beautiful honora, surrounded by friends and adorers, chaperoned by the graceful muse her senior, also much admired, and much made of. thomas day is perhaps striding after them in silence with keen critical glances; his long black locks flow unpowdered down his back. in contrast to him comes his brilliant and dressy companion, mr. edgeworth, who talks so agreeably. i can imagine little sabrina, day's adopted foundling, of whom so many stories have been told, following shyly at her guardian's side in her simple dress and childish beauty, and andré's young handsome face turned towards miss sneyd. so they pass on happy and contented in each other's company, honora in the midst, beautiful, stately, reserved: she too was one of those not destined to be old. miss seward seems to have loved this friend with a very sincere and admiring affection, and to have bitterly mourned her early death. her letters abound in apostrophes to the lost honora. but perhaps the poor muse expected almost too much from friendship, too much from life. she expected, as we all do at times, that her friends should be not themselves but her, that they should lead not their lives but her own. so much at least one may gather from the various phases of her style and correspondence, and her complaints of honora's estrangement and subsequent coldness. perhaps, also, miss seward's many vagaries and sentiments may have frozen honora's sympathies. miss seward was all asterisks and notes of exclamation. honora seems to have forced feeling down to its most scrupulous expression. she never lived to be softened by experience, to suit herself to others by degrees: with great love she also inspired awe and a sort of surprise. one can imagine her pointing the moral of the purple jar, as it was told long afterwards by her stepdaughter, then a little girl playing at her own mother's knee in her nursery by the river. people in the days of shilling postage were better correspondents than they are now when we have to be content with pennyworths of news and of affectionate intercourse. their descriptions and many details bring all the chief characters vividly before us, and carry us into the hearts and the pocket-books of the little society at lichfield as it then was. the town must have been an agreeable sojourn in those days for people of some pretension and small performance. the inhabitants of lichfield seem actually to have read each other's verses, and having done so to have taken the trouble to sit down and write out their raptures. they were a pleasant lively company living round about the old cathedral towers, meeting in the close or the adjacent gardens or the hospitable palace itself. here the company would sip tea, talk mild literature of their own and good criticism at second hand, quoting dr. johnson to one another with the familiarity of townsfolk. from erasmus darwin, too, they must have gained something of vigour and originality. with all her absurdities miss seward had some real critical power and appreciation; and some of her lines are very pretty.[ ] an 'ode to the sun' is only what might have been expected from this lichfield corinne. her best known productions are an 'elegy on captain cook,' a 'monody on major andré,' whom she had known from her early youth; and there is a poem, 'louisa,' of which she herself speaks very highly. but even more than her poetry did she pique herself upon her epistolary correspondence. it must have been well worth while writing letters when they were not only prized by the writer and the recipients, but commented on by their friends in after years. 'court dewes, esq.,' writes, after five years, for copies of miss seward's epistles to miss rogers and miss weston, of which the latter begins:--'soothing and welcome to me, dear sophia, is the regret you express for our separation! pleasant were the weeks we have recently passed together in this ancient and embowered mansion! i had strongly felt the silence and vacancy of the depriving day on which you vanished. how prone are our hearts perversely to quarrel with the friendly coercion of employment at the very instant in which it is clearing the torpid and injurious mists of unavailing melancholy!' then follows a sprightly attack before which johnson may have quailed indeed. 'is the fe-fa-fum of literature that snuffs afar the fame of his brother authors, and thirsts for its destruction, to be allowed to gallop unmolested over the fields of criticism? a few pebbles from the well-springs of truth and eloquence are all that is wanted to bring the might of his envy low.' this celebrated letter, which may stand as a specimen of the whole six volumes, concludes with the following apostrophe:--'virtuous friendship, how pure, how sacred are thy delights! sophia, thy mind is capable of tasting them in all their poignance: against how many of life's incidents may that capacity be considered as a counterpoise!' footnote : in a notice of miss seward in the _annual register_, just after her death in , the writer, who seems to have known her, says:--'conscious of ability, she freely displayed herself in a manner equally remote from annoyance and affectation.... her errors arose from a glowing imagination joined to an excessive sensibility, cherished instead of repressed by early habits. it is understood that she has left the whole of her works to mr. scott, the northern poet, with a view to their publication with her life and posthumous pieces.' there were constant rubs, which are not to be wondered at, between miss seward and dr. darwin, who, though a poet, was also a singularly witty, downright man, outspoken and humorous. the lady admires his genius, bitterly resents his sarcasms; of his celebrated work, the 'botanic garden,' she says, 'it is a string of poetic brilliants, and they are of the first water, but the eye will be apt to want the intersticial black velvet to give effect to their lustre.' in later days, notwithstanding her 'elegant language,' as mr. charles darwin calls it, she said several spiteful things of her old friend, but they seem more prompted by private pique than malice. if miss seward was the minerva and dr. darwin the jupiter of the lichfield society, its philosopher was thomas day, of whom miss seward's description is so good that i cannot help one more quotation:-- 'powder and fine clothes were at that time the appendages of gentlemen; mr. day wore not either. he was tall and stooped in the shoulders, full made but not corpulent, and in his meditative and melancholy air a degree of awkwardness and dignity were blended.' she then compares him with his guest, mr. edgeworth. 'less graceful, less amusing, less brilliant than mr. e., but more highly imaginative, more classical, and a deeper reasoner; strict integrity, energetic friendship, open-handed generosity, and diffusive charity, greatly overbalanced on the side of virtue, the tincture of misanthropic gloom and proud contempt of common life society.' wright, of derby, painted a full-length picture of mr. day in . 'mr. day looks upward enthusiastically, meditating on the contents of a book held in his dropped right hand ... a flash of lightning plays in his hair and illuminates the contents of the volume.' 'dr. darwin,' adds miss seward, 'sat to mr. wright about the same period--_that_ was a simply contemplative portrait of the most perfect resemblance.' iii. maria must have been three years old this eventful christmas time when her father, leaving his wife in berkshire, came to stay with mr. day at lichfield, and first made the acquaintance of miss seward and her poetic circle. mr. day, who had once already been disappointed in love, and whose romantic scheme of adopting his foundlings and of educating one of them to be his wife, has often been described, had brought one of the maidens to the house he had taken at lichfield. this was sabrina, as he had called her. lucretia, having been found troublesome, had been sent off with a dowry to be apprenticed to a milliner. sabrina was a charming little girl of thirteen; everybody liked her, especially the friendly ladies at the palace, who received her with constant kindness, as they did mr. day himself and his visitor. what miss seward thought of sabrina's education i do not know. the poor child was to be taught to despise luxury, to ignore fear, to be superior to pain. she appears, however, to have been very fond of her benefactor, but to have constantly provoked him by starting and screaming whenever he fired uncharged pistols at her skirts, or dropped hot melted sealing-wax on her bare arms. she is described as lovely and artless, not fond of books, incapable of understanding scientific problems, or of keeping the imaginary and terrible secrets with which her guardian used to try her nerves. i do not know when it first occurred to him that honora sneyd was all that his dreams could have imagined. one day he left sabrina under many restrictions, and returning unexpectedly found her wearing some garment or handkerchief of which he did not approve, and discarded her on the spot and for ever. poor sabrina was evidently not meant to mate and soar with philosophical eagles. after this episode, she too was despatched, to board with an old lady, in peace for a time, let us hope, and in tranquil mediocrity. mr. edgeworth approved of this arrangement; he had never considered that sabrina was suited to his friend. but being taken in due time to call at the palace, he was charmed with miss seward, and still more by all he saw of honora; comparing her, alas! in his mind 'with all other women, and secretly acknowledging her superiority.' at first, he says, miss seward's brilliance overshadowed honora, but very soon her merits grew upon the bystanders. mr. edgeworth carefully concealed his feelings except from his host, who was beginning himself to contemplate a marriage with miss sneyd. mr. day presently proposed formally in writing for the hand of the lovely honora, and mr. edgeworth was to take the packet and to bring back the answer; and being married himself, and out of the running, he appears to have been unselfishly anxious for his friend's success. in the packet mr. day had written down the conditions to which he should expect his wife to subscribe. she would have to begin at once by giving up all luxuries, amenities, and intercourse with the world, and promise to continue to seclude herself entirely in his company. miss sneyd does not seem to have kept mr. edgeworth waiting long while she wrote her answer decidedly saying that she could not admit the unqualified control of a husband over all her actions, nor the necessity for 'seclusion from society to preserve female virtue.' finding that honora absolutely refused to change her way of life, mr. day went into a fever, for which dr. darwin bled him. nor did he recover until another miss sneyd, elizabeth by name, made her appearance in the close. mr. edgeworth, who was of a lively and active disposition, had introduced archery among the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, and he describes a fine summer evening's entertainment passed in agreeable sports, followed by dancing and music, in the course of which honora's sister, miss elizabeth, appeared for the first time on the lichfield scene, and immediately joined in the country dance. there is a vivid description of the two sisters in mr. edgeworth's memoirs, of the beautiful and distinguished honora, loving science, serious, eager, reserved; of the more lovely but less graceful elizabeth, with less of energy, more of humour and of social gifts than her sister. elizabeth sneyd was, says edgeworth, struck by day's eloquence, by his unbounded generosity, by his scorn of wealth. his educating a young girl for his wife seemed to her romantic and extraordinary; and she seems to have thought it possible to yield to the evident admiration she had aroused in him. but, whether in fun or in seriousness, she represented to him that he could not with justice decry accomplishments and graces that he had not acquired. she wished him to go abroad for a time to study to perfect himself in all that was wanting; on her own part she promised not to go to bath, london, or any public place of amusement until his return, and to read certain books which he recommended. meanwhile mr. edgeworth had made no secret of his own feeling for honora to mr. day, 'who with all the eloquence of virtue and of friendship' urged him to fly, to accompany him abroad, and to shun dangers he could not hope to overcome. edgeworth consented to this proposal, and the two friends started for paris, visiting rousseau on their way. they spent the winter at lyons, as it was a place where excellent masters of all sorts were to be found; and here mr. day, with excess of zeal-- put himself (says his friend) to every species of torture, ordinary and extraordinary, to compel his antigallican limbs, in spite of their natural rigidity, to dance and fence, and manage the _great horse_. to perform his promise to miss e. sneyd honourably, he gave up seven or eight hours of the day to these exercises, for which he had not the slightest taste, and for which, except horsemanship, he manifested the most sovereign contempt. it was astonishing to behold the energy with which he persevered in these pursuits. i have seen him stand between two boards which reached from the ground higher than his knees: these boards were adjusted with screws so as barely to permit him to bend his knees, and to rise up and sink down. by these means mr. huise proposed to force mr. day's knees outwards; but screwing was in vain. he succeeded in torturing his patient; but original formation and inveterate habit resisted all his endeavours at personal improvement. i could not help pitying my philosophic friend, pent up in durance vile for hours together, with his feet in the stocks, a book in his hand, and contempt in his heart. mr. edgeworth meanwhile lodged himself 'in excellent and agreeable apartments,' and occupied himself with engineering. he is certainly curiously outspoken in his memoirs; and explains that the first mrs. edgeworth, maria's mother, with many merits, was of a complaining disposition, and did not make him so happy at home as a woman of a more lively temper might have succeeded in doing. he was tempted, he said, to look for happiness elsewhere than in his home. perhaps domestic affairs may have been complicated by a warm-hearted but troublesome little son, who at day's suggestion had been brought up upon the rousseau system, and was in consequence quite unmanageable, and a worry to everybody. poor mrs. edgeworth's complainings were not to last very long. she joined her husband at lyons, and after a time, having a dread of lying-in abroad, returned home to die in her confinement, leaving four little children. maria could remember being taken into her mother's room to see her for the last time. mr. edgeworth hurried back to england, and was met by his friend thomas day, who had preceded him, and whose own suit does not seem to have prospered meanwhile. but though notwithstanding all his efforts thomas day had not been fortunate in securing elizabeth sneyd's affections, he could still feel for his friend. his first words were to tell edgeworth that honora was still free, more beautiful than ever; while virtue and honour commanded it, he had done all he could to divide them; now he wished to be the first to promote their meeting. the meeting resulted in an engagement, and mr. edgeworth and miss sneyd were married within four months by the benevolent old canon in the lady chapel of lichfield cathedral. mrs. seward wept; miss seward, 'notwithstanding some imaginary dissatisfaction about a bridesmaid,' was really glad of the marriage, we are told; and the young couple immediately went over to ireland. iv. though her life was so short, honora edgeworth seems to have made the deepest impression on all those she came across. over little maria she had the greatest influence. there is a pretty description of the child standing lost in wondering admiration of her stepmother's beauty, as she watched her soon after her marriage dressing at her toilet-table. little maria's feeling for her stepmother was very deep and real, and the influence of those few years lasted for a lifetime. her own exquisite carefulness she always ascribed to it, and to this example may also be attributed her habits of order and self-government, her life of reason and deliberate judgment. the seven years of honora's married life seem to have been very peaceful and happy. she shared her husband's pursuits, and wished for nothing outside her own home. she began with him to write those little books which were afterwards published. it is just a century ago since she and mr. edgeworth planned the early histories of harry and lucy and frank; while mr. day began his 'sandford and merton,' which at first was intended to appear at the same time, though eventually the third part was not published till . as a girl of seventeen honora sneyd had once been threatened with consumption. after seven years of married life the cruel malady again declared itself; and though dr. darwin did all that human resource could do, and though every tender care surrounded her, the poor young lady rapidly sank. there is a sad, prim, most affecting letter, addressed to little maria by the dying woman shortly before the end; and then comes that one written by the father, which is to tell her that all is over. if mr. edgeworth was certainly unfortunate in losing again and again the happiness of his home, he was more fortunate than most people in being able to rally from his grief. he does not appear to have been unfaithful in feeling. years after, edgeworth, writing to console mrs. day upon her husband's death, speaks in the most touching way of all he had suffered when honora died, and of the struggle he had made to regain his hold of life. this letter is in curious contrast to that one written at the time, as he sits by poor honora's deathbed; it reads strangely cold and irrelevant in these days when people are not ashamed of feeling or of describing what they feel. 'continue, my dear daughter'--he writes to maria, who was then thirteen years old--'the desire which you feel of becoming amiable, prudent, and of use. the ornamental parts of a character, with such an understanding as yours, necessarily ensue; but true judgment and sagacity in the choice of friends, and the regulation of your behaviour, can be only had from reflection, and from being thoroughly convinced of what experience in general teaches too late, that to be happy we must be good.' 'such a letter, written at such a time,' says the kind biographer, 'made the impression it was intended to convey; and the wish to act up to the high opinion her father had formed of her character became an exciting and controlling power over the whole of maria's future life.' on her deathbed, honora urged her husband to marry again, and assured him that the woman to suit him was her sister elizabeth. her influence was so great upon them both that, although elizabeth was attached to some one else, and mr. edgeworth believed her to be little suited to himself, they were presently engaged and married, not without many difficulties. the result proved how rightly honora had judged. it was to her father that maria owed the suggestion of her first start in literature. immediately after honora's death he tells her to write a tale about the length of a 'spectator,' on the subject of generosity. 'it must be taken from history or romance, must be sent the day se'nnight after you receive this; and i beg you will take some pains about it.' a young gentleman from oxford was also set to work to try his powers on the same subject, and mr. william sneyd, at lichfield, was to be judge between the two performances. he gave his verdict for maria: 'an excellent story and very well written: but where's the generosity?' this, we are told, became a sort of proverb in the edgeworth family. the little girl meanwhile had been sent to school to a certain mrs. lataffiere, where she was taught to use her fingers, to write a lovely delicate hand, to work white satin waistcoats for her papa. she was then removed to a fashionable establishment in upper wimpole street, where, says her stepmother, 'she underwent all the usual tortures of backboards, iron collars, and dumb-bells, with the unusual one of being hung by the neck to draw out the muscles and increase the growth,--a signal failure in her case.' (miss edgeworth was always a very tiny person.) there is a description given of maria at this school of hers of the little maiden absorbed in her book with all the other children at play, while she sits in her favourite place in front of a carved oak cabinet, quite unconscious of the presence of the romping girls all about her. hers was a very interesting character as it appears in the memoirs--sincere, intelligent, self-contained, and yet dependent; methodical, observant. sometimes as one reads of her in early life one is reminded of some of the personal characteristics of the writer who perhaps of all writers least resembles miss edgeworth in her art--of charlotte brontë, whose books are essentially of the modern and passionate school, but whose strangely mixed character seemed rather to belong to the orderly and neatly ruled existence of queen charlotte's reign. people's lives as they really are don't perhaps vary very much, but people's lives as they seem to be assuredly change with the fashions. miss edgeworth and miss brontë were both irishwomen, who have often, with all their outcome, the timidity which arises from quick and sensitive feeling. but the likeness does not go very deep. maria, whose diffidence and timidity were personal, but who had a firm and unalterable belief in family traditions, may have been saved from some danger of prejudice and limitation by a most fortunate though trying illness which affected her eyesight, and which caused her to be removed from her school with its monstrous elegancies to the care of mr. day, that kindest and sternest of friends. this philosopher in love had been bitterly mortified when the lively elizabeth sneyd, instead of welcoming his return, could not conceal her laughter at his uncouth elegancies, and confessed that, on the whole, she had liked him better as he was before. he forswore lichfield and marriage, and went abroad to forget. he turned his thoughts to politics; he wrote pamphlets on public subjects and letters upon slavery. his poem of the 'dying negro' had been very much admired. miss hannah more speaks of it in her memoirs. the subject of slavery was much before people's minds, and day's influence had not a little to do with the rising indignation. among day's readers and admirers was one person who was destined to have a most important influence upon his life. by a strange chance his extraordinary ideal was destined to be realised; and a young lady, good, accomplished, rich, devoted, who had read his books, and sympathised with his generous dreams, was ready not only to consent to his strange conditions, but to give him her whole heart and find her best happiness in his society and in carrying out his experiments and fancies. she was miss esther milnes, of yorkshire, an heiress; and though at first day hesitated and could not believe in the reality of her feeling, her constancy and singleness of mind were not to be resisted, and they were married at bath in . we hear of mr. and mrs. day spending the first winter of their married life at hampstead, and of mrs. day, thickly shodden, walking with him in a snowstorm on the common, and ascribing her renewed vigour to her husband's spartan advice. day and his wife eventually established themselves at anningsley, near chobham. he had insisted upon settling her fortune upon herself, but mrs. day assisted him in every way, and sympathised in his many schemes and benevolent ventures. when he neglected to make a window to the dressing-room he built for her, we hear of her uncomplainingly lighting her candles; to please him she worked as a servant in the house, and all their large means were bestowed in philanthropic and charitable schemes. mr. edgeworth quotes his friend's reproof to mrs. day, who was fond of music: 'shall we beguile the time with the strains of a lute while our fellow-creatures are starving?' 'i am out of pocket every year about _l._ by the farm i keep,' day writes his to his friend edgeworth. 'the soil i have taken in hand, i am convinced, is one of the most completely barren in england.' he then goes on to explain his reasons for what he is about. 'it enables me to employ the poor, and the result of all my speculations about humanity is that the only way of benefiting mankind is to give them employment and make them earn their money.' there is a pretty description of the worthy couple in their home dispensing help and benefits all round about, draining, planting, teaching, doctoring--nothing came amiss to them. their chief friend and neighbour was samuel cobbett, who understood their plans, and sympathised in their efforts, which, naturally enough, were viewed with doubt and mistrust by most of the people round about. it was at anningsley that mr. day finished 'sandford and merton,' begun many years before. his death was very sudden, and was brought about by one of his own benevolent theories. he used to maintain that kindness alone could tame animals; and he was killed by a fall from a favourite colt which he was breaking in. mrs. day never recovered the shock. she lived two years hidden in her home, absolutely inconsolable, and then died and was laid by her husband's side in the churchyard at wargrave by the river. it was to the care of these worthy people that little maria was sent when she was ill, and she was doctored by them both physically and morally. 'bishop berkeley's tar-water was still considered a specific for all complaints,' says mrs. edgeworth. 'mr. day thought it would be of use to maria's inflamed eyes, and he used to bring a large tumbler full of it to her every morning. she dreaded his "now, miss maria, drink this." but there was, in spite of his stern voice, something of pity and sympathy in his countenance. his excellent library was open to her, and he directed her studies. his severe reasoning and uncompromising truth of mind awakened all her powers, and the questions he put to her and the working out of the answers, the necessity of perfect accuracy in all her words, suited the natural truth of her mind; and though such strictness was not agreeable, she even then perceived its advantage, and in after life was grateful for it.' v. we have seen how miss elizabeth sneyd, who could not make up her mind to marry mr. day notwithstanding all he had gone through for her sake, had eventually consented to become mr. edgeworth's third wife. with this stepmother for many years to come maria lived in an affectionate intimacy, only to be exceeded by that most faithful companionship which existed for fifty years between her and the lady from whose memoirs i quote. it was about that maria went home to live at edgeworthtown with her father and his wife, with the many young brothers and sisters. the family was a large one, and already consisted of her own sisters, of honora the daughter of mrs. honora, and lovell her son. to these succeeded many others of the third generation; and two sisters of mrs. edgeworth's, who also made their home at edgeworthtown. maria had once before been there, "very young, but she was now old enough to be struck with the difference then so striking between ireland and england." the tones and looks, the melancholy and the gaiety of the people, were so new and extraordinary to her that the delineations she long afterwards made of irish character probably owe their life and truth to the impression made on her mind at this time as a stranger. though it was june when they landed, there was snow on the roses she ran out to gather, and she felt altogether in a new and unfamiliar country. she herself describes the feelings of the master of a family returning to an irish home:-- wherever he turned his eyes, in or out of his home, damp dilapidation, waste appeared. painting, glazing, roofing, fencing, finishing--all were wanting. the backyard and even the front lawn round the windows of the house were filled with loungers, followers, and petitioners; tenants, undertenants, drivers, sub-agent and agent were to have audience; and they all had grievances and secret informations, accusations, reciprocations, and quarrels each under each interminable. her account of her father's dealings with them is admirable:-- i was with him constantly, and i was amused and interested in seeing how he made his way through their complaints, petitions, and grievances with decision and despatch, he all the time in good humour with the people and they delighted with him, though he often rated them roundly when they stood before him perverse in litigation, helpless in procrastination, detected in cunning or convicted of falsehood. they saw into his character almost as soon as he understood theirs. mr. edgeworth had in a very remarkable degree that power of ruling and administering which is one of the rarest of gifts. he seems to have shown great firmness and good sense in his conduct in the troubled times in which he lived. he saw to his own affairs, administered justice, put down middlemen as far as possible, reorganised the letting out of the estate. unlike many of his neighbours, he was careful not to sacrifice the future to present ease of mind and of pocket. he put down rack-rents and bribes of every sort, and did his best to establish things upon a firm and lasting basis. but if it was not possible even for mr. edgeworth to make such things all they should have been outside the house, the sketch given of the family life at home is very pleasant. the father lives in perfect confidence with his children, admitting them to his confidence, interesting them in his experiments, spending his days with them, consulting them. there are no reservations; he does his business in the great sitting-room, surrounded by his family. i have heard it described as a large ground-floor room, with windows to the garden and with two columns supporting the further end, by one of which maria's writing-desk used to be placed--a desk which her father had devised for her, which used to be drawn out to the fireside when she worked. does not mr. edgeworth also mention in one of his letters a picture of thomas day hanging over a sofa against the wall? books in plenty there were, we may be sure, and perhaps models of ingenious machines and different appliances for scientific work. sir henry holland and mr. ticknor give a curious description of mr. edgeworth's many ingenious inventions. there were strange locks to the rooms and telegraphic despatches to the kitchen; clocks at the one side of the house were wound up by simply opening certain doors at the other end. it has been remarked that all miss edgeworth's heroes had a smattering of science. several of her brothers inherited her father's turn for it. we hear of them raising steeples and establishing telegraphs in partnership with him. maria shared of the family labours and used to help her father in the business connected with the estate, to assist him, also, to keep the accounts. she had a special turn for accounts, and she was pleased with her exquisitely neat columns and by the accuracy with which her figures fell into their proper places. long after her father's death this knowledge and experience enabled her to manage the estate for her eldest stepbrother, mr. lovell edgeworth. she was able, at a time of great national difficulty and anxious crisis, to meet a storm in which many a larger fortune was wrecked. but in she was a young girl only beginning life. storms were not yet, and she was putting out her wings in the sunshine. her father set her to translate 'adèle et théodore,' by madame de genlis (she had a great facility for languages, and her french was really remarkable). holcroft's version of the book, however, appeared, and the edgeworth translation was never completed. mr. day wrote a letter to congratulate mr. edgeworth on the occasion. it seemed horrible to mr. day that a woman should appear in print. it is possible that the edgeworth family was no exception to the rule by which large and clever and animated families are apt to live in a certain atmosphere of their own. but, notwithstanding this strong family bias, few people can have seen more of the world, felt its temper more justly, or appreciated more fully the interesting varieties of people to be found in it than maria edgeworth. within easy reach of edgeworthtown were different agreeable and cultivated houses. there was pakenham hall with lord longford for its master; one of its daughters was the future duchess of wellington, 'who was always kitty pakenham for her old friends.' there at castle forbes also lived, i take it, more than one of the well-bred and delightful persons, out of 'patronage,' and the 'absentee,' who may, in real life, have borne the names of lady moira and lady granard. besides, there were cousins and relations without number--foxes, ruxtons, marriages and intermarriages; and when the time came for occasional absences and expeditions from home, the circles seem to have spread incalculably in every direction. the edgeworths appear to have been a genuinely sociable clan, interested in others and certainly interesting to them. vi. the first letter given in the memoirs from maria to her favourite aunt ruxton is a very sad one, which tells of the early death of her sister honora, a beautiful girl of fifteen, the only daughter of mrs. honora edgeworth, who died of consumption, as her mother had died. this letter, written in the dry phraseology of the time, is nevertheless full of feeling, above all for her father who was, as maria says elsewhere, ever since she could think or feel, the first object and motive of her mind. mrs. edgeworth describes her sister-in-law as follows:-- mrs. ruxton resembled her brother in the wit and vivacity of her mind and strong affections; her grace and charm of manner were such that a gentleman once said of her; 'if i were to see mrs. ruxton in rags as a beggar woman sitting on the doorstep, i should say "madam" to her.' 'to write to her aunt ruxton was, as long as she lived, maria's greatest pleasure while away from her,' says mrs. edgeworth, 'and to be with her was a happiness she enjoyed with never flagging and supreme delight. blackcastle was within a few hours' drive of edgeworthtown, and to go to blackcastle was the holiday of her life.' mrs. edgeworth tells a story of maria once staying at blackcastle and tearing out the title page of 'belinda,' so that her aunt, mrs. ruxton, read the book without any suspicion of the author. she was so delighted with it that she insisted on maria listening to page after page, exclaiming 'is not that admirably written?' 'admirably read, i think,' said maria; until her aunt, quite provoked by her faint acquiescence, says, 'i am sorry to see my little maria unable to bear the praises of a rival author;' at which poor maria burst into tears, and mrs. ruxton could never bear the book mentioned afterwards. it was with mrs. ruxton that a little boy, born just after the death of the author of 'sandford and merton,' was left on the occasion of the departure of the edgeworth family for clifton, in , where mr. edgeworth spent a couple of years for the health of one of his sons. in july the poor little brother dies in ireland. 'there does not, now that little thomas is gone, exist even a person of the same name as mr. day,' says mr. edgeworth, who concludes his letter philosophically, as the father of twenty children may be allowed to do, by expressing a hope that to his nurses, mrs. ruxton and her daughter, 'the remembrance of their own goodness will soon obliterate the painful impression of his miserable end.' during their stay at clifton richard edgeworth, the eldest son, who had been brought up upon rousseau's system, and who seems to have found the old world too restricted a sphere for his energies, after going to sea and disappearing for some years, suddenly paid them a visit from south carolina, where he had settled and married. the young man was gladly welcomed by them all. he had been long separated from home, and he eventually died very young in america; but his sister always clung to him with fond affection, and when he left them to return home she seems to have felt his departure very much. 'last saturday my poor brother richard took leave of us to return to america. he has gone up to london with my father and mother, and is to sail from thence. we could not part from him without great pain and regret, for he made us all extremely fond of him.' notwithstanding these melancholy events, maria edgeworth seems to have led a happy busy life all this time among her friends, her relations, her many interests, her many fancies and facts, making much of the children, of whom she writes pleasant descriptions to her aunt. 'charlotte is very engaging and promises to be handsome. sneyd is, and promises everything. henry will, i think, through life always do more than he promises. little honora is a sprightly blue-eyed child at nurse with a woman who is the picture of health and simplicity. lovell is perfectly well. doctor darwin has paid him very handsome compliments on his lines on the barbarini vase in the first part of the "botanic garden."' mr. edgeworth, however, found the time long at clifton, though, as usual, he at once improved his opportunities, paid visits to his friends in london and elsewhere, and renewed many former intimacies and correspondences. maria also paid a visit to london, but the time had not come for her to enjoy society, and the extreme shyness of which mrs. edgeworth speaks made it pain to her to be in society in those early days. 'since i have been away from home,' she writes, 'i have missed the society of my father, mother, and sisters more than i can express, and more than beforehand i could have thought possible. i long to see them all again. even when i am most amused i feel a void, and now i understand what an aching void is perfectly.' very soon we hear of her at home again, 'scratching away at the freeman family.' mr. edgeworth is reading aloud gay's 'trivia' among other things, which she recommends to her aunt. 'i had much rather make a bargain with any one i loved to read the same books with them at the same hour than to look at the moon like rousseau's famous lovers.' there is another book, a new book for the children, mentioned about this time, 'evenings at home,' which they all admire immensely. miss edgeworth was now about twenty-six, at an age when a woman's powers have fully ripened; a change comes over her style; there is a fulness of description in her letters and a security of expression which show maturity. her habit of writing was now established, and she describes the constant interest her father took and his share in all she did. some of the slighter stories she first wrote upon a slate and read out to her brothers and sisters; others she sketched for her father's approval, and arranged and altered as he suggested. the letters for literary ladies were with the publishers by this time, and these were followed by various stories and early lessons, portions of 'parents' assistant,' and of popular tales, all of which were sent out in packets and lent from one member of the family to another before finally reaching mr. johnson, the publisher's, hands. maria edgeworth in some of her letters from clifton alludes with some indignation to the story of mrs. hannah more's ungrateful _protégée_ lactilla, the literary milkwoman, whose poems hannah more was at such pains to bring before the world, and for whom, with her kind preface and warm commendations and subscription list, she was able to obtain the large sum of _l._ the ungrateful lactilla, who had been starving when mrs. more found her out, seems to have lost her head in this sudden prosperity, and to have accused her benefactress of wishing to steal a portion of the money. maria edgeworth must have been also interested in some family marriages which took place about this time. her own sister anna became engaged to dr. beddoes, of clifton, whose name appears as prescribing for the authors of various memoirs of that day. he is 'a man of ability, of a great name in the scientific world,' says mr. edgeworth, who favoured the doctor's 'declared passion,' as a proposal was then called, and the marriage accordingly took place on their return to ireland. emmeline, another sister, was soon after married to mr. king, a surgeon, also living at bristol, and maria was now left the only remaining daughter of the first marriage, to be good aunt, sister, friend to all the younger members of the party. she was all this, but she herself expressly states that her father would never allow her to be turned into a nursery drudge; her share of the family was limited to one special little boy. meanwhile her pen-and-ink children are growing up, and starting out in the world on their own merits. 'i beg, dear sophy,' she writes to her cousin, 'that you will not call my little stories by the sublime name of my works; i shall else be ashamed when the little mouse comes forth. the stories are printed and bound the same size as 'evenings at home,' but i am afraid you will dislike the title. my father had sent the 'parents' friend,' but mr. johnson has degraded it into 'parents' assistant.' in , says miss beaufort, who was to be so soon more intimately connected with the edgeworth family, johnson wished to publish more volumes of the 'parents' assistant' on fine paper, with prints, and mrs. ruxton asked me to make some designs for them. these designs seem to have given great satisfaction to the edgeworth party, and especially to a little boy called william, mrs. edgeworth's youngest boy, who grew up to be a fine young man, but who died young of the cruel family complaint. mrs. edgeworth's health was also failing all this time--'though she makes epigrams she is far from well,' says maria; but they, none of them seem seriously alarmed. mr. edgeworth, in the intervals of politics, is absorbed in a telegraph, which, with the help of his sons, he is trying to establish. it is one which will act by night as well as by day. it was a time of change and stir for ireland, disaffection growing and put down for a time by the soldiers; armed bands going about 'defending' the country and breaking its windows. in threats of a french invasion had alarmed everybody, and now again in came rumours of every description, and mr. edgeworth was very much disappointed that his proposal for establishing a telegraph across the water to england was rejected by government. he also writes to dr. darwin that he had offered himself as a candidate for the county, and been obliged to relinquish at the last moment; but these minor disappointments were lost in the trouble which fell upon the household in the following year--the death of the mother of the family, who sank rapidly and died of consumption in . vii. when mr. edgeworth himself died (not, as we may be sure, without many active post-mortem wishes and directions) he left his entertaining memoirs half finished, and he desired his daughter maria in the most emphatic way to complete them, and to publish them without changing or altering anything that he had written. people reading them were surprised by the contents; many blamed miss edgeworth for making them public, not knowing how solemn and binding these dying commands of her father's had been, says mrs. leadbeater, writing at the time to mrs. trench. many severe and wounding reviews appeared, and this may have influenced miss edgeworth in her own objection to having her memoirs published by her family. mr. edgeworth's life was most extraordinary, comprising in fact three or four lives in the place of that one usually allowed to most people, some of us having to be moderately content with a half or three-quarters of existence. but his versatility of mind was no less remarkable than his tenacity of purpose and strength of affection, though some measure of sentiment must have certainly been wanting, and his fourth marriage must have taken most people by surprise. the writer once expressed her surprise at the extraordinary influence that mr. edgeworth seems to have had over women and over the many members of his family who continued to reside in his home after all the various changes which had taken place there. lady s---- to whom she spoke is one who has seen more of life than most of us, who has for years past carried help to the far-away and mysterious east, but whose natural place is at home in the more prosperous and unattainable west end. this lady said, 'you do not in the least understand what my uncle edgeworth was. i never knew anything like him. brilliant, full of energy and charm, he was something quite extraordinary and irresistible. if you had known him you would not have wondered at anything.' 'i had in the spring of that year ( ) paid my first visit to edgeworthtown with my mother and sister,' writes miss beaufort, afterwards mrs. edgeworth, the author of the memoirs. 'my father had long before been there, and had frequently met mr. edgeworth at mrs. ruxton's. in my father was presented to the living of collon, in the county of louth, where he resided from that time. his vicarage was within five minutes' walk of the residence of mr. foster, then speaker of the irish house of commons, the dear friend of mr. edgeworth, who came to collon in the spring of several times, and at last offered me his hand, which i accepted.' maria, who was at first very much opposed to the match, would not have been herself the most devoted and faithful of daughters if she had not eventually agreed to her father's wishes, and, as daughters do, come by degrees to feel with him and to see with his eyes. the influence of a father over a daughter where real sympathy exists is one of the very deepest and strongest that can be imagined. miss beaufort herself seems also to have had some special attraction for maria. she was about her own age. she must have been a person of singularly sweet character and gentle liberality of mind. 'you will come into a new family, but you will not come as a stranger, dear miss beaufort,' writes generous maria. 'you will not lead a new life, but only continue to lead the life you have been used to in your own happy cultivated family.' and her stepmother in a few feeling words describes all that maria was to her from the very first when she came as a bride to the home where the sisters and the children of the lately lost wife were all assembled to meet her. it gives an unpleasant thrill to read of the newly-married lady coming along to her home in a postchaise, and seeing something odd on the side of the road. 'look to the other side; don't look at it,' says mr. edgeworth; and when they had passed he tells his bride that it was the body of a man hung by the rebels between the shafts of a car. the family at edgeworthtown consisted of two ladies, sisters of the late mrs. edgeworth, who made it their home, and of maria, the last of the first family. lovell, now the eldest son, was away; but there were also four daughters and three sons at home. all agreed in making me feel at once at home and part of the family; all received me with the most unaffected cordiality; but from maria it was something more. she more than fulfilled the promise of her letter; she made me at once her most intimate friend, and in every trifle of the day treated me with the most generous confidence. those times were even more serious than they are now; we hear of mr. bond, the high sheriff, paying 'a pale visit' to edgeworthtown. 'i am going on in the old way, writing stories,' says maria edgeworth, writing in . 'i cannot be a captain of dragoons, and sitting with my hands before me would not make any one of us one degree safer.... simple susan went to foxhall a few days ago for lady anne to carry her to england.'... 'my father has made our little rooms so nice for us,' she continues; 'they are all fresh painted and papered. oh! rebels, oh! french spare them. we have never injured you, and all we wish is to see everybody as happy as ourselves.' on august we find from miss edgeworth's letter to her cousin that the french have got to castlebar. 'the lord-lieutenant is now at athlone, and it is supposed it will be their next object of attack. my father's corps of yeomanry are extremely attached to him and seem fully in earnest; but, alas! by some strange negligence, their arms have not yet arrived from dublin.... we, who are so near the scene of action, cannot by any means discover what _number_ of the french actually landed; some say , some , , some , .' the family had a narrow escape that day, for two officers, who were in charge of some ammunition, offered to take them under their protection as far as longford. mr. edgeworth most fortunately detained them. 'half an hour afterwards, as we were quietly sitting in the portico, we heard, as we thought close to us, the report of a pistol or a clap of thunder which shook the house. the officer soon after returned almost speechless; he could hardly explain what had happened. the ammunition cart, containing nearly three barrels of gunpowder, took fire, and burnt half-way on the road to longford. the man who drove the cart was blown to atoms. nothing of him could be found. two of the horses were killed; others were blown to pieces, and their limbs scattered to a distance. the head and body of a man were found a hundred and twenty yards from the spot.... if we had gone with this ammunition cart, we must have been killed. an hour or two afterwards we were obliged to fly from edgeworthtown. the pikemen, in number, were within a mile of the town; my mother and charlotte and i rode; passed the trunk of the dead man, bloody limbs of horses, and two dead horses, by the help of men who pulled on our steeds--all safely lodged now in mrs. fallon's inn.' 'before we had reached the place where the cart had been blown up,' says mrs. edgeworth, 'mr. edgeworth suddenly recollected that he had left on the table in his study a list of the yeomanry corps which he feared might endanger the poor fellows and their families if it fell into the hands of the rebels. he galloped back for it. it was at the hazard of his life; but the rebels had not yet appeared. he burned the paper, and rejoined us safely.' the memoirs give a most interesting and spirited account of the next few days. the rebels spared mr. edgeworth's house, although they broke into it. after a time the family were told that all was safe for their return, and the account of their coming home, as it is given in the second volume of mr. edgeworth's life by his daughter, is a model of style and admirable description. in mr. edgeworth came into parliament for the borough of st. johnstown. he was a unionist by conviction, but he did not think the times were yet ripe for the union, and he therefore voted against it. in some of his letters to dr. darwin written at this time, he says that he was offered , guineas for his seat for the few remaining weeks of the session, which, needless to say, he refused, not thinking it well, as he says, '_to quarrel with myself_.' he also adds that maria continues writing for children under the persuasion that she cannot be more serviceably employed; and he sends (with his usual perspicuity) affectionate messages to the doctor's 'good amiable lady and _his giant brood_.' but this long friendly correspondence was coming to an end. the doctor's letters, so quietly humorous and to the point, mr. edgeworth's answers with all their characteristic and lively variety, were nearly at an end. it was in that maria had achieved her great success, and published 'castle rackrent,' a book--not for children this time--which made everybody talk who read, and those read who had only talked before. this work was published anonymously, and so great was its reputation that some one was at the pains to copy out the whole of the story with erasures and different signs of authenticity, and assume the authorship. one very distinctive mark of maria edgeworth's mind is the honest candour and genuine critical faculty which is hers. her appreciation of her own work and that of others is unaffected and really discriminating, whether it is 'corinne' or a simple story which she is reading, or scott's new novel the 'pirate,' or one of her own manuscripts which she estimates justly and reasonably. 'i have read "corinne" with my father, and i like it better than he does. in one word, i am dazzled by the genius, provoked by the absurdities, and in admiration of the taste and critical judgment of italian literature displayed throughout the whole work: but i will not dilate upon it in a letter. i could talk for three hours to you and my aunt.' elsewhere she speaks with the warmest admiration of a 'simple story.' jane austen's books were not yet published; but another writer, for whom mr. edgeworth and his daughter had a very great regard and admiration, was mrs. barbauld, who in all the heavy trials and sorrows of her later life found no little help and comfort in the friendship and constancy of maria edgeworth. mr. and mrs. barbauld, upon mr. edgeworth's invitation, paid him a visit at clifton, where he was again staying in , and where the last mrs. edgeworth's eldest child was born. there is a little anecdote of domestic life at this time in the memoirs which gives one a glimpse, not of an authoress, but of a very sympathising and impressionable person. 'maria took her little sister to bring down to her father, but when she had descended a few steps a panic seized her, and she was afraid to go either backwards or forwards. she sat down on the stairs afraid she should drop the child, afraid that its head would come off, and afraid that her father would find her sitting there and laugh at her, till seeing the footman passing she called "samuel" in a terrified voice, and made him walk before her backwards down the stairs till she safely reached the sitting-room.' for all these younger children maria seems to have had a most tender and motherly regard, as indeed for all her young brothers and sisters of the different families. many of them were the heroines of her various stories, and few heroines are more charming than some of miss edgeworth's. rosamund is said by some to have been maria herself, impulsive, warm-hearted, timid, and yet full of spirit and animation. in his last letter to mr. edgeworth dr. darwin writes kindly of the authoress, and sends her a message. the letter is dated april , . 'i am glad to find you still amuse yourself with mechanism in spite of the troubles of ireland;' and the doctor goes on to ask his friend to come and pay a visit to the priory, and describes the pleasant house with the garden, the ponds full of fish, the deep umbrageous valley, with the talkative stream running down it, and derby tower in the distance. the letter, so kind, so playful in its tone, was never finished. dr. darwin was writing as he was seized with what seemed a fainting fit, and he died within an hour. miss edgeworth writes of the shock her father felt when the sad news reached him; a shock, she says, which must in some degree be experienced by every person who reads this letter of dr. darwin's. no wonder this generous outspoken man was esteemed in his own time. to us, in ours, it has been given still more to know the noble son of 'that giant brood,' whose name will be loved and held in honour as long as people live to honour nobleness, simplicity, and genius; those things which give life to life itself. viii. 'calais after a rough passage; brussels, flat country, tiled houses, trees and ditches, the window shutters turned out to the street; fishwives' legs, dunkirk, and the people looking like wooden toys set in motion; bruges and its mingled spires, shipping, and windmills.' these notes of travel read as if miss edgeworth had been writing down only yesterday a pleasant list of the things which are to be seen two hours off, to-day no less plainly than a century ago. she jots it all down from her corner in the postchaise, where she is propped up with a father, brother, stepmother, and sister for travelling companions, and a new book to beguile the way. she is charmed with her new book. it is the story of 'mademoiselle de clermont,' by madame de genlis, and only just out. the edgeworths (with many other english people) rejoiced in the long-looked-for millennium, which had been signed only the previous autumn, and they now came abroad to bask in the sunshine of the continent, which had been so long denied to our mist-bound islanders. we hear of the enthusiastic and somewhat premature joy with which this peace was received by all ranks of people. not only did the english rush over to france; foreigners crossed to england, and one of them, an old friend of mr. edgeworth's, had already reached edgeworthtown, and inspired its enterprising master with a desire to see those places and things once more which he heard described. mr. edgeworth was anxious also to show his young wife the treasures in the louvre, and to help her to develop her taste for art. he had had many troubles of late, lost friends and children by death and by marriage. one can imagine that the change must have been welcome to them all. besides maria and lovell, his eldest son, he took with him a lovely young daughter, charlotte edgeworth, the daughter of elizabeth sneyd. they travelled by belgium, stopping on their way at bruges, at ghent, and visiting pictures and churches along the road, as travellers still like to do. mrs. edgeworth was, as we have said, the artistic member of the party. we do not know what modern rhapsodists would say to miss edgeworth's very subdued criticisms and descriptions of feeling on this occasion. 'it is extremely agreeable to me,' she writes, 'to see paintings with those who have excellent taste and no affectation.' and this remark might perhaps be thought even more to the point now than in the pre-æsthetic age in which it was innocently made. the travellers are finally landed in paris in a magnificent hotel in a fine square, 'formerly place louis-quinze, afterwards place de la révolution, now place de la concorde.' and place de la concorde it remains, wars and revolutions notwithstanding, whether lighted by the flames of the desperate commune or by the peaceful sunsets which stream their evening glory across the blood-stained stones. the edgeworths did not come as strangers to paris; they brought letters and introductions with them, and bygone associations and friendships which had only now to be resumed. the well-known abbé morellet, their old acquaintance, 'answered for them,' says miss edgeworth, and besides all this mr edgeworth's name was well known in scientific circles. bréguet, montgolfier, and others all made him welcome. lord henry petty, as maria's friend lord lansdowne was then called, was in paris, and rogers the poet, and kosciusko, cured of his wounds. for the first time they now made the acquaintance of m. dumont, a lifelong friend and correspondent. there were many others--the delesserts, of the french protestant faction, madame suard, to whom the romantic thomas day had paid court some thirty years before, and madame campan, and madame récamier, and madame de rémusat, and madame de houdetot, now seventy-two years of age, but rousseau's julie still, and camille jordan, and the chevalier edelcrantz, from the court of the king of sweden. the names alone of the edgeworths' entertainers represent a delightful and interesting section of the history of the time. one can imagine that besides all these pleasant and talkative persons the faubourg saint-germain itself threw open its great swinging doors to the relations of the abbé edgeworth who risked his life to stand by his master upon the scaffold and to speak those noble warm-hearted words, the last that louis ever heard. one can picture the family party as it must have appeared with its pleasant british looks--the agreeable 'ruddy-faced' father, the gentle mrs. edgeworth, who is somewhere described by her stepdaughter as so orderly, so clean, so freshly dressed, the child of fifteen, only too beautiful and delicately lovely, and last of all maria herself, the nice little unassuming, jeannie-deans-looking body lord byron described, small, homely, perhaps, but with her gift of french, of charming intercourse, her fresh laurels of authorship (for 'belinda' was lately published), her bright animation, her cultivated mind and power of interesting all those in her company, to say nothing of her own kindling interest in every one and every thing round about her. her keen delights and vivid descriptions of all these new things, faces, voices, ideas, are all to be read in some long and most charming letters to ireland, which also contain the account of a most eventful crisis which this paris journey brought about. the letter is dated march , and it concludes as follows:-- here, my dear aunt, i was interrupted in a manner that will surprise you as much as it surprised me--by the coming of m. edelcrantz, a swedish gentleman whom we have mentioned to you, of superior understanding and mild manners. he came to offer me his hand and heart! my heart, you may suppose, cannot return his attachment, for i have seen but very little of him, and have not had time to have formed any judgment except that i think nothing could tempt me to leave my own dear friends and my own country to live in sweden. maria edgeworth was now about thirty years of age, at a time of life when people are apt to realise perhaps almost more deeply than in early youth the influence of feeling, its importance, and strange power over events. hitherto there are no records in her memoirs of any sentimental episodes, but it does not follow that a young lady has not had her own phase of experience because she does not write it out at length to her various aunts and correspondents. miss edgeworth was not a sentimental person. she was warmly devoted to her own family, and she seems to have had a strong idea of her own want of beauty; perhaps her admiration for her lovely young sisters may have caused this feeling to be exaggerated by her. but no romantic, lovely heroine could have inspired a deeper or more touching admiration than this one which m. edelcrantz felt for his english friend; the mild and superior swede seems to have been thoroughly in earnest. so indeed was miss edgeworth, but she was not carried away by the natural impulse of the moment. she realised the many difficulties and dangers of the unknown; she looked to the future; she turned to her own home, and with an affection all the more felt because of the trial to which it was now exposed. the many lessons of self-control and self-restraint which she had learnt returned with instinctive force. sometimes it happens that people miss what is perhaps the best for the sake of the next best, and we see convenience and old habit and expediency, and a hundred small and insignificant circumstances, gathering like some avalanche to divide hearts that might give and receive very much from each. but sentiment is not the only thing in life. other duties, ties, and realities there are; and it is difficult to judge for others in such matters. sincerity of heart and truth to themselves are pretty sure in the end to lead people in the right direction for their own and for other people's happiness. only, in the experience of many women there is the danger that fixed ideas, and other people's opinion, and the force of custom may limit lives which might have been complete in greater things, though perhaps less perfect in the lesser. people in the abstract are sincere enough in wishing fulness of experience and of happiness to those dearest and nearest to them; but we are only human beings, and when the time comes and the horrible necessity for parting approaches, our courage goes, our hearts fail, and we think we are preaching reason and good sense while it is only a most natural instinct which leads us to cling to that to which we are used and to those we love. mr. edgeworth did not attempt to influence maria. mrs. edgeworth evidently had some misgivings, and certainly much sympathy for the chevalier and for her friend and stepdaughter. she says:-- maria was mistaken as to her own feelings. she refused m. edelcrantz, but she felt much more for him than esteem and admiration; she was extremely in love with him. mr. edgeworth left her to decide for herself; but she saw too plainly what it would be to us to lose her and what she would feel at parting with us. she decided rightly for her own future happiness and for that of her family, but she suffered much at the time and long afterwards. while we were at paris i remember that in a shop, where charlotte and i were making purchases, maria sat apart absorbed in thought, and so deep in reverie that when her father came in and stood opposite to her she did not see him till he spoke to her, when she started and burst into tears.... i do not think she repented of her refusal or regretted her decision. she was well aware that she could not have made m. edelcrantz happy, that she would not have suited his position at the court of stockholm, and that her want of beauty might have diminished his attachment. it was perhaps better she should think so, for it calmed her mind; but from what i saw of m. edelcrantz i think he was a man capable of really valuing her. i believe he was much attached to her, and deeply mortified at her refusal. he continued to reside in sweden after the abdication of his master, and was always distinguished for his high character and great abilities. he never married. he was, except for his very fine eyes, remarkably plain. so ends the romance of the romancer. there are, however, many happinesses in life, as there are many troubles. mrs. edgeworth tells us that after her stepdaughter's return to edgeworthtown she occupied herself with various literary works, correcting some of her former mss. for the press, and writing 'madame de fleury,' 'emilie de coulanges,' and 'leonora.' but the high-flown and romantic style did suit her gift, and she wrote best when her genuine interest and unaffected glances shone with bright understanding sympathy upon her immediate surroundings. when we are told that 'leonora' was written in the style the chevalier edelcrantz preferred, and that the idea of what he would think of it was present to maria in every page, we begin to realise that for us at all events it was a most fortunate thing that she decided as she did. it would have been a loss indeed to the world if this kindling and delightful spirit of hers had been choked by the polite thorns, fictions, and platitudes of an artificial, courtly life and by the well-ordered narrowness of a limited standard. she never heard what the chevalier thought of the book; she never knew that he ever read it even. it is a satisfaction to hear that he married no one else, and while she sat writing and not forgetting in the pleasant library at home, one can imagine the romantic chevalier in his distant court faithful to the sudden and romantic devotion by which he is now remembered. romantic and chivalrous friendship seems to belong to his country and to his countrymen. ix. there are one or two other episodes less sentimental than this one recorded of this visit to paris, not the least interesting of these being the account given of a call upon madame de genlis. the younger author from her own standpoint having resolutely turned away from the voice of the charmer for the sake of that which she is convinced to be duty and good sense, now somewhat sternly takes the measure of her elder sister, who has failed in the struggle, who is alone and friendless, and who has made her fate. the story is too long to quote at full length. an isolated page without its setting loses very much; the previous description of the darkness and uncertainty through which maria and her father go wandering, and asking their way in vain, adds immensely to the sense of the gloom and isolation which are hiding the close of a long and brilliant career. at last, after wandering for a long time seeking for madame de genlis, the travellers compel a reluctant porter to show them the staircase in the arsenal, where she is living, and to point out the door before he goes off with the light. they wait in darkness. the account of what happens when the door is opened is so interesting that i cannot refrain from quoting it at length:-- after ringing the bell we presently heard doors open and little footsteps approaching nigh. the door was opened by a girl of about honora's size, holding an ill set-up, wavering candle in her hand, the light of which fell full upon her face and figure. her face was remarkably intelligent--dark sparkling eyes, dark hair curled in the most fashionable long corkscrew ringlets over her eyes and cheeks. she parted the ringlets to take a full view of us. the dress of her figure by no means suited the head and elegance of her attitude. what her nether weeds might be we could not distinctly see, but they seemed a coarse short petticoat like what molly bristow's children would wear. after surveying us and hearing our name was edgeworth she smiled graciously and bid us follow her, saying, 'maman est chez elle.' she led the way with the grace of a young lady who has been taught to dance across two ante-chambers, miserable-looking; but, miserable or not, no home in paris can be without them. the girl, or young lady, for we were still in doubt which to think her, led into a small room in which the candles were so well screened by a green tin screen that we could scarcely distinguish the tall form of a lady in black who rose from her chair by the fireside; as the door opened a great puff of smoke came from the huge fireplace at the same moment. she came forward, and we made our way towards her as well as we could through a confusion of tables, chairs, and work-baskets, china, writing-desks and inkstands, and birdcages, and a harp. she did not speak, and as her back was now turned to both fire and candle i could not see her face or anything but the outline of her form and her attitude. her form was the remains of a fine form, her attitude that of a woman used to a better drawing-room. i being foremost, and she silent, was compelled to speak to the figure in darkness. 'madame de genlis nous a fait l'honneur de nous mander qu'elle voulait bien nous permettre de lui rendre visite,' said i, or words to that effect, to which she replied by taking my hand and saying something in which 'charmée' was the most intelligible word. while she spoke she looked over my shoulder at my father, whose bow, i presume, told her he was a gentleman, for she spoke to him immediately as if she wished to please and seated us in _fauteuils_ near the fire. i then had a full view of her face--figure very thin and melancholy dark eyes, long sallow cheeks, compressed thin lips, two or three black ringlets on a high forehead, a cap that mrs. grier might wear--altogether in appearance of fallen fortunes, worn-out health, and excessive but guarded irritability. to me there was nothing of that engaging, captivating manner which i had been taught to expect. she seemed to me to be alive only to literary quarrels and jealousies. the muscles of her face as she spoke, or as my father spoke to her, quickly and too easily expressed hatred and anger.... she is now, you know, _dévote acharnée_.... madame de genlis seems to have been so much used to being attacked that she has defence and apologies ready prepared. she spoke of madame de staël's 'delphine' with detestation.... forgive me, my dear aunt mary; you begged me to see her with favourable eyes, and i went, after seeing her 'rosière de salency,' with the most favourable disposition, but i could not like her.... and from time to time i saw, or thought i saw, through the gloom of her countenance a gleam of coquetry. but my father judges of her much more favourably than i do. she evidently took pains to please him, and he says he is sure she is a person over whose mind he could gain great ascendency. the 'young and gay philosopher' at fifty is not unchanged since we knew him first. maria adds a postscript: i had almost forgotten to tell you that the little girl who showed us in is a girl whom she is educating. 'elle m'appelle maman, mais elle n'est pas ma fille.' the manner in which this little girl spoke to madame de genlis and looked at her appeared to me more in her favour than anything else. i went to look at what the child was writing; she was translating darwin's _zoonomia_. every description one reads by miss edgeworth of actual things and people makes one wish that she had written more of them. this one is the more interesting from the contrast of the two women, both so remarkable and coming to so different a result in their experience of life. this eventful visit to paris is brought to an eventful termination by several gendarmes, who appear early one morning in mr. edgeworth's bedroom with orders that he is to get up and to leave paris immediately. mr. edgeworth had been accused of being brother to the abbé de fermont. when the mitigated circumstances of his being only a first cousin were put forward by lord whitworth, the english ambassador, the edgeworths received permission to return from the suburb to which they had retired; but private news hurried their departure, and they were only in time to escape the general blockade and detention of english prisoners. after little more than a year of peace, once more war was declared on may , . lovell, the eldest son, who was absent at the time and travelling from switzerland, was not able to escape in time; nor for twelve years to come was the young man able to return to his own home and family. x. 'belinda,' 'castle rackrent,' the 'parents' assistant,' the 'essays on practical education,' had all made their mark. the new series of popular tales was also welcomed. there were other books on the way; miss edgeworth had several mss. in hand in various stages, stories to correct for the press. there was also a long novel, first begun by her father and taken up and carried on by her. the 'essays on practical education,' which were first published in , continued to be read. m. pictet had translated the book into french the year before; a third edition was published some ten years later, in , in the preface of which the authors say, 'it is due to the public to state that twelve years' additional experience in a numerous family, and careful attention to the results of other modes of education, have given the authors no reason to retract what they have advanced in these volumes.' in mr. edgeworth's memoirs, however, his daughter states that he modified his opinions in one or two particulars; allowing more and more liberty to the children, and at the same time conceding greater importance to the habit of early though mechanical efforts of memory. the essays seem in every way in advance of their time; many of the hints contained in them most certainly apply to the little children of to-day no less than to their small grandparents. a lady whose own name is high in the annals of education was telling me that she had been greatly struck by the resemblance between the edgeworth system and that of froebel's kindergarten method, which is now gaining more and more ground in people's estimation, the object of both being not so much to cram instruction into early youth as to draw out each child's powers of observation and attention. the first series of tales of fashionable life came out in , and contained among other stories 'ennui,' one of the most remarkable of miss edgeworth's works. the second series included the 'absentee,' that delightful story of which the lesson should be impressed upon us even more than in the year . the 'absentee' was at first only an episode in the longer novel of 'patronage;' but the public was impatient, so were the publishers, and fortunately for every one the 'absentee' was printed as a separate tale. 'patronage' had been begun by mr. edgeworth to amuse his wife, who was recovering from illness; it was originally called the 'fortunes of the freeman family,' and it is a history with a moral. morals were more in fashion then than they are now, but this one is obvious without any commentary upon it. it is tolerably certain that clever, industrious, well-conducted people will succeed, where idle, scheming, and untrustworthy persons will eventually fail to get on, even with powerful friends to back them. but the novel has yet to be written that will prove that, where merits are more equal, a little patronage is not of a great deal of use, or that people's positions in life are exactly proportioned to their merit. mrs. barbauld's pretty essay on the 'inconsistency of human expectations' contains the best possible answer to the problem of what people's deserts should be. let us hope that personal advancement is only one of the many things people try for in life, and that there are other prizes as well worth having. miss edgeworth herself somewhere speaks with warm admiration of this very essay. of the novel itself she says (writing to mrs. barbauld), 'it is so vast a subject that it flounders about in my hands and quite overpowers me.' it is in this same letter that miss edgeworth mentions another circumstance which interested her at this time, and which was one of those events occurring now and again which do equal credit to all concerned. i have written a preface and notes [she says]--for i too would be an editor--for a little book which a very worthy countrywoman of mine is going to publish: mrs. leadbeater, granddaughter to burke's first preceptor. she is poor. she has behaved most handsomely about some letters of burke's to her grandfather and herself. it would have been advantageous to her to publish them; but, as mrs. burke[ ]--heaven knows why--objected, she desisted. mrs. leadbeater was an irish quaker lady whose simple and spirited annals of ballitore delighted carlyle in his later days, and whose 'cottage dialogues' greatly struck mr. edgeworth at the time; and the kind edgeworths, finding her quite unused to public transactions, exerted themselves in every way to help her. mr. edgeworth took the mss. out of the hands of an irish publisher, and, says maria, 'our excellent friend's worthy successor in st. paul's churchyard has, on our recommendation, agreed to publish it for her.' mr. edgeworth's own letter to mrs. leadbeater gives the history of his good-natured offices and their satisfactory results. footnote : mrs. burke, hearing more of the circumstances, afterwards sent permission; but mrs. leadbeater being a quakeress, and having once _promised_ not to publish, could not take it upon herself to break her covenant. from r. l. edgeworth, july , . miss edgeworth desires me as a man of business to write to mrs. leadbeater relative to the publication of 'cottage dialogues.' miss edgeworth has written an advertisement, and will, with mrs. leadbeater's permission, write notes for an english edition. the scheme which i propose is of two parts--to sell the english copyright to the house of johnson in london, where we dispose of our own works, and to publish a very large and cheap edition for ireland for schools.... i can probably introduce the book into many places. our family takes copies, lady longford , dr. beaufort , &c.... i think johnson & co. will give _l._ for the english copyright. after the transaction mr. edgeworth wrote to the publishers as follows:-- may , : edgeworthtown. my sixty-eighth birthday. my dear gentlemen,--i have just heard your letter to mrs. leadbeater read by one who dropped tears of pleasure from a sense of your generous and handsome conduct. i take great pleasure in speaking of you to the rest of the world as you deserve, and i cannot refrain from expressing to yourselves the genuine esteem that i feel for you. i know that this direct praise is scarcely allowable, but my advanced age and my close connection with you must be my excuse.--yours sincerely, r. l. e. tears seem equivalent to something more than the estimated value of mrs. leadbeater's labours. the charming and well-known mrs. trench who was also mary leadbeater's friend, writes warmly praising the notes. 'miss edgeworth's notes on your dialogues have as much spirit and originality as if she had never before explored the mine which many thought she had exhausted.' all these are pleasant specimens of the edgeworth correspondence, which, however (following the course of most correspondence), does not seem to have been always equally agreeable. there are some letters (among others which i have been allowed to see) written by maria about this time to an unfortunate young man who seems to have annoyed her greatly by his excited importunities. i thank you [she says] for your friendly zeal in defence of my powers of pathos and sublimity; but i think it carries you much too far when it leads you to imagine that i refrain, from principle or virtue, from displaying powers that i really do not possess. i assure you that i am not in the least capable of writing a dithyrambic ode, or any other kind of ode. one is reminded by this suggestion of jane austen also declining to write 'an historical novel illustrative of the august house of coburg.' the young man himself seems to have had some wild aspirations after authorship, but to have feared criticism. the advantage of the art of printing [says his friendly minerva] is that the mistakes of individuals in reasoning and writing will be corrected in time by the public, so that the cause of truth cannot suffer; and i presume you are too much of a philosopher to mind the trifling mortification that the detection of a mistake might occasion. you know that some sensible person has observed that acknowledging a mistake is saying, only in other words, that we are wiser to-day than we were yesterday. he seems at last to have passed the bounds of reasonable correspondence, and she writes as follows:-- your last letter, dated in june, was many months before it reached me. in answer to all your reproaches at my silence i can only assure you that it was not caused by any change in my opinions or good wishes; but i do not carry on what is called a regular correspondence with anybody except with one or two of my very nearest relations; and it is best to tell the plain truth that my father particularly dislikes my writing letters, so i write as few as i possibly can. xi. while maria edgeworth was at work in her irish home, successfully producing her admirable delineations, another woman, born some eight years later, and living in the quiet hampshire village where the elm trees spread so greenly, was also at work, also writing books that were destined to influence many a generation, but which were meanwhile waiting unknown, unnoticed. do we not all know the story of the brown paper parcel lying unopened for years on the publisher's shelf and containing henry tilney and all his capes, catherine morland and all her romance, and the great john thorpe himself, uttering those valuable literary criticisms which lord macaulay, writing to his little sisters at home, used to quote to them? 'oh, lord!' says john thorpe, 'i never read novels; i have other things to do.' a friend reminds us of miss austen's own indignant outburst. 'only a novel! only "cecilia," or "camilla," or "belinda;" or, in short, only some work in which the greatest powers of the mind are displayed, the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest delineation of its varieties, the liveliest effusions of wit and humour, are conveyed to the world in the best-chosen language.' if the great historian, who loved novels himself, had not assured us that we owe miss austen and miss edgeworth to the early influence of the author of 'evelina,' one might grudge 'belinda' to such company as that of 'cecilia' and 'camilla.' 'pride and prejudice' and 'northanger abbey' were published about the same time as 'patronage' and 'tales of fashionable life.' their two authors illustrate, curiously enough, the difference between the national characteristics of english and irish--the breadth, the versatility, the innate wit and gaiety of an irish mind; the comparative narrowness of range of an english nature; where, however, we are more likely to get humour and its never-failing charm. long afterwards jane austen sent one of her novels to miss edgeworth, who appreciated it indeed, as such a mind as hers could not fail to do, but it was with no such enthusiasm as that which she felt for other more ambitious works, with more of incident, power, knowledge of the world, in the place of that one subtle quality of humour which for some persons outweighs almost every other. something, some indefinite sentiment, tells people where they amalgamate and with whom they are intellectually akin; and by some such process of criticism the writer feels that in this little memoir of miss edgeworth she has but sketched the outer likeness of this remarkable woman's life and genius; and that she has scarcely done justice to very much in miss edgeworth, which so many of the foremost men of her day could appreciate--a power, a versatility, an interest in subjects for their own sakes, not for the sakes of those who are interested in them, which was essentially hers. it is always characteristic to watch a writer's progress in the estimation of critics and reviewers. in miss edgeworth is moderately and respectfully noticed. 'as a writer of novels and tales she has a marked peculiarity, that of venturing to dispense common sense to her readers and to bring them within the precincts of real life. without excluding love from her pages she knows how to assign to it its true limits.' in the reviewer, more used to hear the author's praises on all sides, now starts from a higher key, and, as far as truth to nature and delineation of character are concerned, does not allow a rival except 'don quixote' and 'gil blas.' the following criticism is just and more to the point:-- to this power of masterly and minute delineation of character miss edgeworth adds another which has rarely been combined with the former, that of interweaving the peculiarities of her persons with the conduct of her piece, and making them, without forgetting for a moment their personal consistency, conduce to the general lesson.... her virtue and vice, though copied exactly from nature, lead with perfect ease to a moral conclusion, and are finally punished or rewarded by means which (rare as a retribution in this world is) appear for the most part neither inconsistent nor unnatural. then follows a review of 'vivian' and of the 'absentee,' which is perhaps the most admirable of her works. we may all remember how macaulay once pronounced that the scene in the 'absentee' where lord colambre discovers himself to his tenantry was the best thing of the sort since the opening of the twenty-second book of the 'odyssey.' an article by lord dudley, which is still to be quoted, appeared in the 'quarterly review' in . what he says of her works applies no less to miss edgeworth's own life than to the principles which she inculcates. the old rule was for heroes and heroines to fall suddenly and irretrievably in love. if they fell in love with the right person so much the better; if not, it could not be helped, and the novel ended unhappily. and, above all, it was held quite irregular for the most reasonable people to make any use whatever of their reason on the most important occasion of their lives. miss edgeworth has presumed to treat this mighty power with far less reverence. she has analysed it and found it does not consist of one simple element, but that several common ingredients enter into its composition--habit, esteem, a belief of some corresponding sentiment and of suitableness in the character and circumstances of the party. she has pronounced that reason, timely and vigorously applied, is almost a specific, and, following up this bold empirical line of practice, she has actually produced cases of the entire cure of persons who had laboured under its operation. her favourite qualities are prudence, firmness, temper, and that active, vigilant good sense which, without checking the course of our kind affections, exercises its influence at every moment and surveys deliberately the motives and consequences of every action. utility is her object, reason and experience her means. xii. this review of lord dudley's must have come out after a visit from the edgeworth family to london in , which seems to have been a most brilliant and amusing campaign. 'i know the homage that was paid you,' wrote mrs. barbauld, speaking of the event, 'and i exulted in it for your sake and for my sex's sake.' miss edgeworth was at the height of her popularity, in good spirits and good health. mr. edgeworth was seventy, but he looked years younger, and was still in undiminished health and vigour. the party was welcomed, fêted, sought after everywhere. except that they miss seeing madame d'arblay and leave london before the arrival of madame de staël, they seem to have come in for everything that was brilliant, fashionable, and entertaining. they breakfast with poets, they sup with marquises, they call upon duchesses and scientific men. maria's old friend the duchess of wellington is not less her friend than she was in county longford. every one likes them and comes knocking at their lodging-house door, while maria upstairs is writing a letter, standing at a chest of drawers. 'miss edgeworth is delightful,' says tom moore, 'not from display, but from repose and unaffectedness, the least pretending person.' even lord byron writes warmly of the authoress whose company is so grateful, and who goes her simple, pleasant way cheerful and bringing kind cheer, and making friends with the children as well as with the elders. many of these children in their lives fully justified her interest, children whom we in turn have known and looked up to as distinguished greyheaded men. some one asked miss edgeworth how she came to understand children as she did, what charm she used to win them. 'i don't know,' she said kindly; 'i lie down and let them crawl over me.' she was greatly pleased on one occasion when at a crowded party a little girl suddenly started forth, looked at her hard, and said, 'i like simple susan best,' and rushed away overwhelmed at her own audacity. the same lady who was present on this occasion asked her a question which we must all be grateful to have solved for us--how it happened that the respective places of laura and rosamond came to be transposed in 'patronage,' laura having been the wiser elder sister in the 'purple jar,' and appearing suddenly as the younger in the novel. miss edgeworth laughed and said that laura had been so preternaturally wise and thoughtful as a child, she could never have kept her up to the mark, and so she thought it best to change the character altogether. during one of her visits to london miss edgeworth went to dine at the house of mr. marshall; and his daughter, lady monteagle, tells a little story which gives an impression, and a kind one, of the celebrated guest. everything had been prepared in her honour, the lights lighted, the viands were cooked. dinner was announced, and some important person was brought forward to hand miss edgeworth down, when it was discovered that she had vanished. for a moment the company and the dinner were all at a standstill. she was a small person, but diligent search was made. miss edgeworth had last been seen with the children of the house, and she was eventually found in the back kitchen, escorted by the said children, who, having confided their private affairs to her sympathetic ear, had finally invited her to come with them and see some rabbits which they were rearing down below. a lady who used to live at clifton as a little girl, and to be sometimes prescribed for by dr. king, was once brought up as a child to miss edgeworth, and she told me how very much puzzled she felt when the bright old lady, taking her by the hand, said, 'well, my dear, how do you do, and how is my excellent brother-in-law?' one can imagine what a vague sort of being an 'excellent brother-in-law' would seem to a very young child. we read in miss edgeworth's memoir of her father that mr. edgeworth recovered from his serious illness in to enjoy a few more years of life among his friends, his children, and his experiments. his good humour and good spirits were undiminished, and he used to quote an old friend's praise of 'the privileges and convenience of old age.' he was past seventy, but he seems to have continued his own education to the end of life. 'without affecting to be young, he exerted himself to prevent any of his faculties from sinking into the indolent state which portends their decay,' and his daughter says that he went on learning to the last, correcting his faults and practising his memory by various devices, so that it even improved with age. in one of his last letters to mrs. beaufort, his wife's mother, he speaks with no little paternal pleasure of his home and his children: 'such excellent principles, such just views of human life and manners, such cultivated understandings, such charming tempers make a little paradise about me;' while with regard to his daughter's works he adds concerning the book which was about to appear, 'if maria's tales fail with the public, you will hear of my hanging myself.' mr. edgeworth died in the summer of , at home, surrounded by his family, grateful, as he says, to providence for allowing his body to perish before his mind. during the melancholy months which succeeded her father's death maria hardly wrote any letters; her sight was in a most alarming state. the tears, she said, felt in her eyes like the cutting of a knife. she had overworked them all the previous winter, sitting up at night and struggling with her grief as she wrote 'ormond.' she was now unable to use them without pain.... edgeworthtown now belonged to lovell, the eldest surviving brother, but he wished it to continue the home of the family. maria set to work to complete her father's memoirs and to fulfil his last wish. it was not without great hesitation and anxiety that she determined to finish writing her father's life. there is a touching appeal in a letter to her aunt ruxton. 'i felt the happiness of my life was at stake. even if all the rest of the world had praised it and you had been dissatisfied, how miserable should i have been!' and there is another sentence written at bowood, very sad and full of remembrance: 'i feel as if i had lived a hundred years and was left alive after everybody else.' the book came out, and many things were said about it, not all praise. the 'quarterly' was so spiteful and intolerant that it seemed almost personal in its violence. it certainly would have been a great loss to the world had this curious and interesting memoir never been published, but at the time the absence of certain phrases and expressions of opinions which mr. edgeworth had never specially professed seemed greatly to offend the reviewers. the worst of these attacks miss edgeworth never read, and the task finished, the sad months over, the poor eyes recovered, she crossed to england. xiii. one is glad to hear of her away and at bowood reviving in good company, in all senses of the word. her old friend lord henry petty, now lord lansdowne, was still her friend and full of kindness. outside the house spread a green deer-park to rest her tired eyes, within were pleasant and delightful companions to cheer her soul. sir samuel romilly was there, of whom she speaks with affectionate admiration, as she does of her kind host and hostess. 'i much enjoy the sight of lady lansdowne's happiness with her husband and her children. beauty, fortune, cultivated society all united--in short, everything that the most reasonable or unreasonable could wish. she is so amiable and desirous to make others happy.' miss edgeworth's power of making other people see things as she does is very remarkable in all these letters; with a little imagination one could almost feel as if one might be able to travel back into the pleasant society in which she lived. when she goes abroad soon after with her two younger sisters (fanny, the baby whose head so nearly came off in her arms, and harriet, who have both grown up by this time to be pretty and elegant young ladies), the sisters are made welcome everywhere. in paris, as in london, troops of acquaintance came forward to receive 'madame maria et mesdemoiselles ses soeurs,' as they used to be announced. most of their old friends were there still; only the children had grown up and were now new friends to be greeted. it is a confusion of names in visionary succession, comprising english people no less than french. miss edgeworth notes it all with a sure hand and true pen; it is as one of the sketch-books of a great painter, where whole pictures are indicated in a few just lines. here is a peep at the abbaye aux bois in :-- we went to madame récamier in her convent, l'abbaye aux bois, up seventy-eight steps. all came in with asthma. elegant room; she as elegant as ever. matthieu de montmorenci, the ex-queen of sweden, madame de boigne, a charming woman, and madame la maréchale de ----, a battered beauty, smelling of garlic and screeching in vain to pass as a wit.... madame récamier has no more taken the veil than i have, and is as little likely to do it. she is quite beautiful; she dresses herself and her little room with elegant simplicity, and lives in a convent only because it is cheap and respectable. one sees it all, the convent, the company, the last refrain of former triumphs, the faithful romantic matthieu de montmorenci, and above all the poor maréchale, who will screech for ever in her garlic. let us turn the page, we find another picture from these not long past days:-- breakfast at camille jordan's; it was half-past twelve before the company assembled, and we had an hour's delightful conversation with camille jordan and his wife in her spotless white muslin and little cap, sitting at her husband's feet as he lay on the sofa; as clean, as nice, as fresh, as thoughtless of herself as my mother. at this breakfast we saw three of the most distinguished of that party who call themselves 'les doctrinaires' and say they are more attached to measures than to men. here is another portrait of a portrait and its painter:-- princess potemkin is a russian, but she has all the grace, softness, winning manner of the polish ladies. oval face, pale, with the finest, softest, most expressive chestnut dark eyes. she has a sort of politeness which pleases peculiarly, a mixture of the ease of high rank and early habit with something that is sentimental without affectation. madame le brun is painting her picture. madame le brun is sixty-six, with great vivacity as well as genius, and better worth seeing than her pictures, for though they are speaking she speaks. another visit the sisters paid, which will interest the readers of madame de la rochejaquelin's memoirs of the war in the vendée:-- in a small bedroom, well furnished, with a fire just lighted, we found madame de la rochejaquelin on the sofa; her two daughters at work, one spinning with a distaff, the other embroidering muslin. madame is a fat woman with a broad, round, fair face and a most benevolent expression, her hair cut short and perfectly grey as seen under her cap; the rest of the face much too young for such grey locks; and though her face and bundled form all squashed on to a sofa did not at first promise much of gentility, you could not hear her speak or hear her for three minutes without perceiving that she was well-born and well-bred. madame de la rochejaquelin seems to have confided in miss edgeworth. 'i am always sorry when any stranger sees me, _parce que je sais que je détruis toute illusion. je sais que je devrais avoir l'air d'une héroïne._' she is much better than a heroine; she is benevolence and truth itself. we must not forget the scientific world where madame maria was no less at home than in fashionable literary cliques. the sisters saw something of cuvier at paris; in switzerland they travelled with the aragos. they were on their way to the marcets at geneva when they stopped at coppet, where miss edgeworth was always specially happy in the society of madame auguste de staël and madame de broglie. but switzerland is not one of the places where human beings only are in the ascendant; other influences there are almost stronger than human ones. 'i did not conceive it possible that i should feel so much pleasure from the beauties of nature as i have done since i came to this country. the first moment when i saw mont blanc will remain an era in my life--a new idea, a new feeling standing alone in the mind.' miss edgeworth presently comes down from her mountain heights and, full of interest, throws herself into the talk of her friends at coppet and geneva, from which she quotes as it occurs to her. here is rocca's indignant speech to lord byron, who was abusing the stupidity of the genevese. 'eh! milord, pourquoi venir vous fourrer parmi ces honnêtes gens?' there is arago's curious anecdote of napoleon, who sent for him after the battle of waterloo, offering him a large sum of money to accompany him to america. the emperor had formed a project for founding a scientific colony in the new world. arago was so indignant with him for abandoning his troops that he would have nothing to say to the plan. a far more touching story is dr. marcet's account of josephine. 'poor josephine! do you remember dr. marcet's telling us that when he breakfasted with her she said, pointing to her flowers, "these are my subjects. i try to make them happy"?' among other expeditions they made a pilgrimage to the home of the author of a work for which miss edgeworth seems to have entertained a mysterious enthusiasm. the novel was called 'caroline de lichfield,' and was so much admired at the time that miss seward mentions a gentleman who wrote from abroad to propose for the hand of the authoress, and who, more fortunate than the poor chevalier edelcrantz, was not refused by the lady. perhaps some similarity of experience may have led maria edgeworth to wish for her acquaintance. happily the time was past for miss edgeworth to look back; her life was now shaped and moulded in its own groove; the consideration, the variety, the difficulties of unmarried life were hers, its agreeable change, its monotony of feeling and of unselfish happiness, compared with the necessary regularity, the more personal felicity, the less liberal interests of the married. her life seems to have been full to overflowing of practical occupation and consideration for others. what changing scenes and colours, what a number of voices, what a crowd of outstretched hands, what interesting processions of people pass across her path! there is something of her father's optimism and simplicity of nature in her unceasing brightness and activity, in her resolutions to improve as time goes on. her young brothers and sisters grow to be men and women; with her sisters' marriages new interests touch her warm heart. between her and the brothers of the younger generation who did not turn to her as a sort of mother there may have been too great a difference of age for that companionship to continue which often exists between a child and a grown-up person. so at least one is led to believe was the case as regards one of them, mentioned in a memoir which has recently appeared. but to her sisters she could be friend, protector, chaperon, sympathising companion, and elder sister to the end of her days. we hear of them all at bowood again on their way back to ireland, and then we find them all at home settling down to the old life, 'maria reading sévigné,' of whom she never tires. xiv. one of the prettiest and most sympathetic incidents in maria edgeworth's life was a subsequent expedition to abbotsford and the pleasure she gave to its master. they first met in edinburgh, and her short account conjures up the whole scene before us:-- ten o'clock struck as i read this note. we were tired, we were not fit to be seen, but i thought it right to accept walter scott's cordial invitation, sent for a hackney coach, and just as we were, without dressing, we went. as the coach stopped we saw the hall lighted, and the moment the door opened heard the joyous sounds of loud singing. three servants' 'the miss edgeworths!' sounded from hall to landing-place, and as i paused for a moment in the anteroom i heard the first sound of walter scott's voice--'the miss edgeworths _come_!' the room was lighted by only one globe lamp; a circle were singing loud and beating time: all stopped in an instant. is not this picture complete? scott himself she describes as 'full of genius without the slightest effort at expression, delightfully natural, more lame but not so unwieldy as she expected.' lady scott she goes on to sketch in some half-dozen words--'french, large dark eyes, civil and good-natured.' when we wakened the next morning the whole scene of the preceding night seemed like a dream [she continues]; however at twelve came the real lady scott, and we called for scott at the parliament house, who came out of the courts with joyous face, as if he had nothing on earth to do or to think of but to show us edinburgh. in her quick, discriminating way she looks round and notes them all one by one. mr. lockhart is reserved and silent, but he appears to have much sensibility under this reserve. mrs. lockhart is very pleasing--a slight, elegant figure and graceful simplicity of manner, perfectly natural. there is something most winning in her affectionate manner to her father. he dotes upon her. a serious illness intervened for poor maria before she and her devoted young nurses could reach abbotsford itself. there she began to recover, and lady scott watched over her and prescribed for her with the most tender care and kindness. 'lady scott felt the attention and respect maria showed to her, perceiving that she valued her and treated her as a friend,' says mrs. edgeworth; 'not, as too many of sir walter's guests did, with neglect.' this is miss edgeworth's description of the abbotsford family life:-- it is quite delightful to see scott and his family in the country; breakfast, dinner, supper, the same flow of kindness, fondness, and genius, far, far surpassing his works, his letters, and all my hopes and imagination. his castle of abbotsford is magnificent, but i forget it in thinking of him. the return visit, when scotland visited ireland, was no less successful. mrs. edgeworth writes:-- maria and my daughter harriet accompanied sir walter and miss scott, mr. lockhart, and captain and mrs. scott to killarney. they travelled in an open calèche of sir walter's.... sir walter was, like maria, never put out by discomforts on a journey, but always ready to make the best of everything and to find amusement in every incident. he was delighted with maria's eagerness for everybody's comfort, and diverted himself with her admiration of a green baize-covered door at the inn at killarney. 'miss edgeworth, you are so mightily pleased with that door, i think you will carry it away with you to edgeworthtown.' miss edgeworth's friendships were certainly very remarkable, and comprise almost all the interesting people of her day in france as well as in england.[ ] she was liked, trusted, surrounded, and she appears to have had the art of winning to her all the great men. we know the duke of wellington addressed verses to her; there are pleasant intimations of her acquaintance with sir james mackintosh, romilly, moore, and rogers, and that most delightful of human beings, sydney smith, whom she thoroughly appreciated and admired. describing her brother frank, she says, somewhere, 'i am much inclined to think that he has a natural genius for happiness; in other words, as sydney smith would say, _great hereditary constitutional joy_.' 'to attempt to boswell sydney smith's conversation would be to outboswell boswell,' she writes in another letter home; but in lady holland's memoir of her father there is a pleasant little account of miss edgeworth herself, 'delightful, clever, and sensible,' listening to sydney smith. she seems to have gone the round of his parish with him while he scolded, doctored, joked his poor people according to their needs. footnote : a touching illustration of her abiding influence is to be found cited in an article in the _daily news_ of september , , published as these proofs are going to press, by 'one who knew' ivan turguéneff, that great russian whom we might almost claim if love and admiration gave one a right to count citizenship with the great men of our time. an elder brother of his knew miss edgeworth, perhaps at abbotsford, for he visited walter scott there, or at coppet with madame de staël. this man, wise and cultivated in all european literature, 'came to the conclusion that maria edgeworth had struck on a vein from which most of the great novelists of the future would exclusively work. she took the world as she found it, and selected from it the materials that she thought would be interesting to write about, in a clear and natural style. it was ivan turguéneff himself who told me this, says the writer of the article, and he modestly said that he was an unconscious disciple of miss edgeworth in setting out on his literary career. he had not the advantage of knowing english; but as a youth he used to hear his brother translate to visitors at his country house in the uralian hills passages from _irish tales and sketches_, which he thought superior to her three-volume novels. turguéneff also said to me, "it is possible, nay probable, that if maria edgeworth had not written about the poor irish of the co. longford and the squires and squirees, that it would not have occurred to me to give a literary form to my impressions about the classes parallel to them in russia. my brother used, in pointing out the beauties of her unambitious works, to call attention to their extreme simplicity and to the distinction with which she treated the simple ones of the earth."' 'during her visit she saw much of my father,' says lady holland; 'and her talents as well as her thorough knowledge and love of ireland made her conversation peculiarly agreeable to him.' on her side maria writes warmly desiring that some irish bishopric might be forced upon sydney smith, which 'his own sense of natural charity and humanity would forbid him refuse.... in the twinkling of an eye--such an eye as his--he would see all our manifold grievances up and down the country. one word, one _bon mot_ of his, would do more for us, i guess, than ----'s four hundred pages and all the like with which we have been bored.' the two knew how to make good company for one another; the quiet-jeanie-deans body could listen as well as give out. we are told that it was not so much that she said brilliant things, but that a general perfume of wit ran through her conversation, and she most certainly had the gift of appreciating the good things of others. whether in that 'scene of simplicity, truth, and nature' a london rout, or in some quiet hampstead parlour talking to an old friend, or in her own home among books and relations and interests of every sort, miss edgeworth seems to have been constantly the same, with presence of mind and presence of heart too, ready to respond to everything. i think her warmth of heart shines even brighter than her wit at times. 'i could not bear the idea that you suspected me of being so weak, so vain, so senseless,' she once wrote to mrs. barbauld, 'as to have my head turned by a little fashionable flattery.' if her head was not turned it must have been because her spirit was stout enough to withstand the world's almost irresistible influence. not only the great men but the women too are among her friends. she writes prettily of mrs. somerville, with her smiling eyes and pink colour, her soft voice, strong, well-bred scotch accent, timid, not disqualifying timid, but naturally modest. 'while her head is among the stars her feet are firm upon the earth.' she is 'delighted' with a criticism of madame de staël's upon herself, in a letter to m. dumont. 'vraiment elle était digne de l'enthousiasme, mais elle se perd dans votre triste utilité.' it is difficult to understand why this should have given miss edgeworth so much pleasure; and here finally is a little vision conjured up for us of her meeting with mrs. fry among her prisoners:-- little doors, and thick doors, and doors of all sorts were unbolted and unlocked, and on we went through dreary but clean passages till we came to a room where rows of empty benches fronted us, a table on which lay a large bible. several ladies and gentlemen entered, took their seats on benches at either side of the table in silence. enter mrs. fry in a drab-coloured silk cloak and a plain, borderless quaker cap, a most benevolent countenance, calm, benign. 'i must make an inquiry. is maria edgeworth here?' and when i went forward she bade me come and sit beside her. her first smile as she looked upon me i can never forget. the prisoners came in in an orderly manner and ranged themselves upon the benches. xv. 'in this my sixtieth year, to commence in a few days,' says miss edgeworth, writing to her cousin margaret ruxton, 'i am resolved to make great progress.' 'rosamond at sixty,' says miss ruxton, touched and amused. her resolutions were not idle. 'the universal difficulties of the money market in the year were felt by us,' says mrs. edgeworth in her memoir, 'and maria, who since her father's death had given up rent-receiving, now resumed it; undertook the management of her brother lovell's affairs, which she conducted with consummate skill and perseverance, and weathered the storm that swamped so many in this financial crisis.' we also hear of an opportune windfall in the shape of some valuable diamonds, which an old lady, a distant relation, left in her will to miss edgeworth, who sold them and built a market-house for edgeworthtown with the proceeds. _april_ , .--i am quite well and in high good humour and good spirits, in consequence of having received the whole of lovell's half-year's rents in full, with pleasure to the tenants and without the least fatigue or anxiety to myself. it was about this time her novel of 'helen' was written, the last of her books, the only one that her father had not revised. there is a vivid account given by one of her brothers of the family assembled in the library to hear the manuscript read out, of their anxiety and their pleasure as they realised how good it was, how spirited, how well equal to her standard. tickner, in his account of miss edgeworth, says that the talk of lady davenant in 'helen' is very like miss edgeworth's own manner. his visit to edgeworthtown was not long after the publication of the book. his description, if only for her mention of her father, is worth quoting:-- as we drove to the door miss edgeworth came out to meet us, a small, short, spare body of about sixty-seven, with extremely frank and kind manners, but who always looks straight into your face with a pair of mild deep grey eyes whenever she speaks to you. with characteristic directness she did not take us into the library until she had told us that we should find there mrs. alison, of edinburgh, and her aunt, miss sneyd, a person very old and infirm, and that the only other persons constituting the family were mrs. edgeworth, miss honora edgeworth, and dr. alison, a physician.... miss edgeworth's conversation was always ready, as full of vivacity and variety as i can imagine.... she was disposed to defend everybody, even lady morgan, as far as she could. and in her intercourse with her family she was quite delightful, referring constantly to mrs. edgeworth, who seems to be the authority in all matters of fact, and most kindly repeating jokes to her infirm aunt, miss sneyd, who cannot hear them, and who seems to have for her the most unbounded affection and admiration.... about herself as an author she seems to have no reserve or secrets. she spoke with great kindness and pleasure of a letter i brought to her from mr. peabody, explaining some passage in his review of 'helen' which had troubled her from its allusion to her father. 'but,' she added, 'no one can know what i owe to my father. he advised and directed me in everything. i never could have done anything without him. there are things i cannot be mistaken about, though other people can. i know them.' as she said this the tears stood in her eyes, and her whole person was moved.... it was, therefore, something of a trial to talk so brilliantly and variously as she did from nine in the morning to past eleven at night. she was unfeignedly glad to see good company. here is her account of another visitor:-- _sept_. .--the day before yesterday we were amusing ourselves by telling who among literary and scientific people we should wish to come here next. francis said coleridge; i said herschell. yesterday morning, as i was returning from my morning walk at half-past eight, i saw a bonnetless maid in the walk, with a letter in her hand, in search of me. when i opened the letter i found it was from mr. herschell, and that he was waiting for an answer at mr. briggs's inn. i have seldom been so agreeably surprised, and now that he is gone and that he has spent twenty-four hours here, if the fairy were to ask me the question again i should still more eagerly say, 'mr. herschell, ma'am, if you please.' she still came over to england from time to time, visiting at her sisters' houses. honora was now lady beaufort; another sister, fanny, the object of her closest and most tender affection, was mrs. lestock wilson. age brought no change in her mode of life. time passes with tranquil steps, for her not hasting unduly. 'i am perfect,' she writes at the age of seventy-three to her stepmother of seventy-two, 'so no more about it, and thank you from my heart and every component part of my precious self for all the care, and successful care, you have taken of me, your old petted nurseling.' alas! it is sad to realise that quite late in life fresh sorrows fell upon this warm-hearted woman. troubles gather; young sisters fade away in their beauty and happiness. but in sad times and good times the old home is still unchanged, and remains for those that are left to turn to for shelter, for help, and consolation. to the very last miss edgeworth kept up her reading, her correspondence, her energy. all along we have heard of her active habits--out in the early morning in her garden, coming in to the nine o'clock breakfast with her hands full of roses, sitting by and talking and reading her letters while the others ate. her last letter to her old friend sir henry holland was after reading the first volume of lord macaulay's history. sir henry took the letter to lord macaulay, who was so much struck by its discrimination that he asked leave to keep it. she was now eighty-two years of age, and we find her laughing kindly at the anxiety of her sister and brother-in-law, who had heard of her climbing a ladder to wind up an old clock at edgeworthtown. 'i am heartily obliged and delighted by your being such a goose and richard such a gander,' she says 'as to be frightened out of your wits by my climbing a ladder to take off the top of the clock.' she had not felt that there was anything to fear as once again she set the time that was so nearly at an end for her. her share of life's hours had been well spent and well enjoyed; with a peaceful and steady hand and tranquil heart she might mark the dial for others whose hours were still to come. mrs. edgeworth's own words tell all that remains to be told. it was on the morning of may , , that she was taken suddenly ill with pain in the region of the heart, and after a few hours breathed her last in my arms. she had always wished to die quickly, at home, and that i should be with her. all her wishes were fulfilled. she was gone, and nothing like her again can we see in this world. _mrs opie._ - . 'your gentleness shall force more than your force move us to gentleness.'--_as you like it_. i. it is not very long since some articles appeared in the 'cornhill magazine' which were begun under the influence of certain ancient bookshelves with so pleasant a flavour of the old world that it seemed at the time as if yesterday not to-day was the all-important hour, and one gladly submitted to the subtle charm of the past--its silent veils, its quiet incantations of dust and healing cobweb. the phase is but a passing one with most of us, and we must soon feel that to dwell at length upon each one of the pretty old fancies and folios of the writers and explorers who were born towards the end of the last century would be an impossible affectation; and yet a postscript seems wanting to the sketches which have already appeared of mrs. barbauld and miss edgeworth, and the names of their contemporaries should not be quite passed over. in a hundred charming types and prints and portraits we recognise the well-known names as they used to appear in the garb of life. grand ladies in broad loops and feathers, or graceful and charming as nymphs in muslin folds, with hanging clouds of hair; or again, in modest coiffes such as dear jane austen loved and wore even in her youth. hannah more only took to coiffes and wimples in later life; in early days she was fond of splendour, and, as we read, had herself painted in emerald earrings. how many others besides her are there to admire! who does not know the prim, sweet, amply frilled portraits of mrs. trimmer and joanna baillie? only yesterday a friend showed me a sprightly, dark-eyed miniature of felicia hemans. perhaps most beautiful among all her sister muses smiles the lovely head of amelia opie, as she was represented by her husband with luxuriant chestnut hair piled up romney fashion in careless loops, with the radiant yet dreaming eyes which are an inheritance for some members of her family. the authoresses of that day had the pre-eminence in looks, in gracious dress and bearing; but they were rather literary women than anything else, and had but little in common with the noble and brilliant writers who were to follow them in our own more natural and outspoken times; whose wise, sweet, passionate voices are already passing away into the distance; of whom so few remain to us.[ ] the secret of being real is no very profound one, and yet how rare it is, how long it was before the readers and writers of this century found it out! it is like the secret of singing in perfect tune, or of playing the violin as joachim can play upon it. in literature, as in music, there is at times a certain indescribable tone of absolute reality which carries the reader away and for the moment absorbs him into the mind of the writer. some metempsychosis takes place. it is no longer a man or a woman turning the pages of a book, it is a human being suddenly absorbed by the book itself, living the very life which it records, breathing the spirit and soul of the writer. such books are events, not books to us, new conditions of existence, new selves suddenly revealed through the experience of other more vivid personalities than our own. the actual experience of other lives is not for us, but this link of simple reality of feeling is one all independent of events; it is like the miracle of the loaves and fishes repeated and multiplied--one man comes with his fishes and lo! the multitude is filled. footnote : and yet as i write i remember one indeed who is among us, whose portrait a reynolds or an opie might have been glad to paint for the generations who will love her works. but this simple discovery, that of reality, that of speaking from the heart, was one of the last to be made by women. in france madame de sévigné and madame de la fayette were not afraid to be themselves, but in england the majority of authoresses kept their readers carefully at pen's length, and seemed for the most part to be so conscious of their surprising achievements in the way of literature as never to forget for a single instant that they were in print. with the exception of jane austen and maria edgeworth, the women writers of the early part of this century were, as i have just said, rather literary women than actual creators of literature. it is still a mystery how they attained to their great successes. frances burney charms great burke and mighty johnson and wise macaulay in later times. mrs. opie draws compliments from mackintosh, and compliments from the duchess of saxe-coburg, and sydney smith, and above all tears from walter scott. perhaps many of the flattering things addressed to mrs. opie may have said not less for her own charm and sweetness of nature than for the merit of her unassuming productions; she must have been a bright, merry, and fascinating person, and compliments were certainly more in her line than the tributes of tears which she records. the authoresses of heroines are often more interesting than the heroines themselves, and amelia opie was certainly no exception to this somewhat general statement. a pleasant, sprightly authoress, beaming bright glances on her friends, confident, intelligent, full of interest in life, carried along in turn by one and by another influence, she comes before us a young and charming figure, with all the spires of norwich for a background, and the sound of its bells, and the stir of its assizes, as she issues from her peaceful home in her father's tranquil old house, where the good physician lives widowed, tending his poor and his sick, and devotedly spoiling his only child. ii. amelia opie was born in in the old city of norwich, within reach of the invigorating breezes of the great north sea. her youth must have been somewhat solitary; she was the only child of a kind and cultivated physician, doctor james alderson, whose younger brother, a barrister, also living in norwich, became the father of baron alderson. her mother died in her early youth. from her father, however, little amelia seems to have had the love and indulgence of over half a century, a tender and admiring love which she returned with all her heart's devotion. she was the pride and darling of his home, and throughout her long life her father's approbation was the one chief motive of her existence. spoiling is a vexed question, but as a rule people get so much stern justice from all the rest of the world that it seems well that their parents should love and comfort them in youth for the many disgraces and difficulties yet to come. her mother is described as a delicate, high-minded woman, 'somewhat of a disciplinarian,' says mrs. opie's excellent biographer, miss brightwell, but she died too soon to carry her theories into practice. miss brightwell suggests that 'mrs. opie might have been more demure and decorous had her mother lived, but perhaps less charming.' there are some verses addressed to her mother in mrs. opie's papers in which it must be confessed that the remembrance of her admonition plays a most important part-- hark! clearer still thy voice i hear. again reproof in accents mild, seems whispering in my conscious ear, and so on. some of mrs. alderson's attempts at discipline seemed unusual and experimental; the little girl was timid, afraid of black people, of black beetles, and of human skeletons. she was given the skeleton to play with, and the beetles to hold in her hand. one feels more sympathy with the way in which she was gently reconciled to the poor negro with the frightening black face--by being told the story of his wrongs. but with the poor mother's untimely death all this maternal supervision came to an end. 'amelia, your mother is gone; may you never have reason to blush when you remember her!' her father said as he clasped his little orphan to his heart; and all her life long amelia remembered those words. there is a pretty reminiscence of her childhood from a beginning of the memoir which was never written:--'one of my earliest recollections is of gazing on the bright blue sky as i lay in my little bed before my hour of rising came, listening with delighted attention to the ringing of a peal of bells. i had heard that heaven was beyond those blue skies, and i had been taught that _there_ was the home of the good, and i fancied that those sweet bells were ringing in heaven.' the bells were ringing for the norwich assizes, which played an important part in our little heroine's life, and which must have been associated with many of her early memories. the little girl seems to have been allowed more liberty than is usually given to children. 'as soon as i was old enough to enjoy a procession,' she says, 'i was taken to see the judges come in. youthful pages in pretty dresses ran by the side of the high sheriff's carriage, in which the judges sat, while the coaches drove slowly and with a solemnity becoming the high and awful office of those whom they contained.... with reverence ever did i behold the judges' wigs, the scarlet robes they wore, and even the white wand of the sheriff.' there is a description which in after years might have made a pretty picture for her husband's pencil of the little maiden wandering into the court one day, and called by a kind old judge to sit beside him upon the bench. she goes on to recount how next day she was there again; and when some attendant of the court wanted her to leave the place, saying not unnaturally, 'go, miss, this is no place for you; be advised,' the judge again interfered, and ordered the enterprising little girl to be brought to her old place upon the cushion by his side. the story gives one a curious impression of a child's life and education. she seems to have come and gone alone, capable, intelligent, unabashed, interested in all the events and humours of the place. children have among other things a very vivid sense of citizenship and public spirit, somewhat put out in later life by the rush of personal feeling, but in childhood the personal events are so few and so irresponsible that public affairs become an actual part of life and of experience. while their elders are still discussing the news and weighing its importance, it is already a part of the children's life. little amelia alderson must have been a happy child, free, affectionate, independent; grateful, as a child should be, towards those who befriended her. one of her teachers was a french dancing-master called christian, for whom she had a warm regard. she relates that long afterwards she came with her husband and a friend to visit the dutch church at norwich. 'the two gentlemen were engaged in looking round and making their observations, and i, finding myself somewhat cold, began to hop and dance upon the spot where i stood, when my eyes chanced to fall upon the pavement below, and i started at beholding the well-known name of christian graved upon the slab; i stopped in dismay, shocked to find that i had actually been dancing upon the grave of my old master--he who first taught me to dance.' iii. after her mother's death, amelia alderson, who was barely fifteen at the time, began to take her place in society. she kept her father's house, received his friends, made his home bright with her presence. the lawyers came round in due season: sir james mackintosh came, the town was full of life, of talk, of music, and poetry, and prejudice. harriet martineau, in her memoir of mrs. opie, gives a delightful and humorous account of the norwich of that day--rivalling lichfield and its literary coterie, only with less sentimentality and some additional peculiarities of its own. one can almost see the tory gentlemen, as miss martineau describes them, setting a watch upon the cathedral, lest the dissenters should burn it as a beacon for boney; whereas good bishop bathurst, with more faith in human nature, goes on resolutely touching his hat to the leading nonconformists. 'the french taught in schools,' says miss martineau, 'was found to be unintelligible when the peace at length arrived, taught as it was by an aged powdered monsieur and an elderly flowered madame, who had taught their pupils' norfolk pronunciation. but it was beginning to be known,' she continues, 'that there was such a language as german, and in due time there was a young man who had actually been in germany, and was translating "nathan the wise." when william taylor became eminent as almost the only german scholar in england, old norwich was very proud and grew, to say the truth, excessively conceited. she was (and she might be) proud of her sayers, she boasted of her intellectual supper-parties, and finally called herself the "athens of england."' in this wholesome, cheerful athens, blown by the invigorating northern breezes, little amelia bloomed and developed into a lovely and happy girl. she was fortunate, indeed, in her friends. one near at hand must have been an invaluable adviser for a motherless, impressionable girl. mrs. john taylor was so loved that she is still remembered. mrs. barbauld prized and valued her affection beyond all others. 'i know the value of your letters,' says sir james mackintosh, writing from bombay; 'they rouse my mind on subjects which interest us in common--children, literature, and life. i ought to be made permanently better by contemplating a mind like yours.' and he still has mrs. taylor in his mind when he concludes with a little disquisition on the contrast between the barren sensibility, the indolent folly of some, the useful kindness of others, 'the industrious benevolence which requires a vigorous understanding and a decisive character.' some of mrs. opie's family have shown me a photograph of her in her quaker dress, in old age, dim, and changed, and sunken, from which it is very difficult to realise all the brightness, and life, and animation which must have belonged to the earlier part of her life. the delightful portrait of her engraved in the 'mirror' shows the animated beaming countenance, the soft expressive eyes, the abundant auburn waves of hair, of which we read. the picture is more like some charming allegorical being than a real live young lady--some belinda of the 'rape of the lock' (and one would as soon have expected belinda to turn quakeress). music, poetry, dancing, elves, graces and flirtations, cupids, seem to attend her steps. she delights in admiration, friendship, companionship, and gaiety, and yet with it all we realise a warm-hearted sincerity, and appreciation of good and high-minded things, a truth of feeling passing out of the realms of fancy altogether into one of the best realities of life. she had a thousand links with life: she was musical, artistic; she was literary; she had a certain amount of social influence; she had a voice, a harp, a charming person, mind and manner. admiring monarchs in later days applauded her performance; devoted subjects were her friends and correspondents, and her sphere in due time extended beyond the approving norwich-athenian coterie of old friends who had known her from her childhood, to london itself, where she seems to have been made welcome by many, and to have captivated more than her share of victims. in some letters of hers written to mrs. taylor and quoted by her biographer we get glimpses of some of these early experiences. the bright and happy excitable girl comes up from norwich to london to be made more happy still, and more satisfied with the delight of life as it unfolds. besides her fancy for lawyers, literary people had a great attraction for amelia, and godwin seems to have played an important part in her earlier experience. a saying of mrs. inchbald's is quoted by her on her return home as to the report of the world being that mr. holcroft was in love with mrs. inchbald, mrs. inchbald with mr. godwin, mr. godwin with miss alderson, and miss alderson with mr. holcroft! the following account of somers town, and a philosopher's costume in those days, is written to her father in :-- after a most delightful ride through some of the richest country i ever beheld, we arrived about one o'clock at the philosopher's house; we found him with his hair _bien poudré_, and in a pair of new sharp-toed red morocco slippers, not to mention his green coat and crimson under-waistcoat. from godwin's by the city they come to marlborough street, and find mrs. siddons nursing her little baby, and as handsome and charming as ever. they see charles kemble there, and they wind up their day by calling on mrs. inchbald in her pleasant lodgings, with two hundred pounds just come in from sheridan for a farce of sixty pages. godwin's attentions seem to have amused and pleased the fair, merry amelia, who is not a little proud of her arch influence over various rugged and apparently inaccessible persons. mrs. inchbald seems to have been as jealous of miss alderson at the time as she afterwards was of mary wollstonecraft. 'will you give me nothing to keep for your sake?' says godwin, parting from amelia. 'not even your slipper? i had it once in my possession.' 'this was true,' adds miss amelia; 'my shoe had come off and he picked it up and put it in his pocket.' elsewhere she tells her friend mrs. taylor that mr. holcroft would like to come forward, but that he had no chance. that some one person had a chance, and a very good one, is plain enough from the context of a letter, but there is nothing in mrs. opie's life to show why fate was contrary in this, while yielding so bountiful a share of all other good things to the happy country girl. among other people, she seems to have charmed various french refugees, one of whom was the duc d'aiguillon, come over to england with some seven thousand others, waiting here for happier times, and hiding their sorrows among our friendly mists. godwin was married when miss alderson revisited her london friends and admirers in --an eventful visit, when she met opie for the first time. the account of their first meeting is amusingly given in miss brightwell's memoirs. it was at an evening party. some of those present were eagerly expecting the arrival of miss alderson, but the evening was wearing away and still she did not appear; 'at length the door was flung open, and she entered bright and smiling, dressed in a robe of blue, her neck and arms bare, and on her head a small bonnet placed in somewhat coquettish style sideways and surmounted by a plume of three white feathers. her beautiful hair hung in waving tresses over her shoulders; her face was kindling with pleasure at the sight of her old friends, and her whole appearance was animated and glowing. at the time she came in mr. opie was sitting on a sofa beside mr. f., who had been saying from time to time, 'amelia is coming; amelia will surely come. why is she not here?' and whose eyes were turned in her direction. he was interrupted by his companion eagerly exclaiming, 'who is that--who is that?' and hastily rising opie pressed forward to be introduced to the fair object whose sudden appearance had so impressed him.' with all her love of excitement, of change, of variety, one cannot but feel, as i have said, that there was also in amelia alderson's cheerful life a vein of deep and very serious feeling, and the bracing influence of the upright and high-minded people among whom she had been brought up did not count for nothing in her nature. she could show her genuine respect for what was generous and good and true, even though she did not always find strength to carry out the dream of an excitable and warm-hearted nature. iv. there is something very interesting in the impression one receives of the 'inspired peasant,' as alan cunningham calls john opie--the man who did not paint to live so much as live to paint. he was a simple, high-minded cornishman, whose natural directness and honesty were unspoiled by favour, unembittered by failure. opie's gift, like some deep-rooted seed living buried in arid soil, ever aspired upwards towards the light. his ideal was high; his performance fell far short of his life-long dream, and he knew it. but his heart never turned from its life's aim, and he loved beauty and art with that true and unfailing devotion which makes a man great, even though his achievements do not show all he should have been. the old village carpenter, his father, who meant him to succeed to the business, was often angry, and loudly railed at the boy when good white-washed walls and clean boards were spoiled by scrawls of lamp-black and charcoal. john worked in the shop and obeyed his father, but when his day's task was over he turned again to his darling pursuits. at twelve years old he had mastered euclid, and could also rival 'mark oaks,' the village phenomenon, in painting a butterfly; by the time john was sixteen he could earn as much as _s._ _d._ for a portrait. it was in this year that there came to truro an accomplished and various man dr. wolcott--sometimes a parson, sometimes a doctor of medicine, sometimes as peter pindar, a critic and literary man. this gentleman was interested by young opie and his performances, and he asked him on one occasion how he liked painting. 'better than bread-and-butter,' says the boy. wolcott finally brought his _protégé_ to london, where the doctor's influence and opie's own undoubted merit brought him success; and to opie's own amazement he suddenly found himself the fashion. his street was crowded with carriages; long processions of ladies and gentlemen came to sit to him; he was able to furnish a house 'in orange court, by leicester fields;' he was beginning to put by money when, as suddenly as he had been taken up, he was forgotten again. the carriages drove off in some other direction, and opie found himself abandoned by the odd, fanciful world of fashions, which would not be fashions if they did not change day by day. it might have proved a heart-breaking phase of life for a man whose aim had been less single. but opie was of too generous a nature to value popularity beyond achievement. he seems to have borne this freak of fortune with great equanimity, and when he was sometimes overwhelmed, it was not by the praise or dispraise of others, but by his own consciousness of failure, of inadequate performance. troubles even more serious than loss of patronage and employment befell him later. he had married, unhappily for himself, a beautiful, unworthy woman, whose picture he has painted many times. she was a faithless as well as a weak and erring wife, and finally abandoned him. when opie was free to marry again he was thirty-six, a serious, downright man of undoubted power and influence, of sincerity and tenderness of feeling, of rugged and unusual manners. he had not many friends, nor did he wish for many, but those who knew him valued him at his worth. his second wife showed what was in her by her appreciation of his noble qualities, though one can hardly realise a greater contrast than that of these two, so unlike in character, in training, and disposition. they were married in london, at marylebone church, in that dismal year of ' , which is still remembered. opie loved his wife deeply and passionately; he did not charm her, though she charmed him, but for his qualities she had true respect and admiration. v. opie must be forgiven if he was one-idead, if he erred from too much zeal. all his wife's bright gaiety of nature, her love for her fellow-creatures, her interest in the world, her many-sidedness, this uncompromising husband would gladly have kept for himself. for him his wife and his home were the whole world; his art was his whole life. the young couple settled down in london after their marriage, where, notwithstanding fogs and smoke and dull monotony of brick and smut, so many beautiful things are created; where turner's rainbow lights were first reflected, where tennyson's 'princess' sprang from the fog. it was a modest and quiet installation, but among the pretty things which amelia brought to brighten her new home we read of blue feathers and gold gauze bonnets, tiaras, and spencers, scarlet ribbons, buff net, and cambric flounces, all of which give one a pleasant impression of her intention to amuse herself, and to enjoy the society of her fellows, and to bring her own pleasant contributions to their enjoyment. opie sat working at his easel, painting portraits to earn money for his wife's use and comfort, and encouraging her to write, for he had faith in work. he himself would never intermit his work for a single day. he would have gladly kept her always in his sight. 'if i would stay at home for ever, i believe my husband would be merry from morning to night--a lover more than a husband,' amelia writes to mrs. taylor. he seemed to have some feeling that time for him was not to be long--that life was passing quickly by, almost too quickly to give him time to realise his new home happiness, to give him strength to grasp his work. he was no rapid painter, instinctively feeling his light and colour and action, and seizing the moment's suggestion, but anxious, laborious, and involved in that sad struggle in which some people pass their lives, for ever disappointed. opie's portraits seem to have been superior to his compositions, which were well painted, 'but unimaginative and commonplace,' says a painter of our own time, whose own work quickens with that mysterious soul which some pictures (as indeed some human beings) seem to be entirely without. 'during the nine years that i was his wife,' says mrs. opie, 'i never saw him satisfied with any one of his productions. often, very often, he has entered my sitting-room, and, throwing himself down in an agony of despondence upon the sofa, exclaimed, "i shall never be a painter!"' he was a wise and feeling critic, however great his shortcomings as a painter may have been. his lectures are admirable; full of real thought and good judgment. sir james mackintosh places them beyond reynolds's in some ways. 'if there were no difficulties every one would be a painter,' says opie, and he goes on to point out what a painter's object should be--'the discovery or conception of perfect ideas of things; nature in its purest and most essential form rising from the species to the genus, the highest and ultimate exertion of human genius.' for him it was no grievance that a painter's life should be one long and serious effort. 'if you are wanting to yourselves, rule may be multiplied upon rule and precept upon precept in vain.' some of his remarks might be thought still to apply in many cases, no less than they did a hundred years ago, when he complained of those green-sick lovers of chalk, brick-dust, charcoal and old tapestry, who are so ready to decry the merits of colouring and to set it down as a kind of superfluity. it is curious to contrast opie's style in literature with that of his wife, who belongs to the entirely past generation which she reflected, whereas he wrote from his own original impressions, saying those things which struck him as forcibly then as they strike us now. 'father and daughter' was mrs. opie's first acknowledged book. it was published in , and the author writes modestly of all her apprehensions. 'mr. opie has no patience with me; he consoles me by averring that fear makes me overrate others and underrate myself.' the book was reviewed in the 'edinburgh.' we hear of one gentleman who lies awake all night after reading it; and mrs. inchbald promises a candid opinion, which, however, we do not get. besides stories and novels, mrs. opie was the author of several poems and verses which were much admired. there was an impromptu to sir james mackintosh, which brought a long letter in return, and one of her songs was quoted by sydney smith in a lecture at the royal institution. mrs. opie was present, and she used to tell in after times 'how unexpectedly the compliment came upon her, and how she shrunk down upon her seat in order to screen herself from observation.' the lines are indeed charming:-- go, youth, beloved in distant glades, new friends, new hopes, new joys to find, yet sometimes deign 'midst fairer maids to think on her thou leav'st behind. thy love, thy fate, dear youth to share must never be my happy lot; but thou may'st grant this humble prayer, forget me not, forget me not. yet should the thought of my distress too painful to thy feelings be, heed not the wish i now express, nor ever deign to think of me; but oh! if grief thy steps attend, if want, if sickness be thy lot, and thou require a soothing friend, forget me not, forget me not. vi. the little household was a modest one, but we read of a certain amount of friendly hospitality. country neighbours from norfolk appear upon the scene; we find northcote dining and praising the toasted cheese. mrs. opie's heart never for an instant ceased to warm to her old friends and companions. she writes an amusing account to mrs. taylor of her london home, her interests and visitors, 'her happy and delightful life.' she worked, she amused herself, she received her friends at home and went to look for them abroad. among other visits, mrs. opie speaks of one to an old friend who has 'grown plump,' and of a second to 'betsy fry' who, notwithstanding her comfortable home and prosperous circumstances, has grown lean. it would be difficult to recognise under this familiar cognomen and description the noble and dignified woman whose name and work are still remembered with affectionate respect and wonder by a not less hard-working, but less convinced and convincing generation. this friendship was of great moment to amelia opie in after days, at a time when her heart was low and her life very sad and solitary; but meanwhile, as i have said, there were happy times for her; youth and youthful spirits and faithful companionship were all hers, and troubles had not yet come. one day mrs. opie gives a characteristic account of a visit from mrs. taylor's two sons. '"john," said i, "will you take a letter from me to your mother?" "certainly," replied john, "for then i shall be sure of being welcome." "fy," returned i. "mr. courtier, you know you want nothing to add to the heartiness of the welcome you will receive at home." "no, indeed," said richard, "and if mrs. opie sends her letter by you it will be one way of making it less valued and attended to than it would otherwise be." to the truth of this speech i subscribed and wrote not. i have heard in later days a pretty description of the simple home in which all these handsome, cultivated, and remarkable young people grew up round their noble-minded mother.' one of mrs. john taylor's daughters became mrs. reeve, the mother of mr. henry reeve, another was mrs. austin, the mother of lady duff gordon. those lean kine we read of in the bible are not peculiar to egypt and to the days of joseph and his brethren. the unwelcome creatures are apt to make their appearance in many a country and many a household, and in default of their natural food to devour all sorts of long-cherished fancies, hopes, and schemes. some time after his marriage, opie suddenly, and for no reason, found himself without employment, and the severest trial they experienced during their married life, says his wife, was during this period of anxiety. she, however, cheered him womanfully, would not acknowledge her own dismay, and opie, gloomy and desponding though he was, continued to paint as regularly as before. presently orders began to flow in again, and did not cease until his death. vii. their affairs being once more prosperous, a long-hoped-for dream became a reality, and they started on an expedition to paris, a solemn event in those days and not lightly to be passed over by a biographer. one long war was ended, another had not yet begun. the continent was a promised land, fondly dreamt of though unknown. 'at last in paris; at last in the city which she had so longed to see!' mrs. opie's description of her arrival reads a comment upon history. as they drive into the town, everywhere chalked up upon the walls and the houses are inscriptions concerning 'l'indivisibilité de la république.' how many subsequent writings upon the wall did mrs. opie live to see! the english party find rooms at a hotel facing the place de la concorde, where the guillotine, that token of order and tranquillity, was then perpetually standing. the young wife's feelings may be imagined when within an hour of their arrival opie, who had rushed off straight to the louvre, returned with a face of consternation to say that they must leave paris at once. the louvre was shut; and, moreover, the whiteness of everything, the houses, the ground they stood on, all dazzled and blinded him. he was a lost man if he remained! by some happy interposition they succeed in getting admission to the louvre, and as the painter wonders and admires his nervous terrors leave him. the picture left by miss edgeworth of paris society in the early years of the century is more brilliant, but not more interesting than mrs. opie's reminiscences of the fleeting scene, gaining so much in brilliancy from the shadows all round about. there is the shadow of the ghastly guillotine upon the place de la concorde, the shadows of wars but lately over and yet to come, the echo in the air of arms and discord; meanwhile a brilliant, agreeable, flashing paris streams with sunlight, is piled with treasures and trophies of victory, and crowded with well-known characters. we read of kosciusko's nut-brown wig concealing his honourable scars; masséna's earrings flash in the sun; one can picture it all, and the animated inrush of tourists, and the eager life stirring round about the walls of the old louvre. it was at this time that they saw talma perform, and years after, in her little rooms in lady's field at norwich, mrs. opie, in her quaker dress, used to give an imitation of the great actor and utter a deep 'cain, cain, where art thou?' to which cain replies in sepulchral tones. we get among other things an interesting glimpse of fox standing in the louvre gallery opposite the picture of st. jerome by domenichino, a picture which, as it is said, he enthusiastically admired. opie, who happened to be introduced to him, then and there dissented from this opinion. 'you must be a better judge on such points than i am,' says fox; and mrs. opie proudly writes of the two passing on together discussing and comparing the pictures. she describes them next standing before the 'transfiguration' of raphael. the louvre in those days must have been for a painter a wonder palace indeed. the 'venus de' medici' was on her way; it was a time of miracles, as fox said. meanwhile mrs. opie hears someone saying that the first consul is on his way from the senate, and she hurries to a window to look out. 'bonaparte seems very fond of state and show for a republican,' says mrs. fox. fox himself half turns to the window, then looks back to the pictures again. as for opie, one may be sure his attention never wandered for one instant. they saw the first consul more than once. the pacificator, as he was then called, was at the height of his popularity; on one occasion they met fox with his wife on his arm crossing the carrousel to the tuìlerìes, where they are also admitted to a ground-floor room, from whence they look upon a marble staircase and see several officers ascending, 'one of whom, with a helmet which seemed entirely of gold, was eugène de beauharnais. a few minutes afterwards,' she says, 'there was a rush of officers down the stairs, and among them i saw a short pale man with his hat in his hand, who, as i thought, resembled lord erskine in profile....' this of course is bonaparte, unadorned amidst all this studied splendour, and wearing only a little tricoloured cockade. maria cosway, the painter, who was also in paris at the time, took them to call at the house of madame bonaparte _mère_, where they were received by 'a blooming, courteous ecclesiastic, powdered and with purple stockings and gold buckles, and a costly crucifix. this is cardinal fesch, the uncle of bonaparte. it is said that when fox was introduced to the first consul he was warmly welcomed by him, and was made to listen to a grand harangue upon the advantages of peace, to which he answered scarcely a word; though he was charmed to talk with madame bonaparte, and to discuss with her the flowers of which she was so fond.' the opies met fox again in england some years after, when he sat to opie for one of his finest portraits. it is now at holker, and there is a characteristic description of poor opie, made nervous by the criticism of the many friends, and fox, impatient but encouraging, and again whispering, 'don't attend to them; you must know best.' viii. 'adeline mowbray; or, mother and daughter,' was published by mrs. opie after this visit to the continent. it is a melancholy and curious story, which seems to have been partly suggested by that of poor mary wollstonecraft, whose prejudices the heroine shares and expiates by a fate hardly less pathetic than that of mary herself. the book reminds one of a very touching letter from godwin's wife to amelia alderson, written a few weeks before her death, in which she speaks of her 'contempt for the forms of a world she should have bade a long good-night to had she not been a mother.' justice has at length been done to this mistaken but noble and devoted woman, and her story has lately been written from a wider point of view than mrs. opie's, though she indeed was no ungenerous advocate. her novel seems to have given satisfaction; 'a beautiful story, the most natural in its pathos of any fictitious narrative in the language,' says the 'edinburgh,' writing with more leniency than authors now expect. another reviewer, speaking with discriminating criticism, says of mrs. opie: 'she does not reason well, but she has, like most accomplished women, the talent of perceiving truth without the process of reasoning. her language is often inaccurate, but it is always graceful and harmonious. she can do nothing well that requires to be done with formality; to make amends, however, she represents admirably everything that is amiable, generous, and gentle.' adeline mowbray dies of a broken heart, with the following somewhat discursive farewell to her child: 'there are two ways in which a mother can be of use to her daughter; the one is by instilling into her mind virtuous principles, and by setting her a virtuous example, the other is by being to her, in her own person, an awful warning!' * * * * * one or two of opie's letters to his wife are given in the memoir. they ring with truth and tender feeling. the two went to norwich together on one occasion, when opie painted dr. sayers, the scholar, who, in return for his portrait, applied an elegant greek distich to the painter. mrs. opie remained with her father, and her husband soon returned to his studio in london. when she delayed, he wrote to complain. 'my dearest life, i cannot be sorry that you do not stay longer, though, as i said, on your father's account, i would consent to it. pray, love, forgive me, and make yourself easy. i did not suspect, till my last letter was posted, that it might be too strong. i had been counting almost the hours till your arrival for some time. as to coming down again i cannot think of it, for though i could perhaps better spare the time at present from painting than i could at any part of the last month, i find i must now go hard to work to finish my lectures, as the law says they must be delivered the second year after the election.' the academy had appointed opie professor of painting in the place of fuseli, and he was now trying his hand at a new form of composition, and not without well-deserved success. but the strain was too great for this eager mind. opie painted all day; of an evening he worked at his lectures on painting. from september to february he allowed himself no rest. he was not a man who worked with ease; all he did cost him much effort and struggle. after delivering his first lecture, he complained that he could not sleep. it had been a great success; his colleagues had complimented him, and accompanied him to his house. he was able to complete the course, but immediately afterwards he sickened. no one could discover what was amiss; the languor and fever increased day by day. his wife nursed him devotedly, and a favourite sister of his came to help her. afterwards it was of consolation to the widow to remember that no hired nurse had been by his bedside, and that they had been able to do everything for him themselves. one thing troubled him as he lay dying; it was the thought of a picture which he had not been able to complete in time for the exhibition. a friend and former pupil finished it, and brought it to his bedside. he said with a smile, 'take it away, it will do now.' to the last he imagined that he was painting upon this picture, and he moved his arms as though he were at work. his illness was inflammation of the brain. he was only forty-five when he died, and he was buried in st. paul's, and laid by sir joshua, his great master. the portrait of opie, as it is engraved in alan cunningham's life, is that of a simple, noble-looking man, with a good thoughtful face and a fine head. northcote, nollekens, horne tooke, all his friends spoke warmly of him. 'a man of powerful understanding and ready apprehension,' says one. 'mr. opie crowds more wisdom into a few words than almost anybody i ever saw,' says another. 'i do not say that he was always right,' says northcote; 'but he always put your thoughts into a new track that was worth following.' some two years after his death the lectures which had cost so much were published, with a memoir by mrs. opie. sir james mackintosh has written one of his delightful criticisms upon the book:-- the cultivation of every science and the practice of every art are in fact a species of action, and require ardent zeal and unshaken courage.... originality can hardly exist without vigour of character.... the discoverer or inventor may indeed be most eminently wanting in decision in the general concerns of life, but he must possess it in those pursuits in which he is successful. opie is a remarkable instance of the natural union of these superior qualities, both of which he possesses in a high degree.... he is inferior in elegance to sir joshua, but he is superior in strength; he strikes more, though he charms less.... opie is by turns an advocate, a controvertist, a panegyrist, a critic; sir joshua more uniformly fixes his mind on general and permanent principles, and certainly approaches more nearly to the elevation and tranquillity which seem to characterise the philosophic teacher of an elegant art. ix. mrs. opie went back, soon after her husband's death, to norwich, to her early home, her father's house; nor was she a widow indeed while she still had this tender love and protection. that which strikes one most as one reads the accounts of mrs. opie is the artlessness and perfect simplicity of her nature. the deepest feeling of her life was her tender love for her father, and if she remained younger than most women do, it may have been partly from the great blessing which was hers so long, that of a father's home. time passed, and by degrees she resumed her old life, and came out and about among her friends. sorrow does not change a nature, it expresses certain qualities which have been there all along. so mrs. opie came up to london once more, and welcomed and was made welcome by many interesting people. lord erskine is her friend always; she visits madame de staël; she is constantly in company with sydney smith, the ever-welcome as she calls him. lord byron, sheridan, lord dudley, all appear upon her scene. there is a pretty story of her singing her best to lady sarah napier, old, blind, and saddened, but still happy in that she had her sons to guide and to protect her steps. among her many entertainments, mrs. opie amusingly describes a dinner at sir james mackintosh's, to which most of the guests had been asked at different hours, varying from six to half-past seven, when baron william von humboldt arrives. he writes to her next day, calling her mademoiselle opie, 'no doubt from my juvenile appearance,' she adds, writing to her father. it is indeed remarkable to read of her spirits long after middle life, her interest and capacity for amusement. she pays _l._ for a ticket to a ball given to the duke of wellington; she describes this and many other masquerades and gaieties, and the blue ball, and the pink ball, and the twenty-seven carriages at her door, and her sight of the emperor of russia in her hotel. when the rest of the ladies crowd round, eager to touch his clothes, mrs. opie, carried away by the general craze, encircles his wrist with her finger and thumb. apart from these passing fancies, she is in delightful society. baron alderson, her cousin and friend, was always kind and affectionate to her. the pretty little story is well known of his taking her home in her quaker dress in the judges' state-coach at norwich, saying, 'come, brother opie,' as he offered her his arm to lead her to the carriage. she used to stay at his house in london, and almost the last visit she ever paid was to him. one of the most interesting of her descriptions is that of her meeting with sir walter scott and with wordsworth at a breakfast in mount street, and of sir walter's delightful talk and animated stories. one can imagine him laughing and describing a cockney's terrors in the highlands, when the whole hunt goes galloping down the crags, as is their north-country fashion. 'the gifted man,' says mrs. opie, with her old-fashioned adjectives, 'condescended to speak to me of my "father and daughter." he then went on faithfully to praise his old friend joanna baillie and her tragedies, and to describe a tragedy he once thought of writing himself. he should have had no love in it. his hero should have been the uncle of his heroine, a sort of misanthrope, with only one affection in his heart, love for his niece, like a solitary gleam of sunshine lighting the dark tower of some ruined and lonely dwelling.' 'it might perhaps be a weakness,' says the friend, long after recalling this event, 'but i must confess how greatly i was pleased at the time.' no wonder she was pleased that the great wizard should have liked her novel. it would be impossible to attempt a serious critique of mrs. opie's stories. they are artless, graceful, written with an innocent good faith which disarms criticism. that southey, sydney smith, and mackintosh should also have read them and praised them may, as i have said, prove as much for the personal charm of the writer, and her warm sunshine of pleasant companionship, as for the books themselves. they seem to have run through many editions, and to have received no little encouragement. morality and sensation alternate in her pages. monsters abound there. they hire young men to act base parts, to hold villainous conversations which the husbands are intended to overhear. they plot and scheme to ruin the fair fame and domestic happiness of the charming heroines, but they are justly punished, and their plots are defeated. one villain, on his way to an appointment with a married woman, receives so severe a blow upon the head from her brother, that he dies in agonies of fruitless remorse. another, who incautiously boasts aloud his deep-laid scheme against constantia's reputation in the dark recesses of a stage-coach, is unexpectedly seized by the arm. a stranger in the corner, whom he had not noticed, was no other than the baronet whom constantia has loved all along. the dawn breaks in brightly, shining on the stranger's face: baffled, disgraced, the wicked schemer leaves the coach at the very next stage, and constantia's happiness is ensured by a brilliant marriage with the man she loves. 'lucy is the dark sky,' cries another lovely heroine, 'but you, my lord, and my smiling children, these are the rainbow that illumines it; and who would look at the gloom that see the many tinted iris? not i, indeed.' 'valentine's eve,' from which this is quoted, was published after john opie's death. so was a novel called 'temper,' and the 'tales of real life.' mrs. opie, however, gave up writing novels when she joined the society of friends. for some years past, mrs. opie had been thrown more and more in the company of a very noble and remarkable race of men and women living quietly in their beautiful homes in the neighbourhood of norwich, but of an influence daily growing--handsome people, prosperous, generous, with a sort of natural priesthood belonging to them. scorning to live for themselves alone, the gurneys were the dispensers and originators of a hundred useful and benevolent enterprises in norwich and elsewhere. they were quakers, and merchants, and bankers. how much of their strength lay in their wealth and prosperity, how much in their enthusiasm, their high spirits, voluntarily curbed, their natural instinct both to lead and to protect, it would be idle to discuss. it is always difficult for people who believe in the all-importance of the present to judge of others, whose firm creed is that the present is nothing as compared to the future. chief among this remarkable family was elizabeth gurney, the wife of josiah fry, the mother of many children, and the good angel, indeed, of the unhappy captives of those barbarous days, prisoners, to whose utter gloom and misery she brought some rays of hope. there are few figures more striking than that of the noble quaker lady starting on her generous mission, comforting the children, easing the chains of the captives. no domineering jellyby, but a motherly, deep-hearted woman; shy, and yet from her very timidity gaining an influence, which less sensitive natures often fail to win. one likes to imagine the dignified sweet face coming in--the comforting friend in the quiet garb of the quaker woman standing at the gates of those terrible places, bidding the despairing prisoners be of good hope. elizabeth fry's whole life was a mission of love and help to others; her brothers and her many relations heartily joined and assisted her in many plans and efforts. for joseph john gurney, the head of the norwich family, mrs. opie is said to have had a feeling amounting to more than friendship. be this as it may, it is no wonder that so warm-hearted and impressionable a woman should have been influenced by the calm goodness of the friends with whom she was now thrown. it is evident enough, nor does she attempt to conceal the fact, that the admiration and interest she feels for john joseph gurney are very deep motive powers. there comes a time in most lives, especially in the lives of women, when all the habits and certainties of youth have passed away, when life has to be built up again upon the foundations indeed of the past, the friendships, the memories, the habits of early life, but with new places and things to absorb and to interest, new hearts to love. and one day people wake up to find that the friends of their choice have become their home. people are stranded perhaps seeking their share in life's allowance, and suddenly they come upon something, with all the charm which belongs to deliberate choice, as well as that of natural affinity. how well one can realise the extraordinary comfort that amelia opie must have found in the kind friends and neighbours with whom she was now thrown! her father was a very old man, dying slowly by inches. her own life of struggle, animation, intelligence, was over, as she imagined, for ever. no wonder if for a time she was carried away, if she forgot her own nature, her own imperative necessities, in sympathy with this new revelation. here was a new existence, here was a living church ready to draw her within its saving walls. john joseph gurney must have been a man of extraordinary personal influence. for a long time past he had been writing to her seriously. at last, to the surprise of the world, though not without long deliberation and her father's full approval, she joined the society of friends, put on their dress, and adopted their peculiar phraseology. people were surprised at the time, but i think it would have been still more surprising if she had not joined them. j. j. gurney, in one of his letters, somewhat magnificently describes mrs. opie as offering up her many talents and accomplishments a brilliant sacrifice to her new-found persuasions. 'illustrations of lying,' moral anecdotes on the borderland of imagination, are all that she is henceforth allowed. 'i am bound in a degree not to invent a story, because when i became a friend it was required of me not to do so,' she writes to miss mitford, who had asked her to contribute to an annual. miss mitford's description of mrs. opie, 'quakerised all over, and calling mr. haydon 'friend benjamin,' is amusing enough; and so also is the account of the visiting card she had printed after she became a quaker, with 'amelia opie,' without any prefix, as is the quaker way; also, as is not their way, with a wreath of embossed pink roses surrounding the name. there is an account of mrs. opie published in the 'edinburgh review,' in a delightful article entitled the 'worthies of norwich,' which brings one almost into her very presence. amelia opie at the end of the last century and amelia opie in the garb and with the speech of a member of the society of friends sounds like two separate personages, but no one who recollects the gay little songs which at seventy she used to sing with lively gesture, the fragments of drama to which, with the zest of an innate actress, she occasionally treated her young friends, or the elaborate faultlessness of her appearance--the shining folds and long train of her pale satin draperies, the high, transparent cap, the crisp fichu crossed over the breast, which set off to advantage the charming little plump figure with its rounded lines--could fail to recognise the same characteristics which sparkled about the wearer of the pink calico domino in which she frolicked incognito 'till she was tired' at a ball given by the duke of wellington in , or of the eight blue feathers which crowned the waving tresses of her flaxen hair as a bride. doctor alderson died in october , and mrs. opie was left alone. she was very forlorn when her father died. she had no close ties to carry her on peacefully from middle age to the end of life. the great break had come; she was miserable, and, as mourners do, she falls upon herself and beats her breast. all through these sad years her friends at northrepps and at earlham were her chief help and consolation. as time passed her deep sorrow was calmed, when peaceful memories had succeeded to the keen anguish of her good old father's loss. she must have suffered deeply; she tried hard to be brave, but her courage failed her at times: she tried hard to do her duty; and her kindness and charity were unfailing, for she was herself still, although so unhappy. her journals are pathetic in their humility and self-reproaches for imaginary omissions. she is lonely; out of heart, out of hope. 'i am so dissatisfied with myself that i hardly dare ask or expect a blessing upon my labours,' she says; and long lists of kind and fatiguing offices, of visits to sick people and poor people, to workhouses and prisons, are interspersed with expressions of self-blame. * * * * * the writer can remember as a child speculating as she watched the straight-cut figure of a quaker lady standing in the deep window of an old mansion that overlooked the luxembourg gardens at paris, with all their perfume and blooming scent of lilac and sweet echoes of children, while the quiet figure stood looking down upon it all from--to a child--such an immeasurable distance. as one grows older one becomes more used to garbs of different fashions and cut, and one can believe in present sunlight and the scent of flowering trees and the happy sound of children's voices going straight to living hearts beneath their several disguises, and mrs. opie, notwithstanding her quaker dress, loved bright colours and gay sunlight. she was one of those who gladly made life happy for others, who naturally turned to bright and happy things herself. when at last she began to recover from the blow which had fallen so heavily upon her she went from norwich to the lakes and fells for refreshment, and then to cornwall, and among its green seas and softly clothed cliffs she found good friends (as most people do who go to that kind and hospitable county), and her husband's relations, who welcomed her kindly. as she recovered by degrees she began to see something of her old companions. she went to london to attend the may meetings of the society, and i heard an anecdote not long ago which must have occurred on some one of these later visits there. one day when some people were sitting at breakfast at samuel rogers's, and talking as people do who belong to the agreeable classes, the conversation happened to turn upon the affection of a father for his only child, when an elderly lady who had been sitting at the table, and who was remarkable for her quaker dress, her frills and spotless folds, her calm and striking appearance, started up suddenly, burst into a passion of tears, and had to be led sobbing out of the room. she did not return, and the lady who remembers the incident, herself a young bride at the time, told me it made all the more impression upon her at the time because she was told that the quaker lady was mrs. opie. my friend was just beginning her life. mrs. opie must have been ending hers. it is not often that women, when youth is long past, shed sudden and passionate tears of mere emotion, nor perhaps would a quaker, trained from early childhood to calm moods and calm expressions, have been so suddenly overpoweringly affected; but mrs. opie was no born daughter of the community, she was excitable and impulsive to the last. i have heard a lady who knew her well describe her, late in life, laughing heartily and impetuously thrusting a somewhat starched-up friend into a deep arm-chair exclaiming, 'i will hurl thee into the bottomless pit.' x. at sight of thee, o tricolor, i seem to feel youth's hours return, the loved, the lost! so writes mrs. opie at the age of sixty, reviving, delighting, as she catches sight of her beloved paris once more, and breathes its clear and life-giving air, and looks out across its gardens and glittering gables and spires, and again meets her french acquaintances, and throws herself into their arms and into their interests with all her old warmth and excitability. the little grey bonnet only gives certain incongruous piquancy to her pleasant, kind-hearted exuberance. she returns to england, but far-away echoes reach her soon of changes and revolutions concerning all the people for whom her regard is so warm. in august, , came the news of a new revolution--'the chamber of deputies dissolved for ever; the liberty of the press abolished; king, ministers, court, and ambassadors flying from paris to vincennes; cannon planted against the city; , people killed, and the rue de rivoli running with blood.' no wonder such rumours stirred and overwhelmed the staunch but excitable lady. 'you will readily believe how anxious, interested, and excited i feel,' she says; and then she goes on to speak of lafayette, 'miraculously preserved through two revolutions, and in chains and in a dungeon, now the leading mind in another conflict, and lifting not only an armed but a restraining hand in a third revolution.' her heart was with her french friends and intimates, and though she kept silence she was not the less determined to follow its leading, and, without announcing her intention, she started off from norwich and, after travelling without intermission, once more arrived in her beloved city. but what was become of the revolution? 'paris seemed as bright and peaceful as i had seen it thirteen months ago! the people, the busy people passing to and fro, and soldiers, omnibuses, cabriolets, citadenes, carts, horsemen hurrying along the rue de rivoli, while foot passengers were crossing the gardens, or loungers were sitting on its benches to enjoy the beauty of the may-november.' she describes two men crossing the place royale singing a national song, the result of the revolution:-- pour briser leurs masses profondes, qui conduit nos drapeaux sanglants, c'est la liberté de deux mondes, c'est lafayette en cheveux blancs. mrs. opie was full of enthusiasm for noble lafayette surveying his court of turbulent intrigue and shifting politics; for cuvier in his own realm, among more tranquil laws, less mutable decrees. she should have been born a frenchwoman, to play a real and brilliant part among all these scenes and people, instead of only looking on. something stirred in her veins too eager and bubbling for an englishwoman's scant share of life and outward events. no wonder that her friends at norwich were anxious, and urged her to return. they heard of her living in the midst of excitement, of admiration, and with persons of a different religion and way of thinking to themselves. their warning admonitions carried their weight; that little quaker bonnet which she took so much care of was a talisman, drawing the most friendly of friends away from the place of her adoption. but she came back unchanged to her home, to her quiet associations; she had lost none of her spirits, none, of her cheerful interest in her natural surroundings. as life burnt on her kind soul seemed to shine more and more brightly. every one came to see her, to be cheered and warmed by her genial spirit. she loved flowers, of which her room was full. she had a sort of passion for prisms, says her biographer; she had several set in a frame and mounted like a screen, and the colour flew about the little room. she kept up a great correspondence; she was never tired of writing, though the letters on other people's business were apt to prove a serious burden at times. but she lives on only to be of use. 'take care of indulging in little selfishnesses,' she writes in her diary; 'learn to consider others in trifles: the mind so disciplined will find it easier to fulfil the greater duties, and the character will not exhibit that trying inconsistency which one sees in great and often in pious persons.' her health fails, but not her courage. she goes up to london for the last time to her cousin's house. she is interested in all the people she meets, in their wants and necessities, in the events of the time. she returns home, contented with all; with the house which she feels so 'desirable to die in,' with her window through which she can view the woods and rising ground of thorpe. 'my prisms to-day are quite in their glory,' she writes; 'the atmosphere must be very clear, for the radiance is brighter than ever i saw it before;' and then she wonders whether the mansions in heaven will be draped in such brightness; and so to the last the gentle, bright, _rainbow_ lady remained surrounded by kind and smiling faces, by pictures, by flowers, and with the light of her favourite prismatic colours shining round about the couch on which she lay. _jane austen._ - . 'a mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux. les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de différence entre les hommes.'--pascal. 'i did not know that you were a studier of character,' says bingley to elizabeth. 'it must be an amusing study.' 'yes, but intricate characters are the most amusing. they have at least that advantage.' 'the country,' said darcy, 'can in general supply but few subjects for such a study. in a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.' 'but people themselves alter so much,' elizabeth answers, 'that there is something new to be observed in them for ever.' 'yes, indeed,' cried mrs. bennet, offended by darcy's manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood; 'i assure you that we have quite as much of _that_ going on in the country as in town.' 'everybody was surprised, and darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. mrs. bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.' these people belong to a whole world of familiar acquaintances, who are, notwithstanding their old-fashioned dresses and quaint expressions, more alive to us than a great many of the people among whom we live. we know so much more about them to begin with. notwithstanding a certain reticence and self-control which seems to belong to their age, and with all their quaint dresses, and ceremonies, and manners, the ladies and gentlemen in 'pride and prejudice' and its companion novels seem like living people out of our own acquaintance transported bodily into a bygone age, represented in the half-dozen books that contain jane austen's works. dear books! bright, sparkling with wit and animation, in which the homely heroines charm, the dull hours fly, and the very bores are enchanting. could we but study our own bores as miss austen must have studied hers in her country village, what a delightful world this might be!--a world of norris's economical great walkers, with dining-room tables to dispose of; of lady bertrams on sofas, with their placid 'do not act anything improper, my dears; sir thomas would not like it;' of bennets, goddards, bates's; of mr. collins's; of rushbrooks, with two-and-forty speeches apiece--a world of mrs. eltons.... inimitable woman! she must be alive at this very moment, if we but knew where to find her, her basket on her arm, her nods and all-importance, with maple grove and the sucklings in the background. she would be much excited were she aware how she is esteemed by a late chancellor of the exchequer, who is well acquainted with maple grove and selina too. it might console her for mr. knightly's shabby marriage. all these people nearly start out of the pages, so natural and unaffected are they, and yet they never lived except in the imagination of one lady with bright eyes, who sat down some seventy years ago to an old mahogany desk in a quiet country parlour, and evoked them for us. one seems to see the picture of the unknown friend who has charmed us so long--charmed away dull hours, created neighbours and companions for us in lonely places, conferring happiness and harmless mirth upon generations to come. one can picture her as she sits erect, with her long and graceful figure, her full round face, her bright eyes cast down,--jane austen, 'the woman of whom england is justly proud'--whose method generous macaulay has placed near shakespeare. she is writing in secret, putting away her work when visitors come in, unconscious, modest, hidden at home in heart, as she was in her sweet and womanly life, with the wisdom of the serpent indeed and the harmlessness of a dove. some one said just now that many people seem to be so proud of seeing a joke at all, that they impress it upon you until you are perfectly wearied by it. jane austen was not of these; her humour flows gentle and spontaneous; it is no elaborate mechanism nor artificial fountain, but a bright natural stream, rippling and trickling over every stone and sparkling in the sunshine. we should be surprised now-a-days to hear a young lady announce herself as a studier of character. from her quiet home in the country lane this one reads to us a real page from the absorbing pathetic humorous book of human nature--a book that we can most of us understand when it is translated into plain english; but of which the quaint and illegible characters are often difficult to decipher for ourselves. it is a study which, with all respect for darcy's opinion, must require something of country-like calm and concentration and freedom of mind. it is difficult, for instance, for a too impulsive student not to attribute something of his own moods to his specimens instead of dispassionately contemplating them from a critical distance. besides the natural fun and wit and life of her characters, 'all perfectly discriminated,' as macaulay says, jane austen has the gift of telling a story in a way that has never been surpassed. she rules her places, times, characters, and marshals them with unerring precision. in her special gift for organisation she seems almost unequalled. her picnics are models for all future and past picnics; her combinations of feelings, of conversation, of gentlemen and ladies, are so natural and lifelike that reading to criticise is impossible to some of us--the scene carries us away, and we forget to look for the art by which it is recorded. her machinery is simple but complete; events group themselves so vividly and naturally in her mind that, in describing imaginary scenes, we seem not only to read them, but to live them, to see the people coming and going: the gentlemen courteous and in top-boots, the ladies demure and piquant; we can almost hear them talking to one another. no retrospects; no abrupt flights; as in real life days and events follow one another. last tuesday does not suddenly start into existence all out of place; nor does appear upon the scene when we are well on in ' . countries and continents do not fly from hero to hero, nor do long and divergent adventures happen to unimportant members of the company. with jane austen days, hours, minutes succeed each other like clockwork, one central figure is always present on the scene, that figure is always prepared for company. miss edwards's curl-papers are almost the only approach to dishabille in her stories. there are postchaises in readiness to convey the characters from bath or lyme to uppercross, to fullerton, from gracechurch street to meryton, as their business takes them. mr. knightly rides from brunswick square to hartfield, by a road that miss austen herself must have travelled in the curricle with her brother, driving to london on a summer's day. it was a wet ride for mr. knightly, followed by that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in the shrubbery, when the wind had changed into a softer quarter, the clouds were carried off, and emma, walking in the sunshine, with spirits freshened and thoughts a little relieved, and thinking of mr. knightly as sixteen miles away, meets him at the garden door; and everybody, i think, must be the happier, for the happiness and certainty that one half-hour gave to emma and her 'indifferent' lover. there is a little extract from one of miss austen's letters to a niece, which shows that all this successful organisation was not brought about by chance alone, but came from careful workmanship. 'your aunt c.,' she says, 'does not like desultory novels, and is rather fearful that yours will be too much so--that there will be too frequent a change from one set of people to another, and that circumstances will be sometimes introduced of apparent consequence, which will lead to nothing. it will not be so great an objection to me. i allow much more latitude than she does, and think nature and spirit cover many sins of a wandering story....' but, though the sins of a wandering story may be covered, the virtues of a well-told one make themselves felt unconsciously, and without an effort. some books and people are delightful, we can scarce tell why; they are not so clever as others that weary and fatigue us. it is a certain effort to read a story, however touching, that is disconnected and badly related. it is like an ill-drawn picture, of which the colouring is good. jane austen possessed both gifts of colour and of drawing. she could see human nature as it was; with near-sighted eyes, it is true; but having seen, she could combine her picture by her art, and colour it from life. how delightful the people are who play at cards, and pay their addresses to one another, and sup, and discuss each other's affairs! take mr. bennet's reception of his sons-in-law. take sir walter elliot compassionating the navy and admiral baldwin--'nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top--a wretched example of what a seafaring life can do, for men who are exposed to every climate and weather until they are not fit to be seen. it is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach admiral baldwin's age....' or shall we quote the scene of fanny price's return when she comes to visit her family at portsmouth; in all daughterly agitation and excitement, and the brother's and father's and sister's reception of her.... 'a stare or two at fanny was all the voluntary notice that her brother bestowed, but he made no objection to her kissing him, though still entirely engaged in detailing further particulars of the "thrush's" going out of harbour, in which he had a strong right of interest, being about to commence his career of seamanship in her at this very time. after the mother and daughter have received her, fanny's seafaring father comes in, and does not notice her at first in his excitement. "captain walsh thinks you will certainly have a cruise to the westward with the 'elephant' by ---- i wish you may. but old scholey was saying just now that he thought you would be sent first to the 'texel.' well, well, we are ready whatever happens. but by ---- you lost a fine sight by not being here in the morning to see the 'thrush' go out of harbour. i would not have been out of the way for a thousand pounds. old scholey ran in at breakfast time to say she had slipped her moorings and was coming out. i jumped up and made but two steps to the platform. if ever there was a perfect beauty afloat she is one; and there she lies at spithead, and anybody in england would take her for an eight-and-twenty. i was upon the platform for two hours this afternoon looking at her. she lies close to the 'endymion,' between her and the 'cleopatra,' just to the eastward of the sheer hulk."' '"ha!" cried william, "_that's_ just where i should have put her myself. it's the best berth in spithead. but here is my sister, sir; here is fanny, turning and leading her forward--it is so dark you do not see her."' 'with an acknowledgment that he had quite forgot her, mr. price now received his daughter, and having given her a cordial hug and observed that she was grown into a woman and he supposed would be wanting a husband soon, seemed very much inclined to forget her again.' how admirably it is all told! how we hear them all talking! from her own brothers jane austen learned her accurate knowledge of ships and seafaring things, from her own observation she must have gathered her delightful droll science of men and women and their ways and various destinations. who will not recognise mrs. norris in that master-touch by which she removes the curtain to save sir thomas's feelings, that curtain which had been prepared for the private theatricals he so greatly disapproved of? mrs. norris thoughtfully carries it off to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly in want of green baize. ii. the charm of friends of pen-and-ink is their unchangeableness. we go to them when we want them. we know where to seek them; we know what to expect from them. they are never preoccupied; they are always 'at home;' they never turn their backs nor walk away as people do in real life, nor let their houses and leave the neighbourhood, and disappear for weeks together; they are never taken up with strange people, nor suddenly absorbed into some more genteel society, or by some nearer fancy. even the most volatile among them is to be counted upon. we may have neglected them, and yet when we meet again there are the familiar old friends, and we seem to find our own old selves again in their company. for us time has, perhaps, passed away; feelings have swept by, leaving interests and recollections in their place; but at all ages there must be days that belong to our youth, hours that will recur so long as men forbear and women remember, and life itself exists. perhaps the most fashionable marriage on the _tapis_ no longer excites us very much, but the sentiment of an emma or an anne elliot comes home to some of us as vividly as ever. it is something to have such old friends who are so young. an emma, blooming, without a wrinkle or a grey hair, after twenty years' acquaintance; an elizabeth bennet, sprightly and charming ever.... in the 'roundabout papers' there is a passage about the pen-and-ink friends my father loved:-- 'they used to call the good sir walter the "wizard of the north." what if some writer should appear who can write so _enchantingly_ that he shall be able to call into actual life the people whom he invents? what if mignon, and margaret, and goetz von berlichingen are alive now (though i don't say they are visible), and dugald dalgetty and ivanhoe were to step in at that open window by the little garden yonder? suppose uncas and our noble old leather stocking were to glide in silent? suppose athos, porthos, and aramis should enter, with a noiseless swagger, curling their moustaches? and dearest amelia booth, on uncle toby's arm; and tittlebat titmouse with his hair dyed green; and all the crummles company of comedians, with the gil blas troop; and sir roger de coverley; and the greatest of all crazy gentlemen, the knight of la mancha, with his blessed squire? i say to you, i look rather wistfully towards the window, musing upon these people. were any of them to enter, i think i should not be very much frightened....' are not such friends as these, and others unnamed here, but who will come unannounced to join the goodly company, creations that, like some people, do actually make part of our existence, and make us the better for theirs? to express some vague feelings is to stamp them. have we any one of us a friend in a knight of la mancha, a colonel newcome, a sir roger de coverley? they live for us even though they may have never lived. they are, and do actually make part of our lives, one of the best and noblest parts. to love them is like a direct communication with the great and generous minds that conceived them. * * * * * it is difficult, reading the novels of succeeding generations, to determine how much each book reflects of the time in which it was written; how much of its character depends upon the mind and the mood of the writer. the greatest minds, the most original, have the least stamp of the age, the most of that dominant natural reality which belongs to all great minds. we know how a landscape changes as the day goes on, and how the scene brightens and gains in beauty as the shadows begin to lengthen. the clearest eyes must see by the light of their own hour. jane austen's literary hour must have been a midday hour: bright, unsuggestive, with objects standing clear, without much shadow or elaborate artistic effect. our own age is more essentially an age of strained emotion, little remains to us of starch, or powder, or courtly reserve. what we have lost in calm, in happiness, in tranquillity, we have gained in emphasis. our danger is now, not of expressing and feeling too little, but of expressing more than we feel. the living writers of to-day lead us into distant realms and worlds undreamt of in the placid and easily contented gigot age. our characters travel by rail and are no longer confined to postchaises. there is certainly a wide difference between miss austen's heroines and, let us say, a maggie tulliver. one would be curious to know whether, between the human beings who read jane austen's books to-day and those who read them fifty years ago, there is as great a contrast. one reason may be, perhaps, that characters in novels are certainly more intimate with us and on less ceremonious terms than in jane austen's days, when heroines never gave up a certain gentle self-respect and humour and hardness of heart in which some modern types are a little wanting. whatever happens they could for the most part speak of quietly and without bitterness. love with them does not mean a passion so much as an interest, deep, silent, not quite incompatible with a secondary flirtation. marianne dashwood's tears are evidently meant to be dried. jane bennet smiles, sighs and makes excuses for bingley's neglect. emma passes one disagreeable morning making up her mind to the unnatural alliance between mr. knightly and harriet smith. it was the spirit of the age, and, perhaps, one not to be unenvied. it was not that jane austen herself was incapable of understanding a deeper feeling. in the last written page of her last written book, there is an expression of the deepest and truest experience. annie elliot's talk with captain benfield is the touching utterance of a good woman's feelings. they are speaking of men and of women's affections. 'you are always labouring and toiling,' she says, 'exposed to every risk and hardship. your home, country, friends, all united; neither time nor life to be called your own. it would be too hard, indeed (with a faltering voice), if a woman's feelings were to be added to all this.' further on she says, eagerly: 'i hope i do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. god forbid that i should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures. i should deserve utter contempt if i dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. no! i believe you capable of everything good and great in your married lives. i believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance so long as--if i may be allowed the expression--so long as you have an object; i mean while the woman you love lives and lives for you. _all the privilege i claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one, you need not court it) is that of loving longest when existence or when hope is gone._' she could not immediately have uttered another sentence--her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. dear anne elliot!--sweet, impulsive, womanly, tender-hearted--one can almost hear her voice, pleading the cause of all true women. in those days when, perhaps, people's nerves were stronger than they are now, sentiment may have existed in a less degree, or have been more ruled by judgment, it may have been calmer and more matter-of-fact; and yet jane austen, at the very end of her life, wrote thus. her words seem to ring in our ears after they have been spoken. anne elliot must have been jane austen herself, speaking for the last time. there is something so true, so womanly about her, that it is impossible not to love her most of all. she is the bright-eyed heroine of the earlier novels, matured, softened, cultivated, to whom fidelity has brought only greater depth and sweetness instead of bitterness and pain. what a difficult thing it would be to sit down and try to enumerate the different influences by which our lives have been affected--influences of other lives, of art, of nature, of place and circumstance,--of beautiful sights passing before our eyes, or painful ones: seasons following in their course--hills rising on our horizons--scenes of ruin and desolation--crowded thoroughfares--sounds in our ears, jarring or harmonious--the voices of friends, calling, warning, encouraging--of preachers preaching--of people in the street below, complaining, and asking our pity! what long processions of human beings are passing before us! what trains of thought go sweeping through our brains! man seems a strange and ill-kept record of many and bewildering experiences. looking at oneself--not as oneself, but as an abstract human being--one is lost in wonder at the vast complexities which have been brought to bear upon it; lost in wonder, and in disappointment perhaps, at the discordant result of so great a harmony. only we know that the whole diapason is beyond our grasp: one man cannot hear the note of the grasshoppers, another is deaf when the cannon sounds. waiting among these many echoes and mysteries of every kind, and light and darkness, and life and death, we seize a note or two of the great symphony, and try to sing; and because these notes happen to jar, we think all is discordant hopelessness. then come pressing onward in the crowd of life, voices with some of the notes that are wanting to our own part--voices tuned to the same key as our own, or to an accordant one; making harmony for us as they pass us by. perhaps this is in life the happiest of all experience, and to few of us there exists any more complete ideal. and so now and then in our lives, when we learn to love a sweet and noble character, we all feel happier and better for the goodness and charity which is not ours, and yet which seems to belong to us while we are near it. just as some people and states of mind affect us uncomfortably, so we seem to be true to ourselves with a truthful person, generous-minded with a generous nature; life seems less disappointing and self-seeking when we think of the just and sweet and unselfish spirits, moving untroubled among dinning and distracting influences. these are our friends in the best and noblest sense. we are the happier for their existence,--it is so much gain to us. they may have lived at some distant time, we may never have met face to face, or we may have known them and been blessed by their love; but their light shines from afar, their life is for us and with us in its generous example; their song is for our ears, and we hear it and love it still, though the singer may be lying dead. iii. a little book, written by one of jane austen's nephews, tells with a touching directness and simplicity the story of this good and gifted woman, whose name has long been a household word among us, but of whose history nothing was known until this little volume appeared. it is but the story of a country lady, of quiet days following quiet days of seasons in their course of common events; and yet the history is deeply interesting to those who loved the writer of whom it is written; and as we turn from the story of jane austen's life to her books again, we feel more than ever that she, too, was one of those true friends who belong to us inalienably--simple, wise, contented, living in others, one of those whom we seem to have a right to love. such people belong to all humankind by the very right of their wide and generous sympathies, of their gentle wisdom and loveableness. jane austen's life, as it is told by mr. austen legh, is very touching, sweet, and peaceful. it is a country landscape, where the cattle are grazing, the boughs of the great elm-tree rocking in the wind: sometimes, as we read, they come falling with a crash into the sweep; birds are flying about the old house, homely in its simple rule. the rafters cross the whitewashed ceilings, the beams project into the room below. we can see it all: the parlour with the horsehair sofa, the scant, quaint furniture, the old-fashioned garden outside, with its flowers and vegetables combined, and along the south side of the garden the green terrace sloping away. there is a pretty description of the sisters' devotion to one another (when cassandra went to school little jane accompanied her, the sisters could not be parted), of the family party, of the old place, 'where there are hedgerows winding, with green shady footpaths within the copse; where the earliest primroses and hyacinths are found.' there is the wood-walk, with its rustic seats, leading to the meadows; the church-walk leading to the church, 'which is far from the hum of the village, and within sight of no habitation, except a glimpse of the grey manor-house through its circling screen of sycamores. sweet violets, both purple and white, grow in abundance beneath its south wall. large elms protrude their rough branches, old hawthorns shed their blossoms over the graves, and the hollow yew-tree must be at least coëval with the church.' one may read the account of catherine morland's home with new interest, from the hint which is given of its likeness to the old house at steventon, where dwelt the unknown friend whose voice we seem to hear at last, and whose face we seem to recognise, her bright eyes and brown curly hair, her quick and graceful figure. one can picture the children who are playing at the door of the old parsonage, and calling for aunt jane. one can imagine her pretty ways with them, her sympathy for the active, their games and imaginations. there is cassandra. she is older than her sister, more critical, more beautiful, more reserved. there is the mother of the family, with her keen wit and clear mind; the handsome father--'the handsome proctor,' as he was called; the five brothers, driving up the lane. tranquil summer passes by, the winter days go by; the young lady still sits writing at the old mahogany desk, and smiling, perhaps, at her own fancies, and hiding them away with her papers at the sound of coming steps. now, the modest papers, printed and reprinted, lie in every hand, the fancies disport themselves at their will in the wisest brains and the most foolish. it must have been at steventon--jane austen's earliest home--that mr. collins first made his appearance (lady catherine not objecting, as we know, to his occasional absence on a sunday, provided another clergyman was engaged to do the duty of the day), and here, conversing with miss jane, that he must have made many of his profoundest observations upon human nature; remarking, among other things, that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation, and propounding his celebrated theory about the usual practice of elegant females. it must have been here, too, that poor mrs. bennet declared, with some justice, that once estates are entailed, one can never tell how they will go; here, too, that mrs. allen's sprigged muslin and john thorpe's rodomontades were woven; that his gig was built, 'curricle-hung lamps, seat, trunk, sword-case, splashboard, silver moulding, all, you see, complete. the ironwork as good as new, or better. he asked fifty guineas.... i closed with him directly, threw down the money, and the carriage was mine.' 'and i am sure,' said catherine, 'i know so little of such things, that i cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear.' 'neither the one nor the other,' says john thorpe. mrs. palmer was also born at steventon--that good-humoured lady in 'sense and sensibility,' who thinks it so ridiculous that her husband never hears her when she speaks to him. we are told that marianne and ellinor have been supposed to represent cassandra and jane austen; but mr. austen legh says that he can trace no resemblance. jane austen is not twenty when this book is written, and only twenty-one when 'pride and prejudice' is first devised. cousins presently come on the scene, and amongst them the romantic figure of a young, widowed comtesse de feuillade, flying from the revolution to her uncle's home. she is described as a clever and accomplished woman, interested in her young cousins, teaching them french (both jane and cassandra knew french), helping in their various schemes, in their theatricals in the barn. she eventually marries her cousin, henry austen. the simple family annals are not without their romance; but there is a cruel one for poor cassandra, whose lover dies abroad, and his death saddens the whole family-party. jane, too, 'receives the addresses' (do such things as addresses exist nowadays?) 'of a gentleman possessed of good character and fortune, and of everything, in short, except the subtle power of touching her heart.' one cannot help wondering whether this was a henry crawford or an elton or a mr. elliot, or had jane already seen the person that even cassandra thought good enough for her sister? here, too, is another sorrowful story. the sisters' fate (there is a sad coincidence and similarity in it) was to be undivided; their life, their experience was the same. some one without a name takes leave of jane one day, promising to come back. he never comes back: long afterwards they hear of his death. the story seems even sadder than cassandra's in its silence and uncertainty, for silence and uncertainty are death in life to some people.... there is little trace of such a tragedy in jane austen's books--not one morbid word is to be found, not one vain regret. hers was not a nature to fall crushed by the overthrow of one phase of her manifold life. she seems to have had a natural genius for life, if i may so speak; too vivid and genuinely unselfish to fail her in her need. she could gather every flower, every brightness along her road. good spirit, content, all the interests of a happy and observant nature were hers. her gentle humour and wit and interest cannot have failed. it is impossible to calculate the difference of the grasp by which one or another human being realises existence and the things relating to it, nor how much more vivid life seems to some than to others. jane austen, while her existence lasted, realised it, and made the best use of the gifts that were hers. yet, when her life was ending, then it was given to her to understand the change that was at hand; as willingly as she had lived, she died. some people seem scarcely to rise up to their own work, to their own ideal. jane austen's life, as it is told by her nephew, is beyond her work, which only contained one phase of that sweet and wise nature--the creative, observant, outward phase. for her home, for her sister, for her friends, she kept the depth and tenderness of her bright and gentle sympathy. she is described as busy with her neat and clever fingers sewing for the poor, working fanciful keepsakes for her friends. there is the cup and ball that she never failed to catch; the spillikens lie in an even ring where she had thrown them; there are her letters, straightly and neatly folded, and fitting smoothly in their creases. there is something sweet, orderly, and consistent in her character and all her tastes--in her fondness for crabbe and cowper, in her little joke that she ought to be a mrs. crabbe. she sings of an evening old ballads to old-fashioned tunes with a low sweet voice. further on we have a glimpse of jane and her sister in their mobcaps, young still, but dressed soberly beyond their years. one can imagine 'aunt jane,' with her brother's children round her knee, telling her delightful stories or listening to theirs, with never-failing sympathy. one can fancy cassandra, who does not like desultory novels, more prudent and more reserved, and somewhat less of a playfellow, looking down upon the group with elder sister's eyes. here is an extract from a letter written at steventon in :-- 'i have two messages: let me get rid of them, and then my paper will be my own. mary fully intended writing by mr. charles's frank, and only happened entirely to forget it, but will write soon; and my father wishes edward to send him a memorandum of the price of hops. '_sunday evening._ 'we have had a dreadful storm of wind in the forepart of the day, which has done a great deal of mischief among our trees. i was sitting alone in the drawing-room when an odd kind of crash startled me. in a moment afterwards it was repeated. i then went to the window. i reached it just in time to see the last of our two highly valued elms descend into the sweep!!! 'the other, which had fallen, i suppose, in the first crash, and which was nearest to the pond, taking a more easterly direction, sank among our screen of chestnuts and firs, knocking down one spruce-fir, breaking off the head of another, and stripping the two corner chestnuts of several branches in its fall. this is not all: the maple bearing the weathercock was broken in two, and what i regret more than all the rest is, that all the three elms that grew in hall's meadow, and gave such ornament to it, are gone.' a certain mrs. stent comes into one of these letters 'ejaculating some wonder about the cocks and hens.' mrs. stent seems to have tried their patience, and will be known henceforward as having bored jane austen. they leave steventon when jane is about twenty-five years of age and go to bath, from whence a couple of pleasant letters are given us. jane is writing to her sister. she has visited miss a., who, like all other young ladies, is considerably genteeler than her parents. she is heartily glad that cassandra speaks so comfortably of her health and looks: could travelling fifty miles produce such an immediate change? 'you were looking poorly when you were here, and everybody seemed sensible of it.' is there any charm in a hack postchaise? but if there were, mrs. craven's carriage might have undone it all. then mrs. stent appears again. 'poor mrs. stent, it has been her lot to be always in the way; but we must be merciful, for perhaps in time we may come to be mrs. stents ourselves, unequal to anything and unwelcome to everybody.' elsewhere she writes, upon mrs. ----'s mentioning that she had sent the 'rejected addresses' to mr. h., 'i began talking to her a little about them, and expressed my hope of their having amused her. her answer was, "oh dear, yes, very much; very droll indeed; the opening of the house and the striking up of the fiddles!" what she meant, poor woman, who shall say?' but there is no malice in jane austen. hers is the charity of all clear minds, it is only the muddled who are intolerant. all who love emma and mr. knightly must remember the touching little scene in which he reproves her for her thoughtless impatience of poor miss bates's volubility. 'you, whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits and in the pride of the moment, laugh at her, humble her.... this is not pleasant to you, emma, and it is very far from pleasant to me, but i must, i will, i will tell you truths while i am satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do me now.' 'while they talked they were advancing towards the carriage: it was ready, and before she could speak again he had handed her in. he had misinterpreted the feeling which kept her face averted and her tongue motionless.' mr. knightly's little sermon, in its old-fashioned english, is as applicable now as it was when it was spoken. we know that he was an especial favourite with jane austen. iv. mr. austen died at bath, and his family removed to southampton. in , mrs. austen, her daughters, and her niece, settled finally at chawton, a house belonging to jane's brother, mr. knight (he was adopted by an uncle, whose name he took), and from chawton all her literary work was given to the world. 'sense and sensibility,' 'pride and prejudice,' were already written; but in the next five years, from thirty-five to forty, she set to work seriously, and wrote 'mansfield park,' 'emma,' and 'persuasion.' any one who has written a book will know what an amount of labour this represents.... one can picture to oneself the little family scene which jane describes to cassandra. 'pride and prejudice' just come down in a parcel from town; the unsuspicious miss b. to dinner; and jane and her mother setting to in the evening and reading aloud half the first volume of a new novel sent down by the brother. unsuspicious miss b. is delighted. jane complains of her mother's too rapid way of getting on; 'though she perfectly understands the characters herself, she cannot speak as they ought. upon the whole, however,' she says, 'i am quite vain enough and well-satisfied enough.' this is her own criticism of 'pride and prejudice':--'the work is rather too light, and bright, and sparkling. it wants shade. it wants to be stretched out here and there with a long chapter of sense, if it could be had; if not, of solemn specious nonsense about something unconnected with the story--an essay on writing, a critique on walter scott or the "history of bonaparte."' and so jane austen lives quietly working at her labour of love, interested in her 'own darling children's' success; 'the light of the home,' one of the real living children says afterwards, speaking in the days when she was no longer there. she goes to london once or twice. once she lives for some months in hans place, nursing a brother through an illness. here it was that she received some little compliments and messages from the prince regent, to whom she dedicated 'emma.' he thanks her and acknowledges the handsome volumes, and she laughs and tells her publisher that at all events his share of the offering is appreciated, whatever hers may be! we are also favoured with some valuable suggestions from mr. clarke, the royal librarian, respecting a very remarkable clergyman. he is anxious that miss austen should delineate one who 'should pass his time between the metropolis and the country, something like beattie's minstrel, entirely engaged in literature, and no man's enemy but his own.' failing to impress this character upon the authoress, he makes a fresh suggestion, and proposes that she should write a romance illustrative of the august house of coburg. 'it would be interesting,' he says, 'and very properly dedicated to prince leopold.' to which the authoress replies: 'i could no more write a romance than an epic poem. i could not seriously sit down to write a romance under any other motive than to save my life; and if it were indispensable for me to keep it up, and never relax into laughing at myself or other people, i am sure i should be hung before the first chapter.' there is a delightful collection of friends' suggestions which she has put together, but which is too long to be quoted here. she calls it, 'plan of a novel, as suggested by various friends.' all this time, while her fame is slowly growing, life passes in the same way as in the old cottage at chawton. aunt jane, with her young face and her mob-cap, makes play-houses for the children, helps them to dress up, invents imaginary conversations for them, supposing that they are all grown up, the day after a ball. one can imagine how delightful a game that must have seemed to the little girls. she built her nest, did this good woman, happily weaving it out of shreds, and ends, and scraps of daily duty, patiently put together; and it was from this nest that she sang the song, bright and brilliant, with quaint thrills and unexpected cadences, that reaches us even here through near a century. the lesson her life seems to teach us is this: don't let us despise our nests--life is as much made of minutes as of years; let us complete the daily duties; let us patiently gather the twigs and the little scraps of moss, of dried grass together, and see the result!--a whole, completed and coherent, beautiful even without the song. we come too soon to the story of her death. and yet did it come too soon? a sweet life is not the sweeter for being long. jane austen lived years enough to fulfil her mission. she lived long enough to write six books that were masterpieces in their way--to make a world the happier for her industry. one cannot read the story of her latter days, of her patience, her sweetness, and gratitude, without emotion. there is family trouble, we are not told of what nature. she falls ill. her nieces find her in her dressing-gown, like an invalid, in an arm-chair in her bedroom; but she gets up and greets them, and, pointing to seats which had been arranged for them by the fire, says: 'there is a chair for the married lady, and a little stool for you, caroline.' but she is too weak to talk, and cassandra takes them away. at last they persuade her to go to winchester, to a well-known doctor there. 'it distressed me,' she says, in one of her last, dying letters, 'to see uncle henry and william knight, who kindly attended us, riding in the rain almost the whole way. we expect a visit from them to-morrow, and hope they will stay the night; and on thursday, which is a confirmation and a holiday, we hope to get charles out to breakfast. we have had but one visit from _him_, poor fellow, as he is in the sick room.... god bless you, dear e.; if ever you are ill, may you be as tenderly nursed as i have been....' but nursing does not cure her, nor can the doctor save her to them all, and she sinks from day to day. to the end she is full of concern for others. 'as for my dearest sister, my tender, watchful, indefatigable nurse has not been made ill by her exertions,' she writes. 'as to what i owe her, and the anxious affection of all my beloved family on this occasion, i can only cry over it, and pray god to bless them more and more.' one can hardly read this last sentence with dry eyes. it is her parting blessing and farewell to those she had blessed all her life by her presence and her love--that love which is beyond death; and of which the benediction remains, not only spoken in words, but by the ever-present signs and the tokens of those lifetimes which do not end for us as long as we ourselves exist. they asked her when she was near her end if there was anything she wanted. 'nothing but death,' she said. those were her last words. she died on the th of july, , and was buried in winchester cathedral, where she lies not unremembered. london: printed by spottiswoode and co., new-street square and parliament street transcriber's note two instances of bryon for _byron_ have been corrected. the following additional changes have been made: a. i. r. (in dedication) a. _t._ r. her sad and dimning life her sad and _dimming_ life it was to her father hat it was to her father _that_ who invited mrs. barbauld to who invited _mr._ barbauld become their minister become their minister he was interrupted by her he was interrupted by _his_ companion companion mrs. opie's description of her mrs. opie's description of her arrival reads a comment upon arrival reads _like_ a comment history. upon history. miss thackeray's works. a new and uniform edition; each volume illustrated with a vignette title-page drawn by arthur hughes, and engraved by j. cooper. large crown vo. _s._ . old kensington. . the village on the cliff. . five old friends and a young prince. . to esther; and other sketches. . bluebeard's keys; and other stories. . the story of elizabeth; two hours; from an island. . toilers and spinsters; and other essays. . miss angel; fulham lawn. . miss williamson's divagations. new and uniform edition of mrs. gaskell's novels and tales. in seven volumes, each containing four illustrations. _price s. d. each, bound in cloth; or in sets of seven volumes, handsomely bound in half-morocco, price £ . s._ contents of the volumes:-- vol. i. wives and daughters. vol. ii. north and south. vol. iii. sylvia's lovers. vol. iv. cranford. company manners--the well of pen-morpha--the heart of john middleton--traits and stories of the huguenots--six weeks at heppenheim--the squire's story--libbie marsh's three eras--curious if true--the moorland cottage--the sexton's hero--disappearances--right at last--the manchester marriage--lois the witch--the crooked branch. vol. v. mary barton. cousin phillis--my french master--the old nurse's story--bessy's troubles at home--christmas storms and sunshine. vol. vi. ruth. the grey woman--morton hall--mr. harrison's confessions--hand and heart. vol. vii. lizzie leigh. a dark night's work--round the sofa--my lady ludlow--an accursed race--the doom of the griffiths--half a lifetime ago--the poor clare--the half-brothers. illustrated editions of popular works handsomely bound in cloth gilt, each volume containing four illustrations. crown vo. _s._ _d._ the small house at allington. by anthony trollope. framley parsonage. by anthony trollope. the claverings. by anthony trollope. transformation: a romance. by nathaniel hawthorne. romantic tales. by the author of 'john halifax, gentleman.' domestic stories. by the author of 'john halifax, gentleman.' no name. by wilkie collins. armadale. by wilkie collins. after dark. by wilkie collins. maud talbot. by holme lee. the moors and the fens. by mrs. j. h. riddell. within the precincts. by mrs. oliphant. caritÀ. by mrs. oliphant. for percival. by margaret veley. london: smith, elder, & co., waterloo place. smith, elder, & co.'s announcements, _new work by lieut.-col. r. l. playfair._ the scourge of christendom: annals of british relations with algiers prior to the french conquest. with illustrations of ancient algiers from to . by lieut.-col. r. l. playfair, h.b.m.'s consul at algiers. demy vo. _new work by john addington symonds._ shakspere's predecessors in the english drama. by john addington symonds, author of 'the renaissance in italy' &c. demy vo. the matthew arnold birthday book. arranged by his daughter, eleanor arnold. handsomely printed and bound in cloth, gilt edges. with photograph. small to. _s._ _d._ _new volume by miss thackeray (mrs. richmond ritchie)._ a book of sibyls: mrs. barbauld--miss edgeworth--mrs. opie--miss austen. by miss thackeray (mrs. richmond ritchie). essays reprinted from the 'cornhill magazine.' large crown vo. _s._ _d._ merv: a story of adventures and captivity. epitomised from 'the merv oasis.' by edmund o'donovan, special correspondent of the _daily news_. with a portrait. crown vo. _s._ memoirs of life and work. by charles j. b. williams, m.d., f.r.s., physician extraordinary to her majesty the queen. with original portraits. vo. the first book of euclid made easy for beginners. arranged from 'the elements of euclid,' by robert simson, m.d. by william howard. with unlettered diagrams with coloured lines. crown vo. _new edition of hare's 'cities of northern and central italy.'_ cities of central italy. with illustrations. vols. crown vo. cities of northern italy. with illustrations. vols. crown vo. by augustus j. c. hare, author of 'cities of southern italy and sicily' &c. _new and revised edition in one volume._ memories of old friends. being extracts from the journals and letters of caroline fox, of penjerrick, cornwall, from to , to which are added fourteen original letters from j. s. mill, never before published. edited by horace n. pym. with portrait. crown vo. _s._ _d._ _popular edition, abridged, with a new preface._ literature and dogma. an essay towards a better comprehension of the bible. by matthew arnold. crown vo. _s._ _d._ the life of lord lawrence. by r. bosworth smith, m.a., late fellow of trinity college, oxford, assistant master at harrow school, author of 'mohammed and mohammedanism,' 'carthage and the carthaginians,' &c. fifth edition, vols. vo. with portraits and maps, _s._ anatomy for artists. by john marshall, f.r.s., f.r.c.s., professor of anatomy, royal academy of arts; late lecturer on anatomy at the government school of design, south kensington; professor of surgery in university college. illustrated by original drawings on wood by j. s. cuthbert, engraved by george nicholls & co. second edition. imp. vo. _s._ _d._ london: smith, elder, & co., waterloo place. women novelists _of_ queen victoria's reign women novelists _of_ queen victoria's reign _a book of appreciations_ by mrs. oliphant, mrs. lynn linton mrs. alexander, mrs. macquoid, mrs. parr mrs. marshall, charlotte m. yonge adeline sergeant & edna lyall london hurst & blackett, limited great marlborough street _all rights reserved_ printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. at the ballantyne press contents the sisters brontË _by_ mrs. oliphant _page_ george eliot _by_ mrs. lynn linton _page_ mrs. gaskell _by_ edna lyall _page_ mrs. crowe mrs. archer clive mrs. henry wood _by_ adeline sergeant _page_ lady georgiana fullerton mrs. stretton anne manning _by_ charlotte m. yonge _page_ dinah mulock (mrs. craik) _by_ mrs. parr _page_ julia kavanagh amelia blandford edwards _by_ mrs. macquoid _page_ mrs. norton _by_ mrs. alexander _page_ "a. l. o. e." (miss tucker) mrs. ewing _by_ mrs. marshall _page_ publishers' note _having been concerned for many years in the publication of works of fiction by feminine writers, it has occurred to us to offer, as our contribution to the celebration of "the longest reign," a volume having for its subject leading women novelists of the victorian era._ _in the case of living lady fictionists, it is too early to assess the merit or forecast the future of their works. the present book, therefore, is restricted to women novelists deceased._ _it was further necessary to confine the volume within reasonable limits, and it was decided, consequently, that it should deal only with women who did all their work in fiction after the accession of the queen. this decision excludes not only such writers as lady morgan, mrs. opie, miss ferrier, miss mitford, mrs. shelley, and miss jane porter, who, although they died after , published all their most notable stories early in the century; but also such writers as mrs. gore, mrs. bray, mrs. s. c. hall, mrs. trollope, lady blessington, and mrs. marsh, who made their débuts as novelists between and ._ _as regards some of the last-named, it might be urged that the works they produced have now no interest other than historical, and can be said to live only so far as they embody more or less accurate descriptions of society early in the reign. the "deerbrook" and "the hour and the man" of miss martineau are still remembered, and, perhaps, still read; but it is as a political economist and miscellaneous writer, rather than as a novelist, that their author ranks in literature; while of the tales by miss pardoe, miss geraldine jewsbury, and others once equally popular, scarcely the titles are now recollected._ _on the other hand, the eminence and permanence of the brontës, george eliot, and mrs. gaskell are universally recognised; the popularity of mrs. craik and mrs. henry wood is still admittedly great; the personality of mrs. norton will always send students to her works; mrs. crowe and mrs. clive were pioneers in domestic and "sensational" fiction; lady georgiana fullerton produced a typical religious novel; miss manning made pleasing and acceptable the autobiographico-historical narrative; the authors of "the valley of a hundred fires" of "barbara's history," and of "adèle" have even now their readers and admirers; while "a. l. o. e." and mrs. ewing were among the most successful caterers for the young._ _it has seemed to us that value as well as interest would attach to critical estimates of and biographical notes upon, these representative novelists, supplied by living mistresses of the craft; and we are glad to have been able to secure for the purpose, the services of the contributors to this volume, all of whom may claim to discourse with some authority upon the art they cultivate. it is perhaps scarcely necessary to say that each contributor is responsible only for the essay to which her name is appended._ the sisters brontË _by_ mrs. oliphant the sisters brontË the effect produced upon the general mind by the appearance of charlotte brontë in literature, and afterwards by the record of her life when that was over, is one which it is nowadays somewhat difficult to understand. had the age been deficient in the art of fiction, or had it followed any long level of mediocrity in that art, we could have comprehended this more easily. but charlotte brontë appeared in the full flush of a period more richly endowed than any other we know of in that special branch of literature, so richly endowed, indeed, that the novel had taken quite fictitious importance, and the names of dickens and thackeray ranked almost higher than those of any living writers except perhaps tennyson, then young and on his promotion too. anthony trollope and charles reade who, though in their day extremely popular, have never had justice from a public which now seems almost to have forgotten them, formed a powerful second rank to these two great names. it is a great addition to the value of the distinction gained by the new comer that it was acquired in an age so rich in the qualities of the imagination. but this only increases the wonder of a triumph which had no artificial means to heighten it, nothing but genius on the part of a writer possessing little experience or knowledge of the world, and no sort of social training or adventitious aid. the genius was indeed unmistakable, and possessed in a very high degree the power of expressing itself in the most vivid and actual pictures of life. but the life of which it had command was seldom attractive, often narrow, local, and of a kind which meant keen personal satire more than any broader view of human existence. a group of commonplace clergymen, intense against their little parochial background as only the most real art of portraiture, intensified by individual scorn and dislike, could have made them: the circle of limited interests, small emulations, keen little spites and rancours, filling the atmosphere of a great boarding school, the brussels _pensionnat des filles_--these were the two spheres chiefly portrayed: but portrayed with an absolute untempered force which knew neither charity, softness, nor even impartiality, but burned upon the paper and made everything round dim in the contrast. i imagine it was this extraordinary naked force which was the great cause of a success, never perhaps like the numerical successes in literature of the present day, when edition follows edition, and thousand thousand, of the books which are the favourites of the public: but one which has lived and lasted through nearly half a century, and is even now potent enough to carry on a little literature of its own, book after book following each other not so much to justify as to reproclaim and echo to all the winds the fame originally won. no one else of the century, i think, has called forth this persevering and lasting homage. not dickens, though perhaps more of him than of any one else has been dealt out at intervals to an admiring public; not thackeray, of whom still we know but little; not george eliot, though her fame has more solid foundations than that of miss brontë. scarcely scott has called forth more continual droppings of elucidation, explanation, remark. yet the books upon which this tremendous reputation is founded though vivid, original, and striking in the highest degree, are not great books. their philosophy of life is that of a schoolgirl, their knowledge of the world almost _nil_, their conclusions confused by the haste and passion of a mind self-centred and working in the narrowest orbit. it is rather, as we have said, the most incisive and realistic art of portraiture than any exercise of the nobler arts of fiction--imagination, combination, construction--or humorous survey of life or deep apprehension of its problems--upon which this fame is built. the curious circumstance that charlotte brontë was, if the word may be so used, doubled by her sisters, the elder, emily, whose genius has been taken for granted, carrying the wilder elements of the common inspiration to extremity in the strange, chaotic and weird romance of "wuthering heights," while anne diluted such powers of social observation as were in the family into two mildly disagreeable novels of a much commoner order, has no doubt also enhanced the central figure of the group to an amazing degree. they placed her strength in relief by displaying its separate elements, and thus commending the higher skill and larger spirit which took in both, understanding the moors and wild country and rude image of man better than the one, and misunderstanding the common course of more subdued life less than the other. the three together are for ever inseparable; they were homely, lowly, somewhat neglected in their lives, had few opportunities and few charms to the careless eye: yet no group of women, undistinguished by rank, unendowed by beauty, and known to but a limited circle of friends as unimportant as themselves have ever, i think, in the course of history--certainly never in this century--come to such universal recognition. the effect is quite unique, unprecedented, and difficult to account for; but there cannot be the least doubt that it is a matter of absolute fact which nobody can deny. * * * * * these three daughters of a poor country clergyman came into the world early in the century, the dates of their births being , , , in the barest of little parsonages in the midst of the moors--a wild but beautiful country, and a rough but highly characteristic and keen-witted people. yorkshire is the very heart of england; its native force, its keen practical sense, its rough wit, and the unfailing importance in the nation of the largest of the shires has given it a strong individual character and position almost like that of an independent province. but the brontës, whose name is a softened and decorated edition of a common irish name, were not of that forcible race: and perhaps the strong strain after emotion, and revolt against the monotonies of life, which were so conspicuous in them were more easily traceable to their celtic origin than many other developments attributed to that cause. they were motherless from an early age, children of a father who, after having been depicted as a capricious tyrant, seems now to have found a fairer representation as a man with a high spirit and peculiar temper, yet neither unkind to his family nor uninterested in their welfare. there was one son, once supposed to be the hero and victim of a disagreeable romance, but apparent now as only a specimen, not alas, uncommon, of the ordinary ne'er-do-well of a family, without force of character or self-control to keep his place with decency in the world. these children all scribbled from their infancy as soon as the power of inscribing words upon paper was acquired by them, inventing imaginary countries and compiling visionary records of them as so many imaginative children do. the elder girl and boy made one pair, the younger girls another, connected by the closest links of companionship. it was thought or hoped that the son was the genius of the family, and at the earliest possible age he began to send his effusions to editors, and to seek admission to magazines with the mingled arrogance and humility of a half-fledged creature. but the world knows now that it was not poor branwell who was the genius of the family; and this injury done him in his cradle, and the evil report of him that everybody gives throughout his life, awakens a certain pity in the mind for the unfortunate youth so unable to keep any supremacy among the girls whom he must have considered his natural inferiors and vassals. we are told by charlotte brontë herself that he never knew of the successes of his sisters, the fact of their successive publications being concealed from him out of tenderness for his feelings; but it is scarcely to be credited that when the parish knew the unfortunate brother did not find out. the unhappy attempt of mrs. gaskell in writing the lives of the sisters to make this melancholy young man accountable for the almost brutal element in emily brontë's conception of life, and the strange views of charlotte as to what men were capable of, has made him far too important in their history; where, indeed, he had no need to have appeared at all, had the family pride consisted, as the pride of so many families does, in veiling rather than exhibiting the faults of its members. so far as can be made out now, he had as little as possible to do with their development in any way. there was nothing unnatural or out of the common in the youthful life of the family except that strange gift of genius, which though consistent with every genial quality of being, in such a nature as that of scott, seems in other developments of character to turn all the elements into chaos. its effect upon the parson's three daughters was, indeed, not of a very wholesome kind. it awakened in them an uneasy sense of superiority which gave double force to every one of the little hardships which a girl in a great school of a charitable kind, and a governess in a middle-class house, has to support: and made life harder instead of sweeter to them in many ways, since it was full of the biting experience of conditions less favourable than those of many persons round them whom they could not but feel inferior to themselves. the great school, which it was charlotte brontë's first act when she began her literary career to invest with an almost tragic character of misery, privation, and wrong, was her first step from home. yorkshire schools did not at that period enjoy a very good reputation in the world, and nicholas nickleby was forming his acquaintance with the squalid cruelty of dotheboys hall just about the same time when charlotte brontë's mind was being filled with the privations and discontents of lowood. in such a case there is generally some fire where there is so much smoke, and probably lowood was under no very heavenly _régime_: but at the same time its drawbacks were sharply accentuated by that keen criticism which is suggested by the constant sense of injured worth and consciousness of a superiority not acknowledged. the same feeling pursued her into the situations as governess which she occupied one after another, and in which her indignation at being expected to feel affection for the children put under her charge, forms a curious addition to the other grievances with which fate pursues her life. no doubt there are many temptations in the life of a governess; the position of a silent observer in a household, looking on at all its mistakes, and seeing the imperfection of its management with double force because of the effect they have on herself--especially if she feels herself competent, had she but the power, to set things right--must always be a difficult one. it was not continued long enough, however, to involve very much suffering; though no doubt it helped to mature the habit of sharp personal criticism and war with the world. at the same time charlotte brontë made some very warm personal friendships, and wrote a great many letters to the school friends who pleased her, in which a somewhat stilted tone and demure seriousness is occasionally invaded by the usual chatter of girlhood, to the great improvement of the atmosphere if not of the mind. ellen nussey, mary taylor, women not manifestly intellectual but sensible and independent without either exaggeration of sentiment or hint of tragic story, remained her close friends as long as she lived, and her letters to them, though always a little demure, give us a gentler idea of her than anything else she has written. not that there is much charm either of style or subject in them: but there is no sort of bitterness or sense of insufficient appreciation. nothing can be more usual and commonplace, indeed, than this portion of her life. as in so many cases, the artificial lights thrown upon it by theories formed afterwards, clear away when we examine its actual records, and it is apparent that there was neither exceptional harshness of circumstance nor internal struggle in the existence of the girl who, though more or less in arms against everybody outside--especially when holding a position superior to her own, more especially still when exercising authority over her in any way--was yet quite an easy-minded, not unhappy, young woman at home, with friends to whom she could pour out long pages of what is, on the whole, quite moderate and temperate criticism of life, not without cheerful allusion to now and then a chance curate or other young person of the opposite sex, suspected of "paying attention" to one or other of the little coterie. these allusions are not more lofty or dignified than are similar notes of girls of less exalted pretensions, but there is not a touch in them of the keen pointed pen which afterwards put up the haworth curates in all their imperfections before the world. the other sisters at this time in the background, two figures always clinging together, looking almost like one, have no great share in this softer part of charlotte's life. they were, though so different in character, completely devoted to each other, apparently forming no other friendships, each content with the one other partaker of her every thought. a little literature seems to have been created between them, little chapters of recollection and commentary upon their life, sealed up and put away for three years in each case, to be opened on emily's or on anne's birthday alternately, as a pathetic sign of their close unity, though the little papers were in themselves simple in the extreme. anne too became a governess with something of the same experience as charlotte, and uttering very hard judgments of unconscious people who were not the least unkind to her. but emily had no such trials. she remained at home perhaps because she was too uncompromising to be allowed to make the experiment of putting up with other people, perhaps because one daughter at home was indispensable. the family seems to have had kind and trusted old servants, so that the cares of housekeeping did not weigh heavily upon the daughter in charge, and there is no evidence of exceptional hardness or roughness in their circumstances in any way. in , charlotte and emily, aged respectively twenty-six and twenty-four, went to brussels. their design was "to acquire a thorough familiarity with french," also some insight into other languages, with the view of setting up a school on their own account. the means were supplied by the aunt, who had lived in their house and taken more or less care of them since their mother's death. the two sisters were nearly a year in the pensionnat héger, now so perfectly known in every detail of its existence to all who have read "villette." they were recalled by the death of the kind aunt who had procured them this advantage, and afterwards charlotte, no one quite knows why, went back to brussels for a second year, in which all her impressions were probably strengthened and intensified. certainly a more clear and lifelike picture, scathing in its cold yet fierce light, was never made than that of the white tall brussels house, its class rooms, its gardens, its hum of unamiable girls, its sharp display of rancorous and shrill teachers, its one inimitable professor. it startles the reader to find--a fact which we had forgotten--that m. paul emmanuel was m. héger, the husband of madame héger and legitimate head of the house: and that this daring and extraordinary girl did not hesitate to encounter gossip or slander by making him so completely the hero of her romance. slander in its commonplace form had nothing to do with such a fiery spirit as that of charlotte brontë: but it shows her perfect independence of mind and scorn of comment that she should have done this. in the end of ' she returned home, and the episode was over. it was really the only episode of possible practical significance in her life until we come to the records of her brief literary career and her marriage, both towards its end. * * * * * the prospect of the school which the three sisters were to set up together was abandoned; there was no more talk of governessing. we are not told if it was the small inheritance of the aunt--only, mr. clement shorter informs us, £ --which enabled the sisters henceforward to remain at home without thought of further effort: but certainly this was what happened. and the lives of the two younger were drawing so near the end that it is a comfort to think that they enjoyed this moment of comparative grace together. their life was extremely silent, secluded, and apart. there was the melancholy figure of branwell to distract the house with the spectacle of heavy idleness, drink, and disorder; but this can scarcely have been so great an affliction as if he had been a more beloved brother. he was not, however, veiled by any tender attempt to cover his follies or wickedness, but openly complained of to all their friends, which mitigates the affliction: and they seem to have kept very separate from him, living in a world of their own. in a volume of poems by currer, ellis, and acton bell, was published at their own cost. it had not the faintest success; they were informed by the publisher that two copies only had been sold, and the only satisfaction that remained to them was to send a few copies to some of the owners of those great names which the enthusiastic young women had worshipped from afar as stars in the firmament. these poems were re-published after charlotte brontë had attained her first triumph, and people had begun to cry out and wonder over "wuthering heights." the history of "jane eyre," on the other hand, is that of most works which have been the beginning of a career. it fell into the hands of the right man, the "reader" of messrs. smith, elder and co., mr. williams, a man of great intelligence and literary insight. the first story written by charlotte brontë, which was called "the professor," and was the original of "villette," written at a time when her mind was very full of the emotions raised by that singular portion of her life, had been rejected by a number of publishers, and was also rejected by mr. williams, who found it at once too crude and too _short_ for the risks of publication, three volumes at that period being your only possible form for fiction. but he saw the power in it, and begged the author to try again at greater length. she did so; not on the basis of the "professor" as might have seemed natural--probably the materials were still too much at fever-heat in her mind to be returned to at that moment--but by the story of "jane eyre," which at once placed charlotte brontë amid the most popular and powerful writers of her time. i remember well the extraordinary thrill of interest which in the midst of all the mrs. gores, mrs. marshs, &c.--the latter name is mentioned along with those of thackeray and dickens even by mr. williams--came upon the reader who, in the calm of ignorance, took up the first volume of "jane eyre." the period of the heroine in white muslin, the immaculate creature who was of sweetness and goodness all compact, had lasted in the common lines of fiction up to that time. miss austen indeed might well have put an end to that abstract and empty fiction, yet it continued, as it always does continue more or less, the primitive ideal. but "jane eyre" gave her, for the moment, the _coup de grace_. that the book should be the story of a governess was perhaps necessary to the circumstances of the writer: and the governess was already a favourite figure in fiction. but generally she was of the beautiful, universally fascinating, all-enduring kind, the amiable blameless creature whose secret merits were never so hidden but that they might be perceived by a keen sighted hero. i am not sure, indeed, that anybody believed miss brontë when she said her heroine was plain. it is very clear from the story that jane was never unnoticed, never failed to please, except among the women, whom it is the instinctive art of the novelist to rouse in arms against the central figure, thus demonstrating the jealousy, spite, and rancour native to their minds in respect to the women who please men. no male cynic was ever stronger on that subject than this typical woman. she cannot have believed it, i presume, since her closest friends were women, and she seems to have had perfect faith in their kindness: but this is a matter of conventional belief which has nothing to do with individual experience. it is one of the doctrines unassailable of the art of fiction; a thirty-ninth article in which every writer of novels is bound to believe. miss brontë did not know fine ladies, and therefore, in spite of herself and a mind the reverse of vulgar, she made the competitors for mr. rochester's favour rather brutal and essentially vulgar persons, an error, curiously enough, which seems to have been followed by george eliot in the corresponding scenes in "mr. gilfil's love story," where captain wybrow's _fiancée_ treats poor tiny very much as the beauty in mr. rochester's house treats jane eyre. both were imaginary pictures, which perhaps more or less excuses their untruthfulness in writers both so sincere and lifelike in treating things they knew. it is amusing to remember that jane eyre's ignorance of dress gave a clinching argument to miss rigby in the _quarterly_ to decide that the writer was not and could not possibly be a woman. the much larger and more significant fact that no man (until in quite recent days when there have been instances of such effeminate art) ever made a woman so entirely the subject and inspiration of his book, the only interest in it, was entirely overlooked in what was, notwithstanding, the very shrewd and telling argument about the dress. the chief thing, however, that distressed the candid and as yet unaccustomed reader in "jane eyre," and made him hope that it might be a man who had written it, was the character of rochester's confidences to the girl whom he loved--not the character of rochester, which was completely a woman's view, but that he should have talked to a girl so evidently innocent of his amours and his mistresses. this, however, i think, though, as we should have thought, a subject so abhorrent to a young woman such as charlotte brontë was, was also emphatically a woman's view. a man might have credited another man of rochester's kind with impulses practically more heinous and designs of the worst kind: but he would not have made him err in that way. in this was a point of honour which the woman did not understand. it marks a curious and subtle difference between the sexes. the woman less enlightened in practical evil considers less the risks of actual vice; but her imagination is free in other ways, and she innocently permits her hero to do and say things so completely against the code which is binding on gentlemen whether vicious or otherwise that her want of perception becomes conspicuous. the fact that the writer of the review in the _quarterly_ was herself a woman accounts for her mistake in supposing that the book was written if not by a man, by "a woman unsexed;" "a woman who had forfeited the society of her sex." and afterwards, when mrs. gaskell made her disastrous statements about branwell brontë and other associates of charlotte's youth, it was with the hope of proving that the speech and manners of the men to whom she had been accustomed were of a nature to justify her in any such misapprehension of the usual manners of gentlemen. it was on the contrary, as i think, only the bold and unfettered imagination of a woman quite ignorant on all such subjects which could have suggested this special error. the mind of such a woman, casting about for something to make her wicked but delightful hero do by way of demonstrating his wickedness, yet preserving the fascination which she meant him to retain, probably hit upon this as the very wickedest thing she could think of, yet still attractive: for is there not a thrill of curiosity in searching out what such a strange being might think or say, which is of itself a strong sensation? miss brontë was, i think, the first to give utterance to that curiosity of the woman in respect to the man, and fascination of interest in him--not the ideal man, not sir kenneth, too reverent for anything but silent worship--which has since risen to such heights of speculation, and imprints now a tone upon modern fiction at which probably she would have been horrified. * * * * * there were numberless stories in those days of guilty love and betrayal, of how "lovely woman stoops to folly," and all the varieties of that endless subject; but it was, except in the comic vein, or with grotesque treatment, the pursuit of the woman by the man, the desire of the lover for the beloved which was the aim of fiction. a true lady of romance walked superior: she accepted (or not) the devotion: she stooped from her white height to reward her adorer: but that she herself should condescend to seek him (except under the circumstances of fashionable life, where everybody is in quest of a coronet), or call out for him to heaven and earth when he tarried in his coming, was unknown to the situations of romantic art. when the second of charlotte brontë's books appeared, there was accordingly quite a new sensation in store for the public. the young women in "shirley" were all wild for this lover who, though promised by all the laws of nature and romance, did not appear. they leaned out of their windows, they stretched forth their hands, calling for him--appealing to heaven and earth. why were they left to wear out their bloom, to lose their freshness, to spend their days in sewing and dreaming, when he, it was certain, was about somewhere, and by sheer perversity of fate could not find the way to them? nothing was thought of the extra half-million of women in those days; perhaps it had not begun to exist; but that "nobody was coming to marry us, nobody coming to woo" was apparent. young ladies like miss charlotte brontë and miss ellen nussey her friend, would have died rather than give vent to such sentiments; but when the one of them to whom that gift was given found that her pen had become a powerful instrument in her hand, the current of the restrained feeling burst all boundaries, and she poured forth the cry which nobody had suspected before. it had been a thing to be denied, to be indignantly contradicted as impossible, if ever a lovesick girl put herself forth to the shame of her fellows and the laugh of the world. when such a phenomenon appeared, she was condemned as either bad or foolish by every law: and the idea that she was capable of "running after" a man was the most dreadful accusation that could be brought against a woman. miss brontë's heroines, however, did not precisely do this. shirley and caroline helstone were not in love so much as longing for love, clamouring for it, feeling it to be their right of which they were somehow defrauded. there is a good deal to be said for such a view. if it is the most virtuous thing in the world for a man to desire to marry, to found a family, to be the father of children, it should be no shameful thing for a woman to own the same desire. but it is somehow against the instinct of primitive humanity, which has decided that the woman should be no more than responsive, maintaining a reserve in respect to her feelings, subduing the expression, unless in the "once, and only once, and to one only" of the poet. charlotte brontë was the first to overthrow this superstition. personally i am disposed to stand for the superstition, and dislike all transgression of it. but that was not the view of the most reticent and self-controlled of maidens, the little governess, clad in all the strict proprieties of the period, the parson's daughter despising curates, and unacquainted with other men. in her secret heart, she demanded of fate night and day why she, so full of life and capability, should be left there to dry up and wither; and why providence refused her the completion of her being. her heart was not set on a special love; still less was there anything fleshly or sensual in her imagination. it is a shame to use such words in speaking of her, even though to cast them forth as wholly inapplicable. the woman's grievance--that she should be left there unwooed, unloved, out of reach of the natural openings of life: without hope of motherhood: with the great instinct of her being unfulfilled--was almost a philosophical, and entirely an abstract, grievance, felt by her for her kind: for every woman dropped out of sight and unable to attain the manner of existence for which she was created. and i think it was the first time this cry had been heard out of the mouth of a perfectly modest and pure-minded woman, nay, out of the mouth of any woman; for it had nothing to do with the shriek of the sapphos for love. it was more startling, more confusing to the general mind, than the wail of the lovelorn. the gentle victim of "a disappointment," or even the soured and angered victim, was a thing quite understood and familiar: but not the woman calling upon heaven and earth to witness that all the fates were conspiring against her to cheat her of her natural career. so far as i can see this was the great point which gave force to charlotte brontë's genius and conferred upon her the curious pre-eminence she possesses among the romancers of her time. in this view "shirley," though i suppose the least popular, is the most characteristic of her works. it is dominated throughout with this complaint. curates? yes, there they are, a group of them. is that the thing you expect us women to marry? yet it is our right to bear children, to guide the house. and we are half of the world, and where is the provision for us? this cry disturbed the critic, the reader, the general public in the most curious way; they did not know what to make of it. was it a shameless woman who was so crying out? it is always the easiest way, and one which avoids all complications, to say so, and thus crush every question. but it was scarcely easy to believe this in face of other circumstances. mrs. gaskell, as much puzzled as any one, when charlotte brontë's short life was over, tried hard to account for it by "environment" as the superior persons say, that is by the wicked folly of her brother, and the coarseness of all the yorkshiremen round; and thus originated in her bewilderment, let us hope without other intention, a new kind of biography, as the subject of it inaugurated an entirely new kind of social revolution. the cry of the women indeed almost distressed as well as puzzled the world. the vivid genius still held it, but the ideas were alarming, distracting beyond measure. the _times_ blew a trumpet of dismay; the book was revolution as well as revelation. it was an outrage upon good taste, it was a betrayal of sentiments too widespread to be comfortable. it was indelicate if not immodest. we have outgrown now the very use of this word, but it was a potent one at that period. and it was quite a just reproach. that cry shattered indeed altogether the "delicacy" which was supposed to be the most exquisite characteristic of womankind. the softening veil is blown away, when such exhibitions of feeling are given to the world. from that period to this is a long step. we have travelled through many years and many gradations of sentiment: and we have now arrived at a standard of opinion by which the "sex-problem" has become the most interesting of questions, the chief occupation of fiction, to be discussed by men and women alike with growing warmth and openness, the immodest and the indelicate being equally and scornfully dismissed as barriers with which art has nothing to do. my impression is that charlotte brontë was the pioneer and founder of this school of romance, though it would probably have shocked and distressed her as much as any other woman of her age. * * * * * the novels of emily and anne brontë were published shortly after "jane eyre," in three volumes, of which "wuthering heights" occupied the first two. i am obliged to confess that i have never shared the common sentiment of enthusiasm for that, to me, unlovely book. the absence of almost every element of sympathy in it, the brutality and misery, tempered only by an occasional gleam of the heather, the freshness of an occasional blast over the moors, have prevented me from appreciating a force which i do not deny but cannot admire. the figure of heathcliffe, which perhaps has called forth more praise than any other single figure in the literature of the time, does not touch me. i can understand how in the jumble which the reader unconsciously makes, explaining him more or less by rochester and other of charlotte brontë's heroes, he may take his place in a sort of system, and thus have humanities read into him, so to speak, which he does not himself possess. but though the horror and isolation of the house is powerful i have never been able to reconcile myself either to the story or treatment, or to the estimate of emily brontë's genius held so strongly by so many people. there is perhaps the less harm in refraining from much comment on this singular book, of which i gladly admit the unique character, since it has been the occasion of so many and such enthusiastic comments. to me emily brontë is chiefly interesting as the double of her sister, exaggerating at once and softening her character and genius as showing those limits of superior sense and judgment which restrained her, and the softer lights which a better developed humanity threw over the landscape common to them both. we perceive better the tempering sense of possibility by which charlotte made her rude and almost brutal hero still attractive, even in his masterful ferocity, when we see emily's incapacity to express anything in _her_ hero except perhaps a touch of that tragic pathos, prompting to fiercer harshness still, which is in the soul of a man who never more, whatever he does, can set himself right. this is the one strain of poetry to my mind in the wild conception. there was no measure in the younger sister's thoughts, nor temperance in her methods. the youngest of all, the gentle anne, would have no right to be considered at all as a writer but for her association with these imperative spirits. an ordinary little novelette and a moral story, working out the disastrous knowledge gained by acquaintance with the unfortunate branwell's ruinous habits, were her sole productions. she was the element wanting in emily's rugged work and nature. instead of being two sisters constantly entwined with each other, never separate when they could help it, had anne been by some fantastic power swamped altogether and amalgamated with her best beloved, we may believe that emily might then have shown herself the foremost of the three. but the group as it stands is more interesting than any single individual could be. and had charlotte brontë lived a long and triumphant life, a fanciful writer might have imagined that the throwing off of those other threads of being so closely attached to her own had poured greater force and charity into her veins. but we are baffled in all our suggestions for the amendment of the ways of providence. * * * * * the melancholy and tragic year, or rather six months, which swept from haworth parsonage three of its inmates, and left charlotte and her father alone to face life as they might, was now approaching; and it seems so completely an episode in the story of the elder sister's genius as well as her life, that its history is like that of an unwritten tragedy, hers as much as her actual work. branwell was the first to die, unwept yet not without leaving a pathetic note in the record. then came the extraordinary passion and agony of emily, which has affected the imagination so much, and which, had it been for any noble purpose, would have been a true martyrdom. but to die the death of a stoic, in fierce resistance yet subjection to nature, regardless of the feelings of all around, for the sake of pride and self-will alone, is not an act to be looked upon with the reverential sympathy which, however, it has secured from many. the strange creature with her shoes on her feet and her staff in her hand, refusing till the last to acknowledge herself to be ill or to receive any help in her weakness, gives thus a kind of climax to her strange and painful work. her death took place in december of the same year ( ) in which branwell died. anne, already delicate, would never seem to have held up her head after her sister's death, and in may she followed, but in all sweetness and calmness, to her early grave. she was twenty-eight; emily twenty-nine. so soon had the fever of life worn itself out and peace come. charlotte was left alone. there had not been to her in either of them the close companion which they had found in each other. but yet life ebbed away from her with their deaths, which occurred in such a startling and quick succession as always makes bereavement more terrible. this occurred at the height of her mental activity. "shirley" had been published, and had been received with the divided feeling we have referred to; and when she was thus left alone she found, no doubt, the solace which of all mortal things work gives best, by resuming her natural occupation in the now more than ever sombre seclusion of the parsonage, to which, however, her favourite friend, ellen nussey, came from time to time. one or two visits to london occurred after the two first publications in which, a demure little person, silent and shy, yet capable of expressing herself very distinctly by times, and by no means unconscious of the claim she now had upon other people's respect and admiration, charlotte brontë made a little sensation in the society which was opened to her, not always of a very successful kind. everybody will remember the delightfully entertaining chapter in literary history in which mrs. ritchie, with charming humour and truth, recounts the visit of this odd little lion to her father's house, and thackeray's abrupt and clandestine flight to his club when it was found that nothing more was to be made of her than an absorbed conversation with the governess in the back drawing-room, a situation like one in a novel, and so very like the act of modest greatness, singling out the least important person as the object of her attentions. she is described by all her friends as plain, even ugly--a small woman with a big nose, and no other notable feature, not even the bright eyes which are generally attributed to genius--which was probably, however, better than the lackadaisical portrait prefixed to her biography, after a picture by richmond, which is the typical portrait of a governess of the old style, a gentle creature deprecating and wistful. her letters are very good letters, well expressed in something of the old-fashioned way, but without any of the charm of a born letter-writer. indeed, charm does not seem to have been hers in any way. but she had a few very staunch friends who held fast by her all her life, notwithstanding the uncomfortable experience of being "put in a book," which few people like. it is a gift by itself to put other living people in books. the novelist does not always possess it; to many the realms of imagination are far more easy than the arid realms of fact, and to frame an image of a man much more natural than to take his portrait. i am not sure that it is not a mark of greater strength to be able to put a living and recognisable person on the canvas than it is to invent one. anyhow, miss brontë possessed it in great perfection. impossible to doubt that the characters of "shirley" were real men; still more impossible to doubt for a moment the existence of m. paul emmanuel. the pursuit of such a system requires other faculties than those of the mere romancist. it demands a very clear-cut opinion, a keen judgment not disturbed by any strong sense of the complexities of nature, nor troubled by any possibility of doing injustice to its victim. * * * * * one thing strikes us very strongly in the description of the school, lowood, which was her very first step in literature, and in which there can now be no doubt, from her own remarks on the manner in which it was received, she had a vindictive purpose. i scarcely know why, for, of course, the dates are all there to prove the difference--but my own conclusion had always been that she was a girl of fourteen or fifteen, old enough to form an opinion when she left the school. i find, with much consternation, that she was only nine; and that so far as such a strenuous opinion was her own at all, it must have been formed at that early and not very judicious age. that the picture should be so vivid with only a little girl's recollection to go upon is wonderful; but it is not particularly valuable as a verdict against a great institution, its founder and all its ways. nevertheless, it had its scathing and wounding effect as much as if the little observer, whose small judgment worked so precociously, had been capable of understanding the things which she condemned. it would be rash to trust nineteen in such a report, but nine! it was at a different age and in other circumstances that charlotte brontë made her deep and extraordinary study of the brussels pensionnat. she was twenty-seven; she had already gone through a number of those years of self-repression during which, by dint of keeping silence, the heart burns. she was, if we may accept the freedom of her utterances in fiction as more descriptive of her mind than the measured sentences of her letters, angry with fate and the world which denied her a brighter career, and bound her to the cold tasks of dependence and the company of despised and almost hated inferiors during the best of her life. her tremendous gift of sight--not second sight or any visionary way of regarding the object before her, but that vivid and immediate vision which took in every detail, and was decisive on every act as if it had been the vision of the gods--was now fully matured. she saw all that was about her with this extraordinary clearness without any shadow upon the object or possibility of doubt as to her power of seeing it all round and through and through. she makes us also see and know the big white house, with every room distinct: the garden, with its great trees and alleys: the class-rooms, each with its tribune: the girls, fat and round and phlegmatic in characteristic foreignism, and herself as spectator, looking on with contemptuous indifference, not caring to discriminate between them. the few english figures, which concern her more, are drawn keen upon the canvas, though with as little friendliness; the teachers sharply accentuated, mdlle. sophie, for instance, who, when she is in a rage, has no lips, and all the sharp contentions and false civilities of those banded free lances, enemies to everybody and to each other; the image of watchful suspicion in the head of the house--all these are set forth in glittering lines of steel. there is not a morsel of compunction in the picture. everybody is bad, worthless, a hater of the whole race. the mistress of the establishment moves about stealthily, watching, her eyes showing through a mist in every corner, going and coming without a sound. what a picture it is! there is not a good meaning in the whole place--not even that beneficent absence of meaning which softens the view. they are all bent on their own aims, on gaining an advantage great or small over their neighbours; nobody is spared, nobody is worth a revision of judgment--except one. the little englishwoman herself, who is the centre of all this, is not represented as more lovable than the rest. she is the hungry little epicure, looking on while others feast, and envying every one of them, even while she snarls at their fare as apples of gomorrah. she cannot abide that they should be better off than she, even though she scorns their satisfaction in what they possess. her wild and despairing rush through brussels when the town is _en fête_, cold, impassioned, fever-hot with rancour and loneliness, produces the most amazing effect on the mind. she is the banished spirit for whom there is no place, the little half-tamed wild beast, wild with desire to tear and rend everything that is happy. one feels that she has a certain justification and realises the full force of being left out in the cold, of having no part or lot in the matter when other people are amused and rejoice. many other writers have endeavoured to produce a similar effect with milder means, but i suppose because of a feeble-minded desire to preserve the reputation of their forlorn heroine and give the reader an amiable view of her, no one has succeeded like the author of "villette," who is in no way concerned for the amiability of lucy snowe. for the impartiality of this picture is as extraordinary as its power. lucy snowe is her own historian; it is the hot blood of the autobiographist that rushes through her veins, yet no attempt is made to recommend her to the reader or gain his sympathy. she is much too real to think of these outside things, or of how people will judge her, or how to make her proceedings acceptable to their eyes. we do not know whether charlotte brontë ever darted out of the white still house, standing dead in the moonlight, and rushed through the streets and, like a ghost, into the very heart of the gaslights and festivities; but it would be difficult to persuade any reader that some one had not done so, imprinting that phantasmagoria of light and darkness upon a living brain. whether it was charlotte brontë or lucy snowe, the effect is the same. we are not even asked to feel for her or pity her, much less to approve her. nothing is demanded from us on her account but merely to behold the soul in revolt and the strange workings of her despair. it was chiefly because of the indifference to her of dr. john that lucy was thus driven into a momentary madness; and with the usual regardless indiscretion of all charlotte brontë's amateur biographers, mr. shorter intimates to us who was the living man who was dr. john and occasioned all the commotion. the tragedy, however it appears, was unnecessary, for the victim got over it with no great difficulty, and soon began the much more engrossing interest which still remained behind. nothing up to this point has attracted us in "villette," except, indeed, the tremendous vitality and reality of the whole, the sensation of the actual which is in every line, and which forbids us to believe for a moment that what we are reading is fiction. but a very different sentiment comes into being as we become acquainted with the black bullet-head and vivacious irascible countenance of m. paul emmanuel. he is the one only character in miss brontë's little world who has a real charm, whose entrance upon the stage warms all our feelings and awakens in us not interest alone, but lively liking, amusement and sympathy. the quick-witted, quick-tempered frenchman, with all the foibles of his vanity displayed, as susceptible to any little slight as a girl, as easily pleased with a sign of kindness, as far from the english ideal as it is possible to imagine, dancing with excitement, raging with displeasure, committing himself by every step he takes, cruel, delightful, barbarous and kind, is set before us in the fullest light, intolerable but always enchanting. he is as full of variety as rosalind, as devoid of dignity as pierrot, contradictory, inconsistent, vain, yet conquering all our prejudices and enchanting us while he performs every antic that, according to our usual code, a man ought not to be capable of. how was it that for this once the artist got the better of all her restrictions and overcame all her misconceptions, and gave us a man to be heartily loved, laughed at, and taken into our hearts? i cannot answer that question. i am sorry that he was m. héger, and the master of the establishment, and not the clever tutor who had so much of madame beck's confidence. but anyhow, he is the best that miss brontë ever did for us, the most attractive individual, the most perfect picture. the rochesters were all more or less fictitious, notwithstanding the unconscious inalienable force of realism which gives them, in spite of themselves and us, a kind of overbearing life; but miss brontë never did understand what she did not know. she had to see a thing before it impressed itself upon her, and when she did see it, with what force she saw! she knew m. paul emmanuel, watching him day by day, seeing all his littlenesses and childishness, his vanity, his big warm heart, his clever brain, the manifold nature of the man. he stands out, as the curates stood out, absolutely real men about whom we could entertain no doubt, recognisable anywhere. the others were either a woman's men, like the moors of shirley, whose roughness was bluster (she could not imagine an englishman who was not rough and rude), and their strength more or less made up; or an artificial composition like st. john, an ideal bully like rochester. the ideal was not her forte--she had few gifts that way: but she saw with overwhelming lucidity and keenness, and what she saw, without a doubt, without a scruple, she could put upon the canvas in lines of fire. seldom, very seldom, did an object appear within reach of that penetrating light, which could be drawn lovingly or made to appear as a being to be loved. was not the sole model of that species m. paul? it would seem that in the piteous poverty of her life, which was so rich in natural power, she had never met before a human creature in whom she could completely trust, or one who commended himself to her entirely, with all his foibles and weaknesses increasing, not diminishing, the charm. it is, in my opinion, a most impertinent inquiry to endeavour to search out what were the sentiments of charlotte brontë for m. héger. any one whom it would be more impossible to imagine as breaking the very first rule of english decorum, and letting her thoughts stray towards another woman's husband, i cannot imagine. her fancy was wild and her utterance free, and she liked to think that men were quite untrammelled by those proprieties which bound herself like bonds of iron in her private person, and that she might pluck a fearful joy by listening to their dreadful experiences: but she herself was as prim and puritan as any little blameless governess that ever went out of an english parish. but while believing this i cannot but feel it was an intolerable spite of fortune that the one man whom she knew in her life, whom her story could make others love, the only man whom she saw with that real illumination which does justice to humanity, was not m. paul emmanuel but m. héger. this was why we were left trembling at the end of lucy snowe's story, not knowing whether he ever came back to her out of the wilds, fearing almost as keenly that nothing but loss could fitly end the tale, yet struggling in our imaginations against the doom--as if it had concerned our own happiness. was this new-born power in her, the power of representing a man at his best, she who by nature saw both men and women from their worst side, a sign of the development of genius in herself, the softening of that scorn with which she had hitherto regarded a world chiefly made up of inferior beings, the mellowing influence of maturity? so we might have said, had it not been that after this climax of production she never spake word more in the medium of fiction. had she told the world everything she had to say? could she indeed say nothing but what she had seen and known in her limited experience--the trials of school and governessing, the longing of women, the pangs of solitude? that strange form of imagination which can deal only with fact, and depict nothing but what is under its eyes, is in its way perhaps the most impressive of all--especially when inspired by the remorseless lights of that keen outward vision which is unmitigated by any softening of love for the race, any embarrassing toleration as to feelings and motives. it is unfortunately true in human affairs that those who expect a bad ending to everything, and suspect a motive at least dubious to every action, prove right in a great number of cases, and that the qualities of truth and realism have been appropriated to their works by almost universal consent. indeed there are some critics who think this the only true form of art. but it is at the same time a power with many limitations. the artist who labours, as m. zola does, searching into every dust-heap, as if he could find out human nature, the only thing worth depicting, with all its closely hidden secrets, all its flying indistinguishable tones, all its infinite gradations of feeling, by that nauseous process, or by a roaring progress through the winds, upon a railway brake, or the visit of a superficial month to the most complicated, the most subtle of cities--must lay up for himself and for his reader many disappointments and deceptions: but the science of artistic study, as exemplified in him, had not been invented in charlotte brontë's day. she did not attempt to go and see things with the intention of representing them; she was therefore limited to the representation of those things which naturally in the course of life came under her eyes. she knew, though only as a child, the management and atmosphere of a great school, and set it forth, branding a great institution with an insufferable stigma, justly or unjustly, who knows? she went to another school and turned out every figure in it for our inspection--a community all jealous, spiteful, suspicious, clandestine: even the chance pupil with no particular relation to her story or herself, painted with all her frivolities for the edification of the world did not escape. "she was miss so-and-so," say the army of commentators who have followed miss brontë, picking up all the threads, so that the grand-daughter of the girl who had the misfortune to be in the brussels pensionnat along with that remorseless artist may be able to study the character of her ancestress. the public we fear loves this kind of art, however, notwithstanding all its drawbacks. on the other hand probably no higher inspiration could have set before us so powerfully the image of m. paul. thus we are made acquainted with the best and the worst which can be effected by this method--the base in all their baseness, the excellent all the dearer for their characteristic faults: but the one representation scarcely less offensive than the other to the victim. would it be less trying to the individual to be thus caught, identified, written out large in the light of love and glowing adoration, than in the more natural light of scorn? i know not indeed which would be the worst ordeal to go through, to be drawn like madame beck, suspicious, stealthy, with watchful eyes appearing out of every corner, surprising every incautious word, than to be put upon the scene in the other manner, with all your peccadilloes exposed in the light of admiration and fondness, and yourself put to play the part of hero and lover. the point of view of the public is one thing, that of the victim quite another. we are told that miss brontë, perhaps with a momentary compunction for what she had done, believed herself to have prevented all injurious effects by securing that "villette" should not be published in brussels, or translated into the french tongue, both of them of course perfectly futile hopes since the very desire to hinder its appearance was a proof that this appearance would be of unusual interest. the fury of the lady exposed in all her stealthy ways could scarcely have been less than the confusion of her spouse when he found himself held up to the admiration of his town as lucy snowe's captivating lover. to be sure it may be said the public has nothing to do with this. these individuals are dead and gone, and no exposure can hurt them any longer, whereas the gentle reader lives for ever, and goes on through the generations, handing on to posterity his delight in m. paul. but all the same it is a cruel and in reality an immoral art; and it has this great disadvantage, that its area is extremely circumscribed, especially when the artist lives most of her life in a yorkshire parsonage amid the moors, where so few notable persons come in her way. * * * * * there was however one subject of less absolute realism which charlotte brontë had at her command, having experienced in her own person and seen her nearest friends under the experience, of that solitude and longing of women, of which she has made so remarkable an exposition. the long silence of life without an adventure or a change, the forlorn gaze out at windows which never show any one coming who can rouse the slightest interest in the mind, the endless years and days which pass and pass, carrying away the bloom, extinguishing the lights of youth, bringing a dreary middle age before which the very soul shrinks, while yet the sufferer feels how strong is the current of life in her own veins, and how capable she is of all the active duties of existence--this was the essence and soul of the existence she knew best. was there no help for it? must the women wait and long and see their lives thrown away, and have no power to save themselves? the position in itself so tragic is one which can scarcely be expressed without calling forth an inevitable ridicule, a laugh at the best, more often a sneer at the women whose desire for a husband is thus betrayed. shirley and caroline helston both cried out for that husband with an indignation, a fire and impatience, a sense of wrong and injury, which stopped the laugh for the moment. it might be ludicrous but it was horribly genuine and true. note there was nothing sensual about these young women. it was life they wanted; they knew nothing of the grosser thoughts which the world with its jeers attributes to them: of such thoughts they were unconscious in a primitive innocence which perhaps only women understand. they wanted their life, their place in the world, the rightful share of women in the scheme of nature. why did not it come to them? the old patience in which women have lived for all the centuries fails now and again in a keen moment of energy when some one arises who sees no reason why she should endure this forced inaction, or why she should invent for herself inferior ways of working and give up her birthright, which is to carry on the world. the reader was horrified with these sentiments from the lips of young women. the women were half ashamed, yet more than half stirred and excited by the outcry, which was true enough if indelicate. all very well to talk of women working for their living, finding new channels for themselves, establishing their independence. how much have we said of all that, endeavouring to persuade ourselves! charlotte brontë had the courage of her opinions. it was not education nor a trade that her women wanted. it was not a living but their share in life, a much more legitimate object had that been the way to secure it, or had there been any way to secure it in england. miss brontë herself said correct things about the protection which a trade is to a woman, keeping her from a mercenary marriage; but this was not in the least the way of her heroines. they wanted to be happy, no doubt, but above all things they wanted their share in life--to have their position by the side of men, which alone confers a natural equality, to have their shoulder to the wheel, their hands on the reins of common life, to build up the world, and link the generations each to each. in her philosophy marriage was the only state which procured this, and if she did not recommend a mercenary marriage she was at least very tolerant about its conditions, insisting less upon love than was to be expected and with a covert conviction in her mind that if not one man then another was better than any complete abandonment of the larger path. lucy snowe for a long time had her heart very much set on dr. john and his placid breadth of englishism: but when she finally found out that to be impossible her tears were soon dried by the prospect of paul emmanuel, so unlike him, coming into his place. poor charlotte brontë! she has not been as other women, protected by the grave from all betrayal of the episodes in her own life. everybody has betrayed her, and all she thought about this one and that, and every name that was ever associated with hers. there was a mr. taylor from london about whom she wrote with great freedom to her friend miss nussey, telling how the little man had come, how he had gone away without any advance in the affairs, how a chill came over her when he appeared and she found him much less attractive than when at a distance, yet how she liked it as little when he went away and was somewhat excited about his first letter, and even went so far as to imagine with a laugh that there might be possibly a dozen little joe taylors before all was over. she was hard upon miss austen for having no comprehension of passion, but no one could have been cooler and less impassioned than she as she considered the question of mr. taylor, reluctant to come to any decision yet disappointed when it came to nothing. there was no longing in her mind for mr. taylor, but there was for life and action and the larger paths and the little joes. this longing which she expressed with so much vehemence and some poetic fervour as the burden of the lives of shirley and her friends has been the keynote of a great deal that has followed--the revolts and rebellions, the wild notions about marriage, the "sex problem," and a great deal more. from that first point to the prevailing discussion of all the questions involved is a long way; but it is a matter of logical progression, and when once the primary matter is opened, every enlargement of the subject may be taken as a thing to be expected. charlotte brontë was in herself the embodiment of all old-fashioned restrictions. she was proper, she was prim, her life was hedged in by all the little rules which bind the primitive woman. but when she left her little recluse behind and rushed into the world of imagination her exposure of the bondage in which she sat with all her sisters was far more daring than if she had been a woman of many experiences and knew what she was speaking of. she did know the longing, the discontent, the universal contradiction and contrariety which is involved in that condition of unfulfilment to which so many grey and undeveloped lives are condemned. for her and her class, which did not speak of it, everything depended upon whether the woman married or did not marry. their thoughts were thus artificially fixed to one point in the horizon, but their ambition was neither ignoble nor unclean. it was bold, indeed, in proportion to its almost ridiculous innocence, and want of perception of any grosser side. their share in life, their part in the mutual building of the house, was what they sought. but the seed she thus sowed has come to many growths which would have appalled charlotte brontë. those who took their first inspiration from this cry of hers, have quite forgotten what it was she wanted, which was not emancipation but an extended duty. but while it would be very unjust to blame her for the vagaries that have followed and to which nothing could be less desirable than any building of the house or growth of the race, any responsibility or service--we must still believe that it was she who drew the curtain first aside and opened the gates to imps of evil meaning, polluting and profaning the domestic hearth. the marriage which--after all these wild embodiments of the longing and solitary heart which could not consent to abandon its share in life, after shirley and lucy snowe, and that complex unity of three female souls all unfulfilled, which had now been broken by death--she accepted in the end of her life, is the strangest commentary upon all that went before, or rather, upon all the literary and spiritual part of her history, though it was a quite appropriate ending to mr. brontë's daughter, and even to the writer of those sober letters which discussed mr. taylor, whether he should or should not be encouraged, and how it was a little disappointing after all to see him go away. her final suitor was one of the class which she had criticised so scathingly, one who, it might have been thought, would scarcely have ventured to enter the presence or brave the glance of so penetrating an eye, but who would seem to have brought all the urgency of a _grand passion_ to the sombre parlour of the parsonage, to the afternoon stillness of the lonely woman who would not seem to have suspected anything of the kind till it was poured out before her without warning. she was startled and confused by his declaration and appeal, never apparently having contemplated the possibility of any such occurrence; and in the interval which followed the father raged and resisted, and the lover did not conceal his heartbroken condition but suffered without complaining while the lady looked on wistful, touched and attracted by the unlooked-for love, and gradually melting towards that, though indifferent to the man who offered it. mr. brontë evidently thought that if this now distinguished daughter who had been worshipped among the great people in london, and talked of in all the newspapers, married at all in her mature age, it should be some one distinguished like herself, and not the mere curate who was the natural fate of every clergyman's daughter, the simplest and least known. charlotte meanwhile said no word, but saw the curate enact various tragic follies of love for her sake with a sort of awe and wonder, astonished to find herself thus possessed still of the charm which none are so sure as women that only youth and beauty can be expected to possess. and she had never had any beauty, and, though she was not old, was no longer young. it is a conventional fiction that a woman still in the thirties is beyond the exercise of that power. indeed, it would be hard to fix the age at which the spell departs. certainly the demeanour of mr. nicholls gave her full reason to believe that it had not departed from her. he faltered in the midst of the service, grew pale, almost lost his self-possession when he suddenly saw her among the kneeling figures round the altar; and no doubt this rather shocking and startling exhibition of his feelings was more pardonable to the object of so much emotion than it was likely to have been to any other spectator. the romance is a little strange, but yet it is a romance in its quaint ecclesiastical way. and soon charlotte was drawn still more upon her lover's side by the violence of her father. it was decided that the curate was to go, and that this late gleam of love-making was to be extinguished and the old dim atmosphere to settle down again for ever. finally, however, the mere love of love, which had always been more to her than any personal inclination, and the horror of that permanent return to the twilight of dreamy living against which she had struggled all her life, overcame her, and gave her courage; but she married characteristically, not as women marry who are carried to a new home and make a new beginning in life, but retaining all the circumstances of the old and receiving her husband into her father's house where she had already passed through so many fluctuations and dreamed so many dreams, and which was full to overflowing with the associations of the past. we have no reason to suppose that it did not add to the happiness of her life; indeed, every indication is to the contrary, and the husband seems to have been kind, considerate and affectionate. still this thing upon which so many of her thoughts had been fixed during her whole life, which she had felt to be the necessary condition of full development, and for which the little impassioned female circle of which she was the expositor had sighed and cried to heaven and earth, came to her at last very much in the form of a catastrophe. no doubt the circumstances of her quickly failing health and shortened life promote this feeling. but without really taking these into consideration the sensation remains the same. the strange little keen soul with its sharply fixed restrictions, yet intense force of perception within its limits, dropped out of the world into which it had made an irruption so brilliant and so brief and sank out of sight altogether, sank into the humdrum house between the old father and the sober husband, into the clerical atmosphere with which she had no sympathy, into the absolute quiet of domestic life to which no prince charming could now come gaily round the corner, out of the mists and moors, and change with a touch of his wand the grey mornings and evenings into golden days. well! was not this that which she had longed for, the natural end of life towards which her shirley, her caroline, her lucy had angrily stretched forth their hands, indignant to be kept waiting, clamouring for instant entrance? and so it was, but how different! lucy snowe's little housekeeping, all the preparations which m. paul made for her comfort and which seemed better to her than any palace, would not they too have taken the colour of perpetual dulness if everything had settled down and the professor assumed his slippers by the domestic hearth? ah no, for lucy snowe loved the man, and charlotte brontë, as appears, loved only the love. it is a parable. she said a little later that she began to see that this was the fate which she would wish for those she loved best, for her friend ellen, perhaps for her emily if she had lived--the good man very faithful, very steady, worth his weight in gold--yet flatter than the flattest days of old, _solidement nourri_, a good substantial husband, managing all the parish business, full of talk about the archdeacon's charge, and the diocesan meetings, and the other clergy of the moorland parishes. we can conceive that she got to fetching his slippers for him and taking great care that he was comfortable, and perhaps had it been so ordained might have grown into a contented matron and forgotten the glories and miseries, so inseparably twined and linked together, of her youth. but she only had a year in which to do all that, and this is how her marriage seems to turn into a catastrophe, the caging of a wild creature that had never borne captivity before, and which now could no longer rush forth into the heart of any shining _fête_, or to the window of a strange confessional, anywhere, to throw off the burden of the perennial contradiction, the ceaseless unrest of the soul, the boilings of the volcano under the snow. * * * * * i have said it was difficult to account for the extreme interest still attaching to everything connected with charlotte brontë; not only the story of her peculiar genius, but also of everybody connected with her, though the circle was in reality quite a respectable, humdrum, and uninteresting one, containing nobody of any importance except the sister, who was her own wilder and fiercer part. one way, however, in which these sisters have won some part of their long-lasting interest is due to the treatment to which they have been subjected. they are the first victims of that ruthless art of biography which is one of the features of our time; and that not only by mrs. gaskell, who took up her work in something of an apologetic vein, and was so anxious to explain how it was that her heroine expressed certain ideas not usual in the mouths of women, that she was compelled to take away the reputation of a number of other people in order to excuse the peculiarities of these two remarkable women. but everybody who has touched their history since, and there have been many--for it would seem that gossip, when restrained by no bonds of decorum or human feeling, possesses a certain interest whether it is concerned with the household of a cardinal or that of a parish priest--has followed the same vicious way without any remonstrance or appeal for mercy. we have all taken it for granted that no mercy was to be shown to the brontës. let every rag be torn from charlotte, of whom there is the most to say. emily had the good luck to be no correspondent, and so has escaped to some degree the complete exposure of every confidence and every thought which has happened to her sister. is it because she has nobody to defend her that she has been treated thus barbarously? i cannot conceive a situation more painful, more lacerating to every feeling, than that of the father and the husband dwelling silent together in that sombre parsonage, from which every ray of light seems to depart with the lost woman, whose presence had kept a little savour in life, and looking on in silence to see their life taken to pieces, and every decent veil dragged from the inner being of their dearest and nearest. they complained as much as two voiceless persons could, or at least the father complained: and the very servants came hot from their kitchen to demand a vindication of their character: but nobody noted the protest of the old man amid the silence of the moors: and the husband was more patient and spoke no word. even he, however, after nearly half a century, when that far-off episode of life must have become dim to him, has thrown his relics open for a little more revelation, a little more interference with the helpless ashes of the dead. no dot is now omitted upon i, no t left uncrossed. we know, or at least are told, who charlotte meant by every character she ever portrayed, even while the model still lives. we know her opinion of her friends, or rather acquaintances, the people whom she saw cursorily and formed a hasty judgment upon, as we all do in the supposed safety of common life. protests have been offered in other places against a similar treatment of other persons; but scarcely any protest has been attempted in respect to charlotte brontë. the resurrection people have been permitted to make their researches as they pleased. it throws a curious pathos, a not unsuitably tragic light upon a life always so solitary, that this should all have passed in silence because there was actually no one to interfere, no one to put a ban upon the dusty heaps and demand that no mere should be said. when one looks into the matter a little more closely, one finds it is so with almost all those who have specially suffered at the hands of the biographer. the carlyles had no child, no brother to rise up in their defence. it gives the last touch of melancholy to the conclusion of a lonely life. mrs. gaskell, wise woman, defended herself from a similar treatment by will, and left children behind her to protect her memory. but the brontës are at the mercy of every one who cares to give another raking to the diminished heap of _débris_. the last writer who has done so, mr. clement shorter, had some real new light to throw upon a story which surely has now been sufficiently turned inside out, and has done his work with perfect good feeling, and, curiously enough after so many exploitations, in a way which shows that interest has not yet departed from the subject. but we trust that now the memory of charlotte brontë will be allowed to rest. [signature: mrs. m. oliphant] george eliot _by_ mrs. lynn linton george eliot in this essay it is not intended to go into the vexed question of george eliot's private life and character. death has resolved her individuality into nothingness, and the discrepancy between her lofty thoughts and doubtful action no longer troubles us. but her work still remains as common property for all men to appraise at its true value--to admire for its beauty, to reverence for its teaching, to honour for its grandeur, yet at the same time to determine its weaknesses and to confess where it falls short of the absolute perfection claimed for it in her lifetime. for that matter indeed, no one has suffered from unmeasured adulation more than has george eliot. as a philosopher, once bracketed with plato and kant; as a novelist, ranked the highest the world has seen; as a woman, set above the law and, while living in open and admired adultery, visited by bishops and judges as well as by the best of the laity; her faults of style and method praised as genius--since her death she has been treated with some of that reactionary neglect which always follows on extravagant esteem. the mud-born ephemeridæ of literature have dispossessed her. for her profound learning, which ran like a golden thread through all she wrote till it became tarnished by pedantry, we have the ignorance which misquotes lemprière and thinks itself classic. for her outspoken language and forcible diction, wherein, however, she always preserved so much modesty, and for her realism which described things and feelings as they are, but without going into revolting details, we have those lusciously suggestive epithets and those unveiled presentations of the sexual instinct which seem to make the world one large lupanar. for her accurate science and profound philosophy, we have those claptrap phrases which have passed into common speech and are glibly reproduced by facile parrots who do not understand and never could have created; and for her scholarly diction we have the tawdriness of a verbal ragbag where grammar is as defective as taste. yet our modern tinselled dunces have taken the place of the one who, in her lifetime, was made almost oppressively great--almost too colossal in her supremacy. but when all this rubbish has been thrown into the abyss of oblivion, george eliot's works will remain solid and alive, together with thackeray's, scott's and fielding's. our immortals will include in their company, as one of the "choir invisible" whose voice will never be stilled for man, the author of "adam bede" and "romola," of the "mill on the floss" and "middlemarch." * * * * * her first essays in fiction, her "scenes of clerical life," show the germs of her future greatness as well as the persistency of her aim. in "janet's repentance," which to our mind is the best of the three, those germs are already shaped to beauty. nothing can be more delicately touched than the nascent love between janet and mr. tryon. no more subtle sign of janet's besetting sin could be given than by that candlestick held "aslant;" while her character, compounded of pride, timidity, affectionateness, spiritual aspiration and moral degradation, is as true to life as it was difficult to portray. it would be impossible to note all the gems in these three stories. we can indicate only one or two. that splendid paragraph in "mr. gilfil's love story," beginning: "while this poor heart was being bruised"--the sharp summing up of mr. amos barton's "middling" character--lady cheverel's silent criticisms contrasted with her husband's iridescent optimism--the almost shakesperean humour of the men, the author's keen appraisement of the commonplace women; such aphorisms as mrs. linnet's "it's right enough to be speritial--i'm no enemy to that--but i like my potatoes meally;"--these and a thousand more, eloquent, tender, witty, deep, make these three stories masterpieces in their way, despite the improbability of the czerlaski episode in "amos barton" and the inherent weakness of the gilfil plot. we, who can remember the enthusiasm they excited when they first appeared in _blackwood's magazine_, on re-reading them in cooler blood can understand that enthusiasm, though we no longer share its pristine intensity. it was emphatically a new departure in literature, and the noble note of that religious feeling which is independent of creed and which touches all hearts alike, woke an echo that even to this day reverberates though in but a poor, feeble and attenuated manner. * * * * * "adam bede," the first novel proper of the long series, shows george eliot at her best in her three most noteworthy qualities--lofty principles, lifelike delineation of character, and fine humour, both broad and subtle. the faults of the story are the all-pervading anachronism of thought and circumstance; the dragging of the plot in the earlier half of the book; and the occasional ugliness of style, where, as in that futile opening sentence the author as i directly addresses the reader as you. the scene is laid in the year --before the trades unions had fixed a man's hours of work so accurately as to make him leave off with a screw half driven in, so soon as the clock begins to strike--before too the hour of leaving off was fixed at six. we older people can remember when workmen wrought up to eight and were never too exact even then. precision of the kind practised at the present day was not known then; and why were there no apprentices in adam's shop? apprentices were a salient feature in all the working community, and no shop could have existed without them. nor would the seduction by the young squire of a farmer's niece or daughter have been the heinous crime george eliot has made it. if women of the lower class held a somewhat better position than they did in king arthur's time, when, to be the mother of a knight's bastard, raised a churl's wife or daughter far above her compeers and was assumed to honour not degrade her, they still retained some of the old sense of inferiority. does any one remember that famous answer in the yelverton trial not much more than a generation ago? in hetty's mishap would have been condoned by all concerned, save perhaps by adam himself; and arthur donnithorne would have suffered no more for his escapade than did our well-known tom jones for his little diversions. and--were there any night schools for illiterate men in ? and how was that reprieve got so quickly at a time when there were neither railroads nor telegraphs?--indeed, would it have been got at all in days when concealment of birth alone was felony and felony was death? also, would hetty have been alone in her cell? in all prisoners were herded together, young and old, untried and condemned; and the separate system was not in existence. save for hetty's weary journey on foot and in chance carts, the story might have been made as of present time with more _vraisemblance_ and harmoniousness. these objections apart, how supreme the whole book is! the characters stand out fresh, firm and living. as in some paintings you feel as if you could put your hand round the body, so in george eliot's writings you feel that you have met those people in the flesh, and talked to them, holding them by the hand and looking into their eyes. there is not a line of loose drawing anywhere. from the four bedes, with that inverted kind of heredity which zola has so powerfully shown, to the stately egoism of mrs. irwine--from the marvellous portraiture of hetty sorrel with her soft, caressing, lusciously-loving outside, and her heart "as hard as a cherry-stone" according to mrs. poyser--from the weak-willed yet not conscienceless arthur donnithorne to the exquisite purity of dinah, the character-drawing is simply perfect. many were people personally known to george eliot, and those who were at all behind the scenes recognised the portraits. down at wirksworth they knew the bedes, dinah, the poysers, and some others. in london, among the intimates of george lewes, hetty needed no label. mrs. poyser's good things were common property in the neighbourhood long before george eliot crystallised them for all time, and embellished them by her matchless setting; and dinah's sermon was not all imaginary. but though in some sense her work was portraiture, it was portraiture passed through the alembic of her brilliant genius, from commonplace material distilled into the finest essence. it is impossible here again to give adequate extracts of the wise, witty, tender and high-minded things scattered broadcast over this book--as, indeed, over all that george eliot ever wrote. that paragraph beginning--"family likeness has often a deep sadness in it"; the description of hetty's flower-like beauty, which fascinated even her sharp-tongued aunt; phrases like "john considered a young master as the natural enemy of an old servant," and "young people in general as a poor contrivance for carrying on the world"; that sharp little bit of moral and intellectual antithesis, with the learned man "meekly rocking the twins in the cradle with his left hand, while with his right he inflicted the most lacerating sarcasms on an opponent who had betrayed a brutal ignorance of hebrew"--forgiving human weaknesses and moral errors as is a christian's bounden duty, but treating as "the enemy of his race, the man who takes the wrong side on the momentous subject of the hebrew points"; how masterly, how fine are these and a dozen other unnoted passages! hetty in her bedroom, parading in her concealed finery, reminds one too closely of gretchen with her fatal jewels to be quite favourable to the english version; and we question the truth of adam bede's hypothetical content with such a dorothy doolittle as his wife. writers of love stories among the working classes in bygone days forget that notableness was then part of a woman's virtue--part of her claims to love and consideration--and that mere flower-like kittenish prettiness did not count to her honour any more than graceful movements and æsthetic taste would count to the honour of a tommy in the trenches who could neither handle a spade nor load a rifle. blackmore made the same mistake in his "lorna doone," and george eliot has repeated it in adam's love for hetty solely for her beauty and without "faculty" as her dower. in his own way bartle massey, misogynist, is as smart as mrs. poyser herself, as amusing and as trenchant; but the coming-of-age dance is fifty years and more too modern, and the long dissertation at the beginning of the second book is a blot, because it is a clog and an interruption. not so that glorious description of nature in august when "the sun was hidden for a moment and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy;"--nor that deep and tender bit of introspection, setting forth the spiritual good got from sorrow as well as its indestructible impress. yet for all the beauty of these philosophic passages there are too many of them in this as in all george eliot's works. they hamper the action and lend an air of pedantry and preaching with which a novel proper has nothing to do. it is bad style as well as bad art, and irritating to a critical, while depressing to a sympathetic reader. but summing up all the faults together, and giving full weight to each, we gladly own the masterly residuum that is left. the dawning love between adam and dinah alone is enough to claim for "adam bede" one of the highest places in literature, had not that place been already taken by the marvellous truth, diversity and power of the character-drawing. mrs. poyser's epigrams, too, generally made when she was "knitting with fierce rapidity, as if her movements were a necessary function like the twittering of a crab's antennæ," both too numerous and too well known to quote, would have redeemed the flimsiest framework and the silliest padding extant. the light that seemed to flash on the world when this glorious book was published will never be forgotten by those who were old enough at the time to read and appreciate. by the way, is that would-be famous liggins still alive? when he sums it all up, how much did he get out of his bold attempt to don the giant's robe? * * * * * if "adam bede" was partly reminiscent, "the mill on the floss" was partly autobiographical. there is no question that in the sensitive, turbulent, loving nature of maggie tulliver marian evans painted herself. those who knew her when she first came to london knew her as a pronounced insurgent. never noisy and never coarse, always quiet in manner, sensitive, diffident and shrinking from unpleasantness, she yet had not put on that "made" and artificial pose which was her distinguishing characteristic in later years. she was still maggie tulliver, with a conscience and temperament at war together, and with a spiritual ideal in no way attained by her practical realisation. for indeed, the union between marian evans and george lewes was far more incongruous in some of its details than was maggie's love for philip or her passion for stephen. philip appealed to her affection of old time, her pity and her love of art--stephen to her hot blood and her sensuous love of beauty. but george lewes's total want of all religiousness of feeling, his brilliancy of wit, which was now coarse now mere _persiflage_, his cleverness, which was more quickness of assimilation than the originality of genius, were all traits of character unlike the deeper, truer and more ponderous qualities of the woman who braved the world for his sake when first she linked her fate with his--the woman who did not, like maggie, turn back when she came to the brink but who boldly crossed the rubicon--and who, in her after efforts to cover up the conditions, showed that she smarted from the consequences. read in youth by the light of sympathy with insurgency, maggie is adorable, and her brother tom is but a better-looking jonas chuzzlewit. read in age by the light of respect for conformity and self-control, much of maggie's charm vanishes, while most of tom's hardness becomes both respectable and inevitable. maggie was truly a thorn in the side of a proud country family, not accustomed to its little daughters running off to join the gipsies, nor to its grown girls eloping with their cousin's lover. tom was right when he said no reliance could be placed on her; for where there is this unlucky divergence between principle and temperament, the will can never be firm nor the walk steady. sweet little lucy had more of the true heroism of a woman in her patient acceptance of sorrow and her generous forgiveness of the cause thereof, than could be found in all maggie's struggles between passion and principle. the great duties of life lying at our feet and about our path cannot be done away with by the romantic picturesqueness of one character contrasted with the more prosaic because conventional limitations of the other; nor is it right to give all our sympathy to the one who spoilt so many lives and brought so much disgrace on her family name, merely because she did not mean, and did not wish, and had bitter remorse after terrible conflicts, which never ended in real self-control or steadfast pursuance of the right. there is something in "the mill on the floss" akin to the gloomy fatalism of a greek tragedy. in "adam bede" is more spontaneity of action, more liberty of choice; but, given the natures by which events were worked out to their final issues in "the mill on the floss," it seems as if everything must have happened precisely as it did. an obstinate, litigious and irascible man like mr. tulliver was bound to come to grief in the end. fighting against long odds as he did, he could not win. blind anger and as blind precipitancy, against cool tenacity and clear perceptions, must go under; and mr. tulliver was no match against the laws of life as interpreted by mr. wakem and the decisions of the law courts. his choice of a fool for his wife--was not mrs. tulliver well known at coventry?--was another step in the terrible march of fate. she was of no help to him as a wife--with woman's wit to assist his masculine decisions--nor as a mother was she capable of ruling her daughter or influencing her son. she was as a passive instrument in the hands of the gods--one of those unnoted and unsuspected agents by whose unconscious action such tremendous results are produced. george eliot never did anything more remarkable than in the union she makes in this book between the most commonplace characters and the most majestic conception of tragic fate. there is not a stage hero among them all--not a pair of buskins for the whole company; but the conception is Æschylean, though the stage is no bigger than a doll's house. the humour in "the mill on the floss" is almost as rich as that of "adam bede," though the special qualities of the four sisters are perhaps unduly exaggerated. sister pullet's eternal tears become wearisome, and lose their effect by causeless and ceaseless repetition; and surely sister grigg could not have been always such an unmitigated gorgon! mrs. tulliver's helpless foolishness and tactless interference, moving with her soft white hands the lever which set the whole crushing machinery in motion, are after george eliot's best manner; and the whole comedy circling round sister pullet's wonderful bonnet and the linen and the chaney--comedy at last linked on to tragedy--is of inimitable richness. the girlish bond of sympathy between sister pullet and sister tulliver, in that they both liked spots for their patterned linen, while sister grigg--allays contrairy to sophy pullet, would have striped things--is repeated in that serio-comic scene of the ruin, when the tullivers are sold up and the stalwart cause of their disaster is in bed, paralysed. by the way, would he have recovered so quickly and so thoroughly as he did from such a severe attack? setting that aside, for novelists are not expected to be very accurate pathologists, the humour of this part of the book is all the more striking for the pathos mingled with it. "the head miller, a tall broad-shouldered man of forty, black-eyed and black-haired, subdued by a general mealiness like an auricula":-- "they're nash things, them lop-eared rabbits--they'd happen ha' died if they'd been fed. things out o' natur never thrive. god almighty doesn't like 'em. he made the rabbit's ears to lie back, and it's nothing but contrariness to make 'em lie down like a mastiff dog's":--"maggie's tears began to subside, and she put out her mouth for the cake and bit a piece; and then tom bit a piece, just for company, and they ate together and rubbed each other's cheeks and brows and noses together, while they ate, with a humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies":--is there anything better than these in mrs. poyser's repertory? of acute psychological vision is that fine bit on "plotting contrivance and deliberate covetousness"; and the summing up of the religious and moral life of the dodsons and tullivers, beginning "certainly the religious and moral ideas of the dodsons and tullivers," is as good as anything in our language. no one theoretically knew human nature better than george eliot. practically, she was too thin-skinned to bear the slightest abrasion, such as necessarily comes to us from extended intercourse or the give and take of equality. but theoretically she sounded the depths and shallows, and knew where the bitter springs rose and where the healing waters flowed; and when she translated what she knew into the conduct and analysis of her fictitious characters, she gave them a life and substance peculiarly her own. * * * * * hitherto george eliot has dealt with her own experiences, her reminiscences of old friends and well-known places, of familiar acquaintances, and, in maggie tulliver, of her own childish frowardness and affectionateness--her girlish desire to do right and facile slipping into wrong. in "silas marner" she ventures into a more completely creative region; and, for all the exquisite beauty and poetry of the central idea, she has failed her former excellence. the story is one of the not quite impossible but highly improbable kind, with a _deus ex machinâ_ as the ultimate setter-to-rights of all things wrong. as with "adam bede," the date is thrown back a generation or two, without the smallest savour of the time indicated, save in the fashion of the dresses of the sisters lammeter--a joseph substituted for a cloak, and riding on a pillion for a drive in a fly. else there is not the least attempt to synchronise time, circumstances and sentiment, while the story is artificial in its plot and unlikely in its treatment. yet it is both pretty and pathetic; and the little introduction of fairyland in the golden-haired child asleep by the fire, as the substitute for the stolen hoard, is as lovely as fairy stories generally are. but we altogether question the probability of a marriage between the young squire and his drunken wife. such a woman would not have been too rigorous, and was not; and such a man as godfrey cass would not have married a low-born mistress from "a movement of compunction." as we said before, in the story of hetty and arthur, young squires a century ago were not so tender-hearted towards the honour of a peasant girl. it was a pity, of course, when things went wrong; but then young men will be young men, and it behoved the lasses to keep themselves to themselves! if the young squire did the handsome thing in money, that was all that could be expected of him. the girl would be none the worse thought of for her slip; and the money got by her fault would help in her plenishing with some honest fellow who understood things. this is the sentiment still to be found in villages, where the love-children of the daughters out in service are to be found comfortably housed in the grandmother's cottage, and where no one thinks any the worse of the unmarried mother; and certainly, a century ago, it was the universal rule of moral measurement. george eliot undoubtedly made a chronological mistake in both stories by the amount of conscientious remorse felt by her young men, and the depth of social degradation implied in this slip of her young women. the beginning of "silas marner" is much finer than that of either of her former books. it strikes the true note of a harmonious introduction, and is free from the irritating trivialities of the former openings. in those early days of which "silas marner" treats, a man from the next parish was held as a "stranger"; and even now a scotch, irish or welsh man would be considered as much a foreigner as a "frenchy" himself, were he to take up his abode in any of the more remote hamlets of the north or west. the state of isolation in which silas marner lived was true on all these counts--his being a "foreigner" to the autochthonous shepherds and farmers of ravaloe--his half mazed, half broken-hearted state owing to the false accusation brought against him and the criminal neglect of providence to show his innocence--and his strange and uncongenial trade. yet, for this last, were not the women of that time familiar with the weaving industry?--else what could they have done with the thread which they themselves had spun? if it were disposed of to a travelling agent for the hand-loom weavers, why not have indicated the fact? it would have been one touch more to the good of local colour and conditional accuracy. to be sure, the paints are laid on rather thickly throughout; but eccentricities and folks with bees in their bonnets were always to be found in remote places before the broom of steam and electricity came to sweep them into a more common conformity; and that line between oddity and insanity, always narrow, was then almost invisible. the loss of the hoarded treasure and the poor dazed weaver's terrified flight to the rainbow introduces us to one of george eliot's most masterly of her many scenes of rustic humour. "the more important customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the first man who winked; while the beer drinkers, chiefly men in fustian jackets and smock-frocks, kept their eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, as if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended with embarrassing sadness"--these, as well as mr. snell, the landlord, "a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to stand aloof from human differences, as those of beings who were all alike in need of liquor"--do their fooling admirably. from the cautious discussion on the red durham with a star on her forehead, to the authoritative dictum of mr. macey, tailor and parish clerk (were men of his social stamp called _mr._ in those days?) when he asserts that "there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. there'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself"--from the gossip about the lammeter land to the ghos'es in the lammeter stables, it is all excellent--rich, racy and to the manner born. and the sudden appearance of poor, scared, weazen-faced silas in the midst of the discussion on ghos'es, gives occasion for another fytte of humour quite as good as what has gone before. worthy of mrs. poyser, too, was sweet and patient dolly winthrop's estimate of men. "it seemed surprising that ben winthrop, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along so well with dolly; but she took her husband's jokes and joviality as patiently as everything else, considering that 'men _would_ be so' and viewing the stronger sex in the light of animals whom it had pleased heaven to make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey-cocks." good, too, when speaking of his wife, is mr. macey's version of the "mum" and "budget" of the fairies' dance. "before i said 'sniff' i took care to know as she'd say 'snaff,' and pretty quick too. i wasn't a-going to open _my_ mouth like a dog at a fly, and snap it to again, wi' nothing to swaller." but in spite of all this literary value of "silas marner" we come back to our first opinion of its being unreal and almost impossible in plot. the marriage of godfrey to an opium-eating(?) drab, and the robbery of silas marner's hoard by the squire's son were pretty hard nuts to crack in the way of probability; but the timely death of the wife just at the right moment and in the right place--the adoption of a little girl of two by an old man as nearly "nesh" as was consistent with his power of living free from the restraint of care--the discovery of dunsay's body and the restoration to the weaver of his long-lost gold--the _impasse_ of eppie, the squire's lawfully born daughter and his only legal inheritor, married to a peasant and living as a peasant at her father's gates: all these things make "silas marner" a beautiful unreality, taking it out of the ranks of human history and placing it in those of fairy tale and romance. * * * * * in "felix holt" we come back to a more actual kind of life, such as it was in the early thirties when the "democratic wave," which has swept away so much of the old parcelling out of things social and political, was first beginning to make itself felt. but here again george eliot gives us the sense of anachronism in dealing too familiarly with those new conditions of the reform bill which gave treby magna for the first time a member, and which also for the first time created the revising barrister--while trades unions were still unrecognised by the law, and did their work mainly by rattening and violence. any one who was an intelligent and wide-awake child at that time, and who can remember the talk of the excited elders, must remember things somewhat differently from what george eliot has set down. radical was in those days a term of reproach, carrying with it moral obloquy and condemnation. the tories might call the whigs radicals when they wanted to overwhelm them with shame, as we might now say anarchists and dynamiters. but the most advanced gentleman would never have stood for parliament as a radical. felix holt himself, and the upper fringe of the working class, as also the lower sediment, might be radicals, but scarcely such a man as harold transome, who would have been a whig of a broad pattern. and as for the revising barrister, he was looked on as something akin to frankenstein's monster. no one knew where his power began nor where it ended; and on each side alike he was dreaded as an unknown piece of machinery which, once set a-going, no one could say what it would do or where it would stop. in its construction "felix holt" is perhaps the most unsatisfactory of all george eliot's books. the ins and outs of transome and durfey and scaddon and bycliffe were all too intricate in the weaving and too confused in the telling to be either intelligible or interesting. in trying on the garment of miss braddon the author of "felix holt" showed both want of perception and a deplorable misfit. also she repeats the situation of eppie and her adopted father silas in that of esther and rufus lyon. but where it was natural enough for the contentedly rustic eppie to refuse to leave her beloved old father for one new and unknown--her old habits of cottage simplicity, including a suitable lover, for the unwelcome luxuries of an unfamiliar state--natural in her though eminently unnatural in the drama of life--it was altogether inharmonious with esther's character and tastes to prefer poverty to luxury, felix to harold, malhouse yard to transome court. george eliot's usually firm grip on character wavers into strange self-contradiction in her delineations of esther lyon. even the situation of which she is so fond--the evolution of a soul from spiritual deadness to keen spiritual intensity, and the conversion of a mind from folly to seriousness--even in this we miss the masterly drawing of her better manner. the humour too is thinner. mrs. holt is a bad mrs. nickleby; and the comic chorus of rustic clowns, which george eliot always introduces where she can, is comparatively poor. she is guilty of one distinct coarseness, in her own character as the author, when she speaks of the cook at treby manor--"a much grander person than her ladyship"--"as wearing gold and jewelry to a vast amount of suet." when esther has been taken up by the transomes, george eliot misses what would have been absolutely certain--these fine little points of difference between the high-bred lady of transome court and the half-bred esther of malhouse yard; and yet, quite unintentionally, she makes esther as vulgar as a barmaid in her conversations and flirtatious coquetries with harold transome. nor, we venture to think, as going too far on the other side, would a girl of esther's upbringing and surroundings have used such a delightfully literary phrase as "importunate scents." on the whole we do not think it can be denied that, so far as she had gone in her literary career when she wrote "felix holt," it is undeniably her least successful work. and yet, how many and how beautiful are the good things in it! if homer nods at times, when he is awake who can come near him? the opening of the book is beyond measure fine, and abounds in felicitous phrases. "his sheep-dog following with heedless unofficial air as of a beadle in undress:"--"the higher pains of a dim political consciousness:"--"the younger farmers who had almost a sense of dissipation in talking to a man of his questionable station and unknown experience:"--"her life would be exalted into something quite new--into a sort of difficult blessedness such as one may imagine in beings who are conscious of painfully growing into the possession of higher powers" (true for george eliot herself but not for such a girl as esther lyon):--these are instances of literary supremacy taken at random, with many more behind. then how exquisite is that first love-scene between felix and esther! it is in these grave and tender indications of love that george eliot is at her best. gentle as "sleeping flowers"--delicately wrought, like the most perfect cameos--graceful and suggestive, subtle and yet strong--they are always the very gems of her work. and in "felix holt" especially they stand out with more perfectness because of the inferior quality of so much that surrounds them. felix himself is one of george eliot's masterpieces in the way of nobleness of ideal and firmness of drawing. whether he would have won such a girl as esther, or have allowed himself to be won by her, may be doubtful; but for all the rugged and disagreeable honesty of his nature--for all his high ideals of life and hideous taste in costume--for all his intrinsic tendency and external bearishness, he is supreme. and with one of george eliot's best aphorisms, made in his intention, we close the book with that kind of mingled disappointment and delight which must needs be produced by the inferior work of a great master. "blows are sarcasms turned stupid; wit is a form of force that leaves the limbs at rest." the last three books of the series are the most ponderous. still beautiful and ever noble, they are like over-cultivated fruits and flowers of which the girth is inconvenient; and in one, at least, certain defects already discernible in the earlier issues attain a prominence fatal to perfect work. never spontaneous, as time went on george eliot became painfully laboured. her scholarship degenerated into pedantry, and what had been stately and dignified accuracy in her terms grew to be harsh and inartistic technicality. the artificial pose she had adopted in her life and bearing reacted on her work; and the contradiction between her social circumstances and literary position coloured more than her manners. all her teaching went to the side of self-sacrifice for the general good, of conformity with established moral standards, while her life was in direct opposition to her words; for though she did no other woman personal injustice, she did set an example of disobedience to the public law which wrought more mischief than was counteracted by even the noblest of her exhortations to submit to the restraints of righteousness, however irksome they might be. and it was this endeavour to co-ordinate insurgency and conformity, self-will and self-sacrifice, that made the discord of which every candid student of her work, who knew her history, was conscious from the beginning. nowhere do we find this contradiction more markedly shown than in "romola," the first of the ponderous last three. her noblest work, "romola" is yet one of george eliot's most defective in what we may call the scaffolding of the building. the loftiness of sentiment, the masterly delineation of character, the grand grasp of the political and religious movement of the time, the evidences of deep study and conscientious painstaking visible on every page, are combined with what seems to us to be the most extraordinary indifference to--for it cannot be ignorance of--the social and domestic conditions of the time. the whole story is surely impossible in view of the long arm of the church--the personal restraints necessarily imposed on women during the turbulent unrest of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--the proud exclusiveness of the well-born citizens of any state. take the last first. grant all the honour paid by cosmo and lorenzo to the learned men of all nations, especially to greek scholars who, in the first fervour of the renaissance, were as sons of the gods to those thirsting for the waters of the divine spring. grant, too, the example set by bartolommeo scala, who had given his beautiful daughter alessandra in marriage to the "soldier-poet" marullo; was it likely that even an eccentric old scholar like the blind bardo de' bardi should have so unreservedly adopted a nameless greek adventurer, flung up like a second ulysses from the waves, unvouched for by any sponsor and unidentified by any document? we allow that bardo might have taken tito as his scribe and secretary, seeing that the cennini had already employed him, waif and stray as he was; but that he should have consented to his daughter's marriage with this stranger, and that her more conservative and more suspicious godfather, bernado del nero, should have consented, even if reluctantly, was just about as likely as that an english country gentleman should allow his daughter to marry a handsome gipsy. if we think for a moment of what citizenship meant in olden times, the improbability of the whole of tito's career becomes still more striking. as, in athens, the sojourner never stood on the same plane with the autochthon, so in rome the peregrinus was ineligible for public office or the higher kind of marriage; and though the stricter part of the law was subsequently relaxed in favour of a wider civic hospitality, the sentiment of exclusiveness remained, and indeed does yet remain in italy. it seems more than improbable that tito, a greek adventurer, should have been employed in any political service, save perhaps as a base kind of scout and unhonoured spy. that he should ever have taken the position of an accredited public orator was so contrary to all the old traditions and habits of thought as to be of the same substance as a fairy tale. the character of bardo, too, is non-italian; and his modes of life and thought were as impossible as are some other things to be hereafter spoken of. the church had a long arm, as we said, and a firm grip; and while it blinked indulgently enough at certain aberrations, it demanded the show of conformity in essentials. lorenzo was a pagan, but he died receiving the sacraments. the borgias were criminals, but their professions of faith were loud-voiced and in true earnest. men might inveigh against the evil lives of the clergy and the excesses of monks and nuns, but they had to confess god and the church; and their diatribes had to be carefully worded--as witness rabelais--or a plea would certainly be found for the fire and faggot--as with fra dolcino and savonarola. so with conformity to the usages of life which, then and now, are considered integral to morality. it could not have been possible for bardo to bring up his daughter "aloof from the debasing influence" of her own sex, and in a household with only one old man for a servant. the times did not allow it; no more than we should allow it now in this freer day. this womanless home for an italian girl at any time, more especially in the middle ages, when even young wives were bound to have their companions and duennas, is a serious blot in workmanship. so, indeed, is the whole of romola's life, being anachronism and simply nineteenth-century english from start to finish. the things which both she and tessa did, and were allowed to do, are on a par with "gulliver's travels" and "peter wilkins." it was as impossible for tessa, a pretty young unmarried girl, contadina as she was, to come into florence alone, as for a peasant child of three years old to be sent with a message on business into the city of london alone. to this day well-conducted women of any class do not wander about the streets of italian cities unaccompanied; and maidenhood is, as it always was, sacredly and jealously guarded. nor could romola have gone out and come in at her desire, as she is allowed by the author. with streets filled by the turbulent factions of the bianchi and neri, always ready for a fight or for a love-adventure, what would have happened to, and been thought of, a beautiful young woman slipping about within the city and outside the gates at all hours of the day and night? she is said to be either quite alone (!), as when she goes to tessa's house, or merely accompanied by monna brigida, as when she goes to the convent to see her dying brother--which also, by the way, was impossible--or attended, at a distance, by old maso when she attempts her flight as a solitary nun. she would have lost name and state had she committed these eccentricities; and had she persisted in them, she would have been sent to a convent--that refuge for sorrow, that shelter from danger, that prison for contumacy--and her godfather would have been the first to consign her to what was then the only safe asylum for women. the scene she has with tito before nello's shop is ludicrously impossible--as is their english-like return home together, without retinue or lights, just like a man and wife of to-day when she has been to fetch him from the public-house, or, if she be of the better class, from his club. english, too, is romola's sitting up for her husband in her queer womanless establishment, and opening the door to him when he comes home late at night. for the matter of that, indeed, tito's solitary rambles are as much out of line with the time, and the circumstances of that time, as is romola's strange daring. no man of any note whatever appeared alone in the streets when out on a midnight expedition, either to commit murder or break the seventh commandment. he took some one with him, friend or servant, armed; and to this day you will not find italians willingly walk alone at night. the whole of this kind of life, if necessary for the story, is dead against truth and probability. so is romola's flight, disguised as a nun. splendid as is the scene between her and savonarola, the _vraisemblance_ is spoilt by this impossibility of condition. nor could any woman of that time, brought up in a city, have felt a sense of freedom when fairly outside the walls by herself on a strange road, going to meet an unknown fate and bound to an unknown bourne. she would have felt as a purdah woman of india suddenly turned loose in the streets and environs of delhi--as felt all those women whose evidence we read of in matters of crime and murder, when they came face to face with the desolation of unprotectedness. modern women call it freedom, but in the middle ages such a feeling did not exist. all these things are anachronisms; as much so as if a novelist of the twentieth century, writing of english life in the eighteenth, should clothe his women in knickerbockers, mount them on bicycles, and turn them into the football field and cricket-ground. these exceptions taken to the scaffolding of the book, we are free to admire its glorious nobility of sentiment, its lofty purpose, its perfection of character-drawing, and the dramatic power of its various scenes. nothing can excel the power with which tito's character is shown in its gradual slipping from simple selfishness to positive criminality. the whole action may be summed up in george eliot's own words. "when, the next morning, tito put this determination into act, he had chosen his colour in the game, and had given an inevitable bent to his wishes. he had made it impossible that he should not from henceforth desire it to be the truth that his father was dead; impossible that he should not be tempted to baseness rather than that the precise facts of his conduct should not remain for ever concealed. under every guilty secret there is hidden a brood of guilty wishes, whose unwholesome infecting life is cherished by the darkness. the contaminating effect of deeds often lies less in the commission than in the consequent adjustment of our desires--the enlistment of our self-interest on the side of falsity; as, on the other hand, the purifying influence of public confession springs from the fact that by it the hope in lies is for ever swept away, and the soul recovers its noble attitude of sincerity." but, giving every weight to the natural weakness, sweetness and affectionateness, as well as to the latent falsity of tito's character, we cannot accept the tessa episode as true to life in general, while it is eminently untrue to italian life, especially of those times. tessa herself, too, is wearisome with her tears and her kisses, her blue eyes and baby face, so incessantly repeated and harped on. she is as nauseating as she is impossible; and the whole story from first to last is an ugly blot on the book. in romola and in savonarola we touch the heights. the "tall lily" is an exquisite conception and is supreme in human loveliness. her two interviews with savonarola are superbly done, and the gradual crushing down of her proud self-will under the passionate fervour of the priest is beyond praise both for style and psychology. so, too, are the changes in the great preacher himself--the first, when his simple earnestness of belief in his mission degenerates into self-consciousness and personal assumption, as is the way with all reformers--the second, when he abandons his later attitude, and the dross is burnt away as the hour of trial comes on him, and the world no longer stands between god and his soul. the final scenes of the frate's public life are powerfully wrought, with all george eliot's mastery and eloquence and deep religious fervour; but it is in scenes and circumstances of this kind that she is ever at her best. in humour and psychologic insight she is greater than any english woman writer we have had; in aphorisms she is unrivalled; but in playfulness she is clumsy, and in catching the moral, intellectual and social tone of the times of which she writes, she is nowhere. contrast romola's character and manner of life--above all those two thoroughly english letters of hers--with all that we know of vittoria colonna, the purest and noblest woman of her day--which was romola's--and at once we see the difference between them--the difference wrought by four centuries--vittoria being essentially a woman of the time, though a head and shoulders above the ruck; while romola is as essentially a product of the nineteenth century. in spite of the local colour--which, after all, is only a wash--given by the descriptions of pageants and processions, and by the history of which george eliot so ably mastered the details, the whole book is nineteenth century, from monna brigida's characteristically english speech about tessa's place in the house and the children's sweets, to romola's as characteristically english attitude and hygienic objections--from a little maiden, without a caretaker, carrying eggs to piero, to romola's solitary visit to the studio and night perambulations about the city. all these shortcomings notwithstanding, "romola" will ever remain one of the noblest works of our noblest author; and, after all, did not shakspere make hector quote aristotle, and show all his greeks and romans and outlandish nondescripts from countries unknown to himself, as nothing but sturdy englishmen, such as lived and loved in the times of the great eliza? where we have so much to admire--nay, to venerate--we may let the smaller mistakes pass. yet they must be spoken of by those who would be candid and not fulsome--just and not flattering. by the way, did george eliot know that "baldassare" is the name of one of the devils invoked to this day by sicilian witches? * * * * * the longest of all the novels, "middlemarch," is the most interesting in its characters, its isolated scenes, its moral meaning and philosophic extension; but it is also the most inartistic and the most encumbered with subordinate interests and personages. the canvas is as crowded as one of george cruikshank's etchings; and the work would have gained by what george eliot would have called fission--a division into two. the stories of dorothea and casaubon and of rosamond and lydgate are essentially separate entities; and though they are brought together at the last by an intermingled interest, the result is no more true unification than the siamese twins or the double-headed nightingale represented one true human being. the contrast between the two beautiful young wives is well preserved, and the nicer shades of difference are as clearly marked as are the more essential; for george eliot was far too good a workman to scamp in any direction, and the backs of her stories are as well wrought as the fronts. but if one-third of the book had been cut out--failing that fission, which would have been still better--the work would have gained in proportion to its compression. the character of dorothea marks the last stage in the development of the personality which begins with maggie tulliver, and is in reality marian evans's own self. maggie, romola and dorothea are the same person in progressive stages of moral evolution. all are at cross corners with life and fate--all are rebellious against things as they find them. maggie's state of insurgency is the crudest and simplest; romola's is the most passionate in its moral reprobation of accepted unworthiness; dorothea's is the widest in its mental horizon, and the most womanly in the whole-hearted indifference to aught but love, which ends the story and gives the conclusive echo. in its own way, her action in taking will ladislaw is like esther's in marrying felix holt; but it has not the unlikelihood of esther's choice. it is all for love, if one will, but it runs more harmoniously with the broad lines of her character, and gives us no sense of that dislocation which we get from esther's decision. and in its own way it is at once a parallel and an apology. the most masterly bits of work in "middlemarch" are the characters of rosamond and casaubon. rosamond's unconscious selfishness, her moral thinness, and the superficial quality of her love are all portrayed without a flaw in the drawing; while casaubon's dryness, his literary indecision following on his indefatigable research, and his total inability to adjust himself to his new conditions, together with his scrupulous formality of politeness combined with real cruelty of temper, make a picture of supreme psychologic merit. they who think that casaubon was meant for the late rector of lincoln know nothing about george eliot's early life. they who do know some of those obscurer details, are well aware of the origin whence she drew her masterly portrait, as they know who was mrs. poyser, who tom tulliver, and who hetty sorrel. hetty, indeed, is somewhat repeated in that amazingly idiotic tessa, who is neither english nor italian, nor, indeed, quite human in her molluscous silliness; but there are lines of relation which show themselves to experts, and the absence of the "cherry stone" does not count for more than the dissimilarity always to be found between two copies. no finer bit of work was ever done than the deep and subtle but true and most pathetic tragedy of lydgate's married life. the character of rosamond was a difficult one to paint, and one false touch could have been fatal. to show her intense selfishness and shallowness and yet not to make her revolting, was what only such a consummate psychologist as george eliot could have done. and to show how lydgate, strong man as he was and full of noble ambition and splendid aims, was necessarily subdued, mastered and ruined by the tenacious weakness and moral unworthiness of such a wife, yet not to make him contemptible, was also a task beyond the power of any but the few masters of our literature. all the scenes between this ill-assorted pair are in george eliot's best manner and up to her highest mark; and the gradual declination of rosamond's love, together with lydgate's gradual awakening to the truth of things as they were, are portrayed with a touch as firm as it is tender. that scene on the receipt of sir godwin's letter is as tragic in its own way as othello or a greek drama. it has in it the same sense of human helplessness in the presence of an overmastering fate. rosamond was lydgate's fate. her weakness, tenacity and duplicity--his stronger manhood, which could not crush the weaker woman--his love, which could not coerce, nor punish, nor yet control the thing he loved--all made the threads of that terrible net in which he was entangled, and by which the whole worth of his life was destroyed. it is a story that goes home to the consciousness of many men, who know, as lydgate knew, that they have been mastered by the one who to them is "as an animal of another and feebler species"--who know, as lydgate knew, that their energies have been stunted, their ambition has been frustrated, and their horizon narrowed and darkened because of that tyranny which the weaker woman so well knows how to exercise over the stronger man. casaubon is as masterly in drawing as is rosamond or lydgate. we confess to a sadly imperfect sympathy with dorothea in her queer enthusiasm for this dry stick of a man. learned or not, he was scarcely one to whom a young woman, full of life's strong and sweet emotions, would care to give herself as a wife. one can understand the more impersonal impulse which threw marian evans into an attitude of adoration before the original of her dry stick; but when it comes to the question of marriage, the thing is simply revolting as done by the girl, not only of her own free-will but against the advice and prayers of her friends. tom was to be excused for his harshness and irritation against maggie; and celia's commonplaces of wisdom for the benefit of that self-willed and recalcitrant dodo, if not very profound nor very stimulating, nor yet sympathetic, were worth more in the daily life and ordering of sane folk than dorothea's blind and obstinate determination. beautiful and high-minded as she is, she is also one of those irritating saints whose virtues one cannot but revere, whose personal charms one loves and acknowledges, and whose wrongheadedness makes one long to punish them--or at least restrain them by main force from social suicide. and to think that to her first mistake she adds that second of marrying will ladislaw--the utter snob that he is! where were george eliot's perceptions? or was it that in ladislaw she had a model near at hand, whom she saw through coloured glasses, which also shed their rosy light on her reproduction, so that her copy was to her as idealised as the original, and she was ignorant of the effect produced on the clear-sighted? yet over all the mistakes made by her through defective taste and obstinate unwisdom, the beauty of dorothea's character stands out as did romola's--like a "white lily" in the garden. she is a superb creature in her own way, and her disillusionment is of the nature of a tragedy. but what could any woman expect from a man who could write such a love-letter as that of mr. casaubon's? the canvas of "middlemarch" is overcrowded, as we said; yet how good some of the characters are! the sturdy uprightness, tempered with such loving sweetness, of cabel garth; the commonplace negation of all great and all unworthy qualities of the vincys--celia and sir james--mr. farebrother and mr. and mrs. cadwallader--all are supreme. we confess we do not care much for the portraiture of mr. bulstrode and his spiteful delator raffles--george eliot is not good at melodrama; also the whole episode of mr. featherstone's illness, with his watching family and mary garth, too vividly recalls old anthony chuzzlewit and all that took place round his death-bed and about his will, to give a sense of truth or novelty. george eliot's power did not lie in the same direction as that of charles dickens, and the contrast is not to her advantage. great humorists as both were, their humour was essentially different, and will not bear comparison. no book that george eliot ever wrote is without its wise and pithy aphorisms, its brilliant flashes of wit, its innumerable good things. space will not permit our quoting one-tenth part of the good things scattered about these fascinating pages. celia's feeling, which she stifled in the depths of her heart, that "her sister was too religious for family comfort. notions and scruples were like spilt needles, making one afraid of treading or sitting down, or even eating:"--(but, farther on, what an unnecessary bit of pedantry!--"in short, woman was a problem which, since mr. brooke's mind felt blank before it, could be hardly less complicated than the _revolutions of an irregular solid_.")--mrs. cadwallader's sense of birth, so that a "de bracy reduced to take his dinner in a basin would have seemed to her an example of pathos worth exaggerating; and i fear his aristocratic vices would not have horrified her. but her feeling towards the vulgar rich was a sort of religious hatred:"--"indeed, she (mrs. waule) herself was accustomed to think that entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in the almighty's intentions about families:"--"strangers, whether wrecked and clinging to a raft, or duly escorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had a circumstantial fascination for the virgin mind, against which native merit has urged itself in vain:"--"ladislaw, a sort of burke with a leaven of shelley:"--"but it is one thing to like defiance, and another thing to like its consequences"--an observation wrung out of her own disturbed and inharmonious experience:--"that controlled self-consciousness of manner which is the expensive substitute for simplicity:"--these are a few picked out at random, but the wealth that remains behind is but inadequately represented by stray nuggets. before we close the volume we would like to note the one redeeming little flash of human tenderness in mr. casaubon when he had received his death-warrant from lydgate, and dorothea waits for him to come up to bed. it is the only tender and spontaneous moment in his life as george eliot has painted it, and its strangeness makes its pathos as well as its truth. * * * * * the last of the lengthy three, and the last novel she wrote, "daniel deronda" is the most wearisome, the least artistic, and the most unnatural of all george eliot's books. of course it has the masterly touch, and, for all its comparative inferiority, has also its supreme excellence. but in plot, treatment and character it is far below its predecessors. some of the characters are strangely unnatural. grandcourt, for instance, is more like the french caricature of an english milord than like a possible english gentleman depicted by a compatriot. deronda himself is a prig of the first water; while gwendolen is self-contradictory all through--like a tangled skein of which you cannot find the end, and therefore cannot bring it into order and intelligibility. begun on apparently clear lines of self-will, pride, worldly ambition and personal self-indulgence--without either conscience or deep affections--self-contained and self-controlled--she wavers off into a condition of moral weakness, of vagrant impulses and humiliating self-abandonment for which nothing that went before has prepared us. that she should ever have loved, or even fancied she loved, such a frozen fish as grandcourt was impossible to a girl so full of energy as gwendolen is shown to be. clear in her desires of what she wanted, she would have accepted him, as she did, to escape from the hateful life to which else she would have been condemned. but she would have accepted him without even that amount of self-deception which is portrayed in the decisive interview. she knew his cruel secret, and she deliberately chose to ignore it. so far good. it is what she would have done. but where is the logic of making her "carry on" as she did when she received the diamonds on her wedding-day? it was a painful thing, sure enough, and the mad letter that came with them was disagreeable enough; but it could not have been the shock it is described, nor could it have made gwendolen turn against her husband in such sudden hatred, seeing that she already knew the whole shameful story. these are faults in psychology; and the conduct of the plot is also imperfect. george eliot's plots are always bad when she attempts intricacy, attaining instead confusion and unintelligibility; but surely nothing can be much sillier than the whole story of deronda's birth and upbringing, nor can anything be more unnatural than the character and conduct of his mother. what english gentleman would have brought up a legitimately-born jewish child under conditions which made the whole world believe him to be his own illegitimate son? and what young man, brought up in the belief that he was an english gentleman by birth--leaving out on which side of the blanket--would have rejoiced to find himself a jew instead? the whole story is improbable and far-fetched; as also is deronda's rescue of mirah and her unquestioning adoption by the meyricks. it is all distortion, and in no wise like real life; and some of the characters are as much twisted out of shape as is the story. sir hugo mallinger and mr. and mrs. gascoigne are the most natural of the whole gallery--the defect of exaggeration or caricature spoiling most of the others. of these others, gwendolen herself is far and away the most unsatisfactory. her sudden hatred of her husband is strained; so is her love for deronda; so is her repentance for her constructive act of murder. that she should have failed to throw the rope to grandcourt, drowning in the sea, was perhaps natural enough. that she should have felt such abject remorse and have betrayed herself in such humiliating unreserve to deronda was not. all through the story her action with regard to deronda is dead against the base lines of her character, and is compatible only with such an overwhelming amount of physical passion as does sometimes make women mad. we have no hint of this. on the contrary, all that gwendolen says is founded on spiritual longing for spiritual improvement--spiritual direction with no hint of sexual impulse. yet she acts as one overpowered by that impulse--throwing to the winds pride, reserve, womanly dignity and common sense. esther was not harmonious with herself in her choice of felix holt over harold transome, but esther was naturalness incarnate compared with gwendolen as towards daniel deronda. and the evolution of esther's soul, and the glimpse given of rosamond's tardy sense of some kind of morality, difficult to be believed as each was, were easy sums in moral arithmetic contrasted with the birth and sudden growth of what had been gwendolen's very rudimentary soul--springing into maturity in a moment, like a fully-armed athene, without the need of the more gradual process. add to all these defects, an amount of disquisition and mental dissection which impedes the story till it drags on as slowly as a heavily laden wain--add the fatal blunder of making long scenes which do not help on the action nor elucidate the plot, and the yet more fatal blunder of causeless pedantry, and we have to confess that our great master's last novel is also her worst. but then the one immediately preceding was incomparably her best. we come now to the beauties of the work--to the inimitable force of some phrases--to the noble aim and meaning of the story--to the lofty spirit informing all those interrupting disquisitions, which are really interpolated moral essays, and must not be confounded with padding. take this little shaft aimed at that _græculus esuriens_ lush, that "half-caste among gentlemen" and the _âme damnée_ of grandcourt. "lush's love of ease was well satisfied at present, and if his puddings were rolled towards him in the dust he took the inside bits and found them relishing." again: "we sit up at night to read about cakya-mouni, saint francis and oliver cromwell, but whether we should be glad for any one at all like them to call on us the next morning, still more to reveal himself as a new relation, is quite another matter:"--"a man of refined pride shrinks from making a lover's approaches to a woman whose wealth or rank might make them appear presumptuous or low-motived; but deronda was finding a more delicate difficulty in a position which, superficially taken, was the reverse of that--though, to an ardent reverential love, the loved woman has always a kind of wealth which makes a man keenly susceptible about the aspect of his addresses." (we extract this sentence as an instance of george eliot's fine feeling and delicate perception expressed in her worst and clumsiest manner.) "a blush is no language, only a dubious flag-signal, which may mean either of two contradictions." "grandcourt held that the jamaican negro was a beastly sort of baptist caliban; deronda said he had always felt a little with caliban, who naturally had his own point of view and could sing a good song;" "mrs. davilow observed that her father had an estate in barbadoes, but that she herself had never been in the west indies; mrs. torrington was sure she should never sleep in her bed if she lived among blacks; her husband corrected her by saying that the blacks would be manageable enough if it were not for the half-breeds; and deronda remarked that the whites had to thank themselves for the half-breeds." it is in such "polite pea-shooting" as this that george eliot shows her inimitable humour--the quick give-and-take of her conversations being always in harmony with her characters. but, indeed, unsatisfactory as a novel though "daniel deronda" is, it is full of beauties of all kinds, from verbal wit to the grandly colossal sublimity of mordecai, and deronda's outburst of passionate desire to weld the scattered jews into one nation of which he should be the heart and brain. * * * * * whatever george eliot did bears this impress of massive sincerity--of deep and earnest feeling--of lofty purpose and noble teaching. she was not a fine artist, and she spoilt her later work by pedantry and overlay, but she stands out as the finest woman writer we have had or probably shall have--stands a head and shoulders above the best of the rest. she touched the darker parts of life and passion, but she touched them with clean hands and a pure mind, and with that spirit of philosophic truth which can touch pitch and not be defiled. yet prolific as she was, and the creator of more than one living character, she was not a flexible writer and her range was limited. she repeated situations and motives with a curious narrowness of scope, and in almost all her heroines, save dinah and dorothea, who are evoluted from the beginning, paints the gradual evolution of a soul by the ennobling influence of a higher mind and a religious love. we come now to a curious little crop of errors. though so profound a scholar--being indeed too learned for perfect artistry--she makes strange mistakes for a master of the language such as she was. she spells "insistence" with an "a," and she gives a superfluous "c" to "machiavelli." she sometimes permits herself to slip into the literary misdemeanour of no nominative to her sentence, and into the graver sin of making a singular verb govern the plural noun of a series. she says "frightened at" and "under circumstances"; "by the sly" and "down upon"; and she follows "neither" with "or," as also "never" and "not." she is "averse to"; she has even been known to split her infinitive, and to say "and which" without remorse. once she condescends to the iniquity of "proceeding to take," than which "commencing" is only one stage lower in literary vulgarity; and many of her sentences are as clumsy as a clown's dancing-steps. as no one can accuse her of either ignorance or indifference, still less of haste and slap-dash, these small flaws in the great jewel of her genius are instructive instances of the clinging effect of our carelessness in daily speech; so that grammatical inaccuracy becomes as a second nature to us, and has to be unlearned by all who write. nevertheless, with all her faults fully acknowledged and honestly shown, we ever return as to an inexhaustible fountain, to her greatness of thought, her supreme power, her nobility of aim, her matchless humour, her magnificent drawing, her wise philosophy, her accurate learning--as profound as it was accurate. though we do not bracket her with plato and kant, as did one of her panegyrists, nor hold her equal to fielding for naturalness, nor to scott for picturesqueness, nor as able as was thackeray to project herself into the conditions of thought and society of times other than her own, we do hold her as the sceptred queen of our english victorian authoresses--superior even to charlotte brontë, to mrs. gaskell, to harriet martineau--formidable rivals as these are to all others, living or dead. if she had not crossed that rubicon, or, having crossed it, had been content with more complete insurgency than she was, she would have been a happier woman and a yet more finished novelist. as things were, her life and principles were at cross-corners; and when her literary success had roused up her social ambition, and fame had lifted her far above the place where her birth had set her, she realised the mistake she had made. then the sense of inharmoniousness between what she was and what she would have been did, to some degree, react on her work, to the extent at least of killing in it all passion and spontaneity. her whole life and being were moulded to an artificial pose, and the "made" woman could not possibly be the spontaneous artist. her yet more fatal blunder of marrying an obscure individual many years younger than herself, and so destroying the poetry of her first union by destroying its sense of continuity and constancy, would have still more disastrously reacted on her work had she lived. she died in time, for anything below "theophrastus such" would have seriously endangered her fame and lessened her greatness--culminating as this did in "middlemarch," the best and grandest of her novels, from the zenith of which "daniel deronda," her last, is a sensible decline. [signature: e. lynn linton.] mrs. gaskell _by_ edna lyall mrs. gaskell of all the novelists of queen victoria's reign there is not one to whom the present writer turns with such a sense of love and gratitude as to mrs. gaskell. this feeling is undoubtedly shared by thousands of men and women, for about all the novels there is that wonderful sense of sympathy, that broad human interest which appeals to readers of every description. the hard-worked little girl in the schoolroom can forget the sorrows of arithmetic or the vexations of french verbs as she pores over "wives and daughters" on a saturday half-holiday, and, as george sand remarked to lord houghton, this same book, "wives and daughters," "would rivet the attention of the most _blasé_ man of the world." with the exception of her powerful "life of charlotte brontë," mrs. gaskell wrote only novels or short stories. the enormous difficulties which attended the writing of a biography of the author of "jane eyre" would, we venture to think, have baffled any other writer of that time. it is easy now, years after charlotte brontë's death, to criticise the wisdom of this or that page, to hunt up slight mistakes, to maintain that in some details mrs. gaskell was wrong. to be wise too late is an easy and, to some apparently, a most grateful task; but it would, nevertheless, be hard to find a biography of more fascinating interest, or one which more successfully grappled with the great difficulty of the undertaking. as mr. clement shorter remarks, the "life of charlotte brontë" "ranks with boswell's 'life of johnson' and lockhart's 'life of scott.'" it is pleasant, too, to read charlotte brontë's own words in a letter to mr. williams, where she mentions her first letter from her future friend and biographer: "the letter you forwarded this morning was from mrs. gaskell, authoress of 'mary barton.' she said i was not to answer it, but i cannot help doing so. the note brought the tears to my eyes. she is a good, she is a great woman. proud am i that i can touch a chord of sympathy in souls so noble. in mrs. gaskell's nature it mournfully pleases me to fancy a remote affinity to my sister emily. in miss martineau's mind i have always felt the same, though there are wide differences. both these ladies are above me--certainly far my superiors in attainments and experience. i think i could look up to them if i knew them." for lovers of the author of "mary barton" it is hard, however, not to feel a grudge against the "life of charlotte brontë"--or, rather, the reception accorded to it. owing to the violent attacks to which it gave rise, to a threatened action for libel on the part of some of those mentioned in the book, and to the manifold annoyances to which the publication of the biography subjected the writer, mrs. gaskell determined that no record of her own life should be written. it is pleasant to find that there were gleams of light mixed with the many vexations. charles kingsley writes to mrs. gaskell in warm appreciation of the "life": "be sure," he says, "that the book will do good. it will shame literary people into some stronger belief that a simple, virtuous, practical home-life is consistent with high imaginative genius; and it will shame, too, the prudery of a not over-cleanly, though carefully whitewashed, age, into believing that purity is now (as in all ages till now) quite compatible with the knowledge of evil. i confess that the book has made me ashamed of myself. 'jane eyre' i hardly looked into, very seldom reading a work of fiction--yours, indeed, and thackeray's are the only ones i care to open. 'shirley' disgusted me at the opening, and i gave up the writer and her books with the notion that she was a person who liked coarseness. how i misjudged her! and how thankful i am that i never put a word of my misconceptions into print, or recorded my misjudgments of one who is a whole heaven above me. well have you done your work, and given us a picture of a valiant woman made perfect by sufferings. i shall now read carefully and lovingly every word she has written." mrs. gaskell's wish regarding her own biography has, of course, been respected by her family; but the world is the poorer, and it is impossible not to regret that the life of so dearly loved a writer must never be attempted. the books reveal a mind as delicately pure as a child's, wedded to that true mother's heart which is wide enough to take in all the needy. looking, moreover, at that goodly row of novels--whether in the dear old shabby volumes that have been read and re-read for years, or in that dainty little set recently published in a case, which the rising generation can enjoy--one cannot help reflecting that here is "a little child's monument," surely the most beautiful memorial of a great love and a great grief that could be imagined. it was not until the death of her little child--the only son of the family--that mrs. gaskell, completely broken down by grief, began, at her husband's suggestion, to write. and thus a great sorrow brought forth a rich and wonderful harvest, as grief borne with strength and courage always may do; and the world has good reason to remember that little ten months' child whose short life brought about such great results. a question naturally suggests itself at this point as to mrs. gaskell's birth and education. how far had she inherited her literary gifts? and in what way had her mind been influenced by the surroundings of her childhood and girlhood? her mother, mrs. stevenson, was a miss holland, of sandlebridge, in cheshire; her father--william stevenson--was at first classical tutor in the manchester academy, and later on, during his residence in edinburgh, was editor of the _scots magazine_ and a frequent contributor to the _edinburgh review_. he was next appointed keeper of the records to the treasury, an appointment which caused his removal from edinburgh to chelsea; and it was there, in cheyne row, that elizabeth cleghorn stevenson, the future novelist, was born. owing to the death of her mother, she was adopted when only a month old by her aunt, mrs. lumb, and taken to knutsford, in cheshire, the little town so wonderfully described in "cranford." for two years in her girlhood she was educated at stratford-on-avon, walking in the flowery meadows where shakspere once walked, worshipping in the stately old church where he worshipped, and where he willed that his body should be left at rest; nor is it possible to help imagining that the associations of that ideal place had an influence on the mind of the future writer, doing something to give that essentially english tone which characterises all her books. after her father's second marriage she went to live with him, and her education was superintended by him until his death in , when she once more returned to knutsford. here, at the age of twenty-two, she was married to the rev. william gaskell, m.a., of cross street chapel, manchester; and manchester remained her home ever after. such are the brief outlines of a life story which was to have such a wide and lasting influence for good. for nothing is more striking than this when we think over the well-known novels--they are not only consummate works of art, full of literary charm, perfect in style and rich with the most delightful humour and pathos--they are books from which that morbid lingering over the loathsome details of vice, those sensuous descriptions of sin too rife in the novels of the present day, are altogether excluded. not that the stories are namby-pamby, or unreal in any sense; they are wholly free from the horrid prudery, the pharisaical temper, which makes a merit of walking through life in blinkers and refuses to know of anything that can shock the respectable. mrs. gaskell was too genuine an artist to fall either into this error or into the error of bad taste and want of reserve. she drew life with utter reverence; she held the highest of all ideals, and she dared to be true. how tender and womanly and noble, for instance, is her treatment of the difficult subject which forms the _motif_ of "ruth"! how sorrowfully true to life is the story of the dressmaker's apprentice with no place in which to spend her sunday afternoons! we seem ourselves to breathe the dreadful "stuffy" atmosphere of the workroom, to feel the dreary monotony of the long day's work. it is so natural that the girl's fancy should be caught by henry bellingham, who was courteous to her when she mended the torn dress of his partner at the ball; so inevitable that she should lose her heart to him when she witnessed his gallant rescue of the drowning child. but her fall was not inevitable, and one of the finest bits in the whole novel is the description of ruth's hesitation in the inn parlour when, finding herself most cruelly and unjustly cast off by her employer, she has just accepted her lover's suggestion that she shall go with him to london, little guessing what the promise involved, yet intuitively feeling that her consent had been unwise. "ruth became as hot as she had previously been cold, and went and opened the window, and leant out into the still, sweet evening air. the bush of sweetbriar underneath the window scented the place, and the delicious fragrance reminded her of her old home. i think scents affect and quicken the memory even more than either sights or sounds; for ruth had instantly before her eyes the little garden beneath the window of her mother's room, with the old man leaning on his stick watching her, just as he had done not three hours before on that very afternoon." she remembers the faithful love of the old labouring man and his wife who had served her parents in their lifetime, and for their sake would help and advise her now. would it not be better to go to them? "she put on her bonnet and opened the parlour door; but then she saw the square figure of the landlord standing at the open house door, smoking his evening pipe, and looming large and distinct against the dark air and landscape beyond. ruth remembered the cup of tea that she had drunk; it must be paid for, and she had no money with her. she feared that he would not let her leave the house without paying. she thought that she would leave a note for mr. bellingham saying where she was gone, and how she had left the house in debt, for (like a child) all dilemmas appeared of equal magnitude to her; and the difficulty of passing the landlord while he stood there, and of giving him an explanation of the circumstances, appeared insuperable, and as awkward and fraught with inconvenience as far more serious situations. she kept peeping out of her room after she had written her little pencil note, to see if the outer door was still obstructed. there he stood motionless, enjoying his pipe, and looking out into the darkness which gathered thick with the coming night. the fumes of the tobacco were carried into the house and brought back ruth's sick headache. her energy left her; she became stupid and languid, and incapable of spirited exertion; she modified her plan of action to the determination of asking mr. bellingham to take her to milham grange, to the care of her humble friends, instead of to london. and she thought in her simplicity that he would instantly consent when he had heard her reasons." the selfishness of the man who took advantage of her weakness and ignorance is finely drawn because it is not at all exaggerated. henry bellingham is no monster of wickedness, but a man with many fine qualities spoilt by an over-indulgent and unprincipled mother, and yielding too easily to her worldly-wise arguments. ruth first sees a faint trace of his selfishness--she calls it "unfairness"--when, on their arrival in wales, he persuades the landlady to give them rooms in the hotel and to turn out on a false pretext some other guests into the _dépendance_ across the road. she understands his selfish littleness of soul only too well when, years after, she talks to him during that wonderfully described interview in the chapter called "the meeting on the sands." he cannot in the least understand her. "the deep sense of penitence she expressed he took for earthly shame, which he imagined he could soon soothe away." he actually has the audacity to tempt her a second time; then, after her indignant refusal, he offers her marriage. to his great amazement she refuses this too. "why, what on earth makes you say that?" asked he.... "i do not love you. i did once. don't say i did not love you then; but i do not now. i could never love you again. all you have said and done since you came to abermouth has only made me wonder how i ever could have loved you. we are very far apart; the time that has pressed down my life like brands of hot iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothing to you. you have talked of it with no sound of moaning in your voice, no shadow over the brightness of your face; it has left no sense of sin on your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts; and yet i might plead that i was an ignorant child; only i will not plead anything, for god knows all. but this is only one piece of our great difference." "you mean that i am no saint," he said, impatient at her speech. "granted. but people who are no saints have made very good husbands before now. come, don't let any morbid, overstrained conscientiousness interfere with substantial happiness--happiness both to you and to me--for i am sure i can make you happy--ay! and make you love me too, in spite of your pretty defiance.... and here are advantages for leonard, to be gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way." she stood very erect. "if there was one thing needed to confirm me, you have named it. you shall have nothing to do with my boy by my consent, much less by my agency. i would rather see him working on the roadside than leading such a life--being such a one as you are.... if at last i have spoken out too harshly and too much in a spirit of judgment, the fault is yours. if there were no other reason to prevent our marriage but the one fact that it would bring leonard into contact with you, that would be enough." later on, a fever visits the town, and ruth becomes a nurse. when she hears that the father of her child is ill and untended she volunteers to nurse him, and, being already worn out with work, she dies in consequence. the man's smallness of mind, his contemptible selfishness, are finely indicated in the scene where he goes to look at ruth as she lies dead. he was "disturbed" by the distress of the old servant sally, and saying, "come, my good woman! we must all die," _tries to console her with a sovereign_!! the old servant turns upon him indignantly, then "bent down and kissed the lips from whose marble, unyielding touch he recoiled even in thought." at that moment the old minister, who had sheltered ruth in her trouble, enters. henry makes many offers to him as to providing for ruth's child, leonard, and says, "i cannot tell you how i regret that she should have died in consequence of her love to me." but from gentle old mr. benson he receives only an icy refusal, and the stern words, "men may call such actions as yours youthful follies. there is another name for them with god." the sadness of the book is relieved by the delightful humour of sally, the servant. the account of the wooing of jeremiah dixon is a masterpiece; and sally's hesitation when, having found her proof against the attractions of "a four-roomed house, furniture conformable, and eighty pounds a year," her lover mentions the pig that will be ready for killing by christmas, is a delicious bit of comedy. "well, now! would you believe it? the pig were a temptation. i'd a receipt for curing hams.... however, i resisted. says i, very stern, because i felt i'd been wavering, 'master dixon, once for all, pig or no pig, i'll not marry you.'" the description of the minister's home is very beautiful. here are a few lines which show in what its charm consisted: "in the bensons' house there was the same unconsciousness of individual merit, the same absence of introspection and analysis of motive, as there had been in her mother; but it seemed that their lives were pure and good not merely from a lovely and beautiful nature, but from some law the obedience to which was of itself harmonious peace, and which governed them.... this household had many failings; they were but human, and, with all their loving desire to bring their lives into harmony with the will of god, they often erred and fell short. but somehow the very errors and faults of one individual served to call out higher excellences in another; and so they reacted upon each other, and the result of short discords was exceeding harmony and peace." the publication of "ruth," with its brave, outspoken words, its fearless demand for one standard of morality for men and women, subjected the author to many attacks, as we may gather from the following warm-hearted letter by charles kingsley: "_july , ._ "i am sure that you will excuse my writing to you thus abruptly when you read the cause of my writing. i am told, to my great astonishment, that you had heard painful speeches on account of 'ruth'; what was told me raised all my indignation and disgust.... among all my large acquaintance i never heard, or have heard, but one unanimous opinion of the beauty and righteousness of the book, and that above all from really good women. if you could have heard the things which i heard spoken of it this evening by a thorough high church, fine lady of the world, and by her daughter, too, as pure and pious a soul as one need see, you would have no more doubt than i have, that, whatsoever the 'snobs' and the bigots may think, english people, in general, have but one opinion of 'ruth,' and that is, one of utter satisfaction. i doubt not you have had this said to you already often. believe me, you may have it said to you as often as you will by the purest and most refined of english women. may god bless you, and help you to write many more such books as you have already written, is the fervent wish of your very faithful servant, "c. kingsley." "mary barton," which was the first of the novels, was published in , and this powerful and fascinating story at once set mrs. gaskell in the first rank of english novelists. people differed as to the views set forth in the book, but all were agreed as to its literary force and its great merits. like "alton locke," it has done much to break down class barriers and make the rich try to understand the poor; and when we see the great advance in this direction which has been made since the date of its publication, we are able partly to realise how startling the first appearance of such a book must have been. the secret of the extraordinary power which the book exercises on its readers is, probably, that the writer takes one into the very heart of the life she is describing. most books of the sort fail to arrest our attention. why? because they are written either as mere "goody" books for parish libraries, and are carefully watered down lest they should prove too sensational and enthralling; or because they are written by people who have only a surface knowledge of the characters they describe and the life they would fain depict. "david copperfield" is probably the most popular book dickens ever wrote, and is likely to outlive his other works, just because he himself knew so thoroughly well all that his hero had to pass through, and could draw from real knowledge the characters in the background. and at the present time we are all able to understand the indian mutiny in a way that has never been possible before, because mrs. steel in her wonderful novel, "on the face of the waters," has, through her knowledge of native life, given us a real insight into the heart of a great nation. brilliant trash may succeed for two or three seasons, but unless there is in it some germ of real truth which appeals to the heart and conscience it will not live. sensationalism alone will not hold its ground. there must be in the writer a real deep inner knowledge of his subject if the book is to do its true work. and we venture to think that "mary barton," which for nearly half a century has been influencing people all over the world, owes its vitality very largely to the fact that mrs. gaskell knew the working people of manchester, not as a professional doler out of tracts or charitable relief, not in any detestable, patronising way, but knew them as _friends_. this surely is the reason why the characters in the novel are so intensely real. what could be finer than the portrait of mary herself, from the time when we are first introduced to her as the young apprentice to a milliner and dressmaker, to the end of the book, when she has passed through her great agony? how entirely the reader learns to live with her in her brave struggle to prove her lover's innocence! one of the most powerful parts of the book is the description of her plucky pursuit of the good ship _john cropper_, on board of which was the only man who could save her lover's life by proving an alibi. but it is not only the leading characters that are so genuine and so true to life. old ben sturgis, the boat-man, rough of speech but with more heart than many a smooth-tongued talker; his wife, who sheltered mary when she had no notion what manner of woman she was; job legh, who proved such a good friend to both hero and heroine in their trouble, and whose well-meaning deception of old mrs. wilson is so humorously described; john barton, the father, with the mournful failure at the close of his upright life; old mr. carson, the rich father of the murdered man, with his thirst for vengeance, and his tardy but real forgiveness, when he let himself be led by a little child--all these are living men and women, not puppets; while in the character and the tragic story of poor esther we see the fruits of the writer's deep knowledge of the life of those she helped when released from gaol. but mrs. gaskell looked on both sides of the question. in "north and south," published in , she deals with the labour question from the master's standpoint, and in mr. thornton draws a most striking picture of a manufacturer who is just and well-meaning--one who really respects and cares for the men he employs. the main interest of this book lies, however, in the character of the heroine, margaret, who is placed in a most cruel dilemma by a ne'er-do-well brother whom she shields. by far the most dramatic scene is that in which, to enable frederick to escape, margaret tells a deliberate falsehood to the detective who is in search of him. the torture of mind she suffers afterwards for having uttered this intentional lie, and the difficult question whether under any circumstances a lie is warrantable, are dealt with in the writer's most powerful way. in --the same year in which "ruth" was published--the greatest of all mrs. gaskell's works appeared, the inimitable "cranford." for humour and for pathos we have nothing like this in all the victorian literature. it is a book of which one can never tire: yet it can scarcely be said to have a plot at all, being just the most delicate miniature painting of a small old-fashioned country town and its inhabitants. what english man or woman is there, however, who will not read and re-read its pages with laughter and tears? cranford is said to be in many respects the knutsford of mrs. gaskell's childhood and youth, and there is something so wonderfully lifelike in the descriptions of the manners and customs of the very select little community that one is inclined to believe that there is truth in the assertion. they were gently bred, those old cranford folk, with their "elegant economy," their hatred of all display, and their considerate tact. there is pathos as well as fun in the description of mrs. forrester pretending not to know what cakes were sent up "at a party in her baby-house of a dwelling ... though she knew, and we knew, and she knew that we knew, and we knew that she knew that we knew, she had been busy all the morning making tea-bread and sponge-cakes!" there is an air of leisure and peacefulness in every page of the book, for there was no hurrying life among those dignified old people. "i had often occasion to notice the use that was made of fragments and small opportunities in cranford: the rose-leaves that were gathered ere they fell to make into a pot-pourri for some one who had no garden; the little bundles of lavender-flowers sent to some town-dweller. things that many would despise, and actions which it seemed scarcely worth while to perform, were all attended to in cranford." who has not laughed over miss betsy barker's alderney cow "meekly going to her pasture, clad in dark grey flannel" after her disaster in the lime-pit! or over the masterly description of miss jenkyns, who "wore a cravat, and a little bonnet like a jockey-cap, and altogether had the appearance of a strong-minded woman; although she would have despised the modern idea of women being equal to men. equal, indeed! she knew they were superior." dear old miss matty, however, with her reverence for the stronger sister, and her love affair of long ago, has a closer hold on the heart of the reader. the description of the meeting of the former lovers is idyllic; and when thomas holbrook dies unexpectedly, soon after, the woman whose love-story had been spoilt by the home authorities reverses her own ordinance against "followers" in the case of martha, the maid-servant, but otherwise makes no sign. "miss matty made a strong effort to conceal her feelings--a concealment she practised even with me, for she has never alluded to mr. holbrook again, though the book he gave her lies with her bible on the little table by her bedside. she did not think i heard her when she asked the little milliner of cranford to make her caps something like the honourable mrs. jamieson's, or that i noticed the reply: "'but she wears widows' caps, ma'am!' "'oh? i only meant something in that style; not widows', of course, but rather like mrs. jamieson's.'" in the whole book there is not a character that we cannot vividly realise: the honourable (but sleepy) mrs. jamieson; brisk, cheerful lady glenmire, who married the sensible country doctor and sacrificed her title to become plain mrs. hoggins; miss pole, who always with withering scorn called ghosts "indigestion," until the night they heard of the headless lady who had been seen wringing her hands in darkness lane, when, to avoid "the woebegone trunk," she with tremulous dignity offered the sedan chairman an extra shilling to go round another way! captain brown with his devotion to the writings of mr. boz and his feud with miss jenkyns as to the superior merits of dr. johnson; and peter, the long-lost brother, who from first to last remains an inveterate practical joker. one and all they become our life-long friends, while the book stands alone as a perfect picture of english country town society fifty years ago. mrs. gaskell's shorter stories are scarcely equal to the novels, yet some of them are very beautiful. "cousin phillis," for example, gives one more of the real atmosphere of country life than any other writer except wordsworth. we seem actually to smell the new-mown hay as we read the story. charming, too, is "my lady ludlow" with her genteel horror of dissenters subdued in the end by her genuine good feeling. how often one has longed for that comfortable square pew of hers in the parish church, in which, if she did not like the sermon, she would pull up a glass window as though she had been in her coach, and shut out the sound of the obnoxious preacher! but, with all her peculiarities, she was the most courteous of women--a lady in the true sense of the word--and when people smiled at a shy and untaught visitor who spread out her handkerchief on the front of her dress as the footman handed her coffee, my lady ludlow with infinite tact and grace promptly spread _her_ handkerchief exactly in the same fashion which the tradesman's wife had adopted. among the short tragic stories, the most striking is one called "the crooked branch," in which the scene at the assizes has almost unrivalled power; while among the lighter short stories, "my french master," with its delicate portraiture of the old refugee, and "mr. harrison's confessions," the delightfully written love-story of a young country doctor, are perhaps the most enjoyable. in the novel "sylvia's lovers" was published, and although, by its fine description of old whitby and the pathos of the story, it has won many admirers, we infinitely prefer its successor, "wives and daughters." there is something very sad in the thought that this last and best of the writer's stories was left unfinished; but happily very little remained to be told, and that little was tenderly touched in to the almost perfect picture of english home life by the daughter who had been not only mrs. gaskell's child but her friend. "wives and daughters" will always remain as a true and vivid and powerful study of life and character; while molly gibson, with her loyal heart and sweet sunshiny nature, will, we venture to think, better represent the majority of english girls than the happily abnormal dodos and millicent chynes of present-day fashion. in mr. gibson's second wife the author has given us a most subtle study of a thoroughly selfish and false-hearted woman, and she is made all the more repulsive because of her outward charms, her soft seductive voice and her lavish employment of terms of endearment. wonderfully clever, too, is the study of poor little cynthia, her daughter, whose relations to molly are most charmingly drawn. the story was just approaching its happy and wholesome ending, and the difficulties which had parted roger hamley and molly had just disappeared, when death summoned the writer from a world she had done so much to brighten and to raise. on sunday evening, november , , mrs. gaskell died quite suddenly at holybourne, alton, hampshire, a house which she had recently bought as a surprise for her husband. sad as such a death must always be for those who are left behind, one can imagine nothing happier than "death in harness" for a worker who loves his work. ".... there's rest above. below let work be death, if work be love!" her "last days," wrote one of those who knew her best, "had been full of loving thought and tender help for others. she was so sweet and dear and noble beyond words." that is the summing-up of the whole; and, after all, what better could a long biography give us? the motto of all of us should surely be the words of mme. viardot garcia: "first i am a woman ... then i am an artist." and assuredly mrs. gaskell's life was ruled on those lines. "it was wonderful"--wrote her daughter, mrs. holland, in a letter to me the other day--"how her writing never interfered with her social or domestic duties. i think she was the best and most practical housekeeper i ever came across, and the brightest, most agreeable hostess, to say nothing of being everything as a mother and friend. she combined both, being my mother and greatest friend in a way you do not often, i think, find between mother and daughter." some people are fond of rashly asserting that the ideal wife and mother cares little and knows less about the world beyond the little world of home. mrs. gaskell, however, took a keen interest in the questions of the day, and was a liberal in politics; while it is quite evident that neither these wider interests nor her philanthropic work tended to interfere with the home life, which was clearly of the noblest type. the friend as well as the mother of her children, the sharer of all her husband's interests, she yet found time to use to the utmost the great literary gift that had been entrusted to her; while her sympathy for those in trouble was shown not only in the powerful pleading of her novels, but in quiet, practical work in connection with prisoners. she was one of the fellow labourers of thomas wright, the well-known prison philanthropist, and was able to help in finding places for young girls who had been discharged from prison. for working women she also held classes, and both among the poor and the rich had many close friendships. how far the characters in the novels were studied from life is a question which naturally suggests itself; and mrs. holland replies to it as follows: "i do not think my mother ever _consciously_ took her characters from special individuals, but we who knew often thought we recognised people, and would tell her, 'oh, so and so is just like mr. blank,' or something of that kind; and she would say, 'so it is, but i never meant it for him.' and really many of the characters are from originals, or rather are like originals, but they were not consciously meant to be like." for another detail which will interest mrs. gaskell's fellow workers i am indebted to the same source: "sometimes she planned her novels more or less beforehand, but in many cases, certainly in that of 'wives and daughters,' she had very little plot made beforehand, but planned her story as she wrote. she generally wrote in the morning, but sometimes late at night, when the house was quiet." few writers, we think, have exercised a more thoroughly wholesome influence over their readers than mrs. gaskell. her books, with their wide human sympathies, their tender comprehension of human frailty, their bright flashes of humour and their infinite pathos, seem to plead with us to love one another. through them all we seem to hear the author's voice imploring us to "seize the day" and to "make friends," as she does in actual words at the close of one of her christmas stories, adding pathetically: "i ask it of you for the sake of that old angelic song, heard so many years ago by the shepherds, keeping watch by night on bethlehem heights." [signature: a e bayly. 'edna lyall.'] mrs. crowe. mrs. archer clive. mrs. henry wood _by_ adeline sergeant mrs. crowe. mrs. archer clive. mrs. henry wood mrs. catherine crowe, whose maiden name was stevens, was born at borough green, in kent, about , and died in . she married colonel crowe in , and took up her residence with him in edinburgh. her books were written chiefly between the years and , and she is best known by her novel, "susan hopley," and her collection of ghost stories, "the night side of nature." she was a woman of considerable ability, which appears, however, to have run into rather obscure and sombre channels, such as showed a somewhat morbid bent of mind, with a tendency towards depression, which culminated at last in a short but violent attack of insanity. but love of the unseen and supernatural does not seem to have blunted her keenness of observation in ordinary life, for her novels, the scenes of which are laid chiefly among homely and domestic surroundings, display alike soundness of judgment and considerable dramatic power. as a writer, indeed, mrs. crowe was extremely versatile; she wrote plays, children's stories, short historical tales, romantic novels, as well as the ghost stories with which her name seems chiefly to be associated in the minds of this generation. it is evident too, that she believed herself--rightly or wrongly--to be possessed of great philosophical discrimination; but it must be acknowledged that her philosophical and metaphysical studies often led her into curious byways of speculation, into which the reader does not willingly wander. * * * * * it is worth noting that mrs. crowe's ideas respecting the status and education of women were, for the days in which she lived, exceedingly "advanced." in "lilly dawson," for instance, a story published in , she makes an elaborate protest against the kind of education which women were then receiving. "it is true," she says, "that there is little real culture amongst men; there are few strong minds and fewer honest ones, but they have still more advantages. if their education has been bad, it has at least been a trifle better than ours. six hours a day at latin and greek are better than six hours a day at worsted work and embroidery; and time is better spent in acquiring a smattering of mathematics than in strumming hook's lessons on a bad pianoforte." her views of women in general are well expressed in the following words from the same work of fiction. "if, as we believe, under no system of training, the intellect of woman would be found as strong as that of a man, she is compensated by her intuitions being stronger. if her reason be less majestic, her insight is clearer; where man reasons she sees. nature, in short, gave her all that was needful to enable her to play a noble part in the world's history, if man would but let her play it out, and not treat her like a full-grown baby, to be flattered and spoilt on the one hand, and coerced and restricted on the other, vibrating between royal rule and slavish serfdom." surely we hear the voice of nora helmer herself, the very quintessence of ibsenism! it must have required considerable courage to write in this way in the year , and mrs. crowe should certainly be numbered among the lovers of educational reform. in many ways she seems to have been a woman of strong individuality and decided opinions. * * * * * her first work was a drama, "aristodemus," published anonymously in ; it showed considerable ability and was well regarded by the critics. she then wrote a novel, "men and women, or manorial rights," in ; and in published her most successful work of fiction: "susan hopley, or the adventures of a maid-servant." this story was more generally popular than any other from her pen, but it is to be doubted whether it possesses more literary ability or points of greater interest than the rest. mrs. crowe then embarked upon a translation of "the seeress of provorst," by justinus kerner, a book of revelations concerning the inner life of man; and in she published a book called "the night side of nature," a collection of supernatural tales gathered from many sources, probably the best storehouse of ghost stories in the english language. its interest is a little marred by the credulity of the author. she seems never to disbelieve any ghost story of any kind that comes in her way. from the humble apologies, however, with which she opens her dissertation on the subject, it is easy to see how great a change has passed over people's minds in the course of the last fifty years, with respect to the supernatural. if mrs. crowe had lived in these days, she would have found herself in intimate relations with the society for psychical research, and would have had no reason to excuse herself for the choice of her subject. she divides her book into sections, which treat of dreams (where we get sir noel paton's account of his mother's curious vision); warnings; double-dreaming and trance, with the stories of colonel townshend's voluntary trance and the well-known legend of lord balcarres and the ghost of claverhouse; doppel-gängers and apparitions (including the stories of lady beresford's branded wrist and lord lyttleton's warning); and other chapters descriptive of haunted houses, with details concerning clairvoyance and the use of the crystal. it is interesting to find among these the original account of "pearlin jean," of which miss sarah tytler has made such excellent use in one of her recent books. an account of the phenomena of _stigmata_ and the case of catherine emmerich, are also described in detail. lovers of the supernatural will find much to gratify their taste in a perusal of "the night side of nature." mrs. crowe did not exhaust the subject in this volume, for she issued a book on ghosts and family legends, a volume for christmas, in the year ; a work full of the kind of stories which became so popular in the now almost obsolete christmas annual of succeeding years. it is also curious to note, that in , mrs. crowe produced a work of an entirely different nature, namely, an excellent story for children, entitled "pippie's warning, or mind your temper"--another instance of her versatility of mind. "the adventures of a beauty" and "light and darkness" appeared in . the latter is a collection of short tales from different sources, partly historical and partly imaginative, and certainly more in accordance with the taste of modern days than her elaborate domestic stories. mrs. crowe's taste for the horrible is distinctly perceptible in this collection. there is an account of the celebrated poisoners, frau gottfried, madame ursinus, and margaret zwanziger, whose crimes were so numerous that they themselves forgot the number of their victims; and of mr. tinius, who went about making morning calls and murdering the persons whom he honoured with a visit. the histories of lesurques, the hero of the "lyons mail," and of madame louise, princess of france, who became a nun, are well narrated; but nearly all the stories are concerned with horrors such as suggest the productions of mr. wilkie collins. "the priest of st. quentin" and "the lycanthropist" are two of the most powerful. her next novel, a more purely domestic one, was "linny lockwood," issued in . a sentence from the preface to this book anticipates--rather early, as we may think--the approaching death of the three-volume novel: "messrs. routledge and co. have been for some time soliciting me to write them an original novel for their cheap series; and being convinced that the period for publishing at £ s. d., books of a kind that people generally read but once, is gone by, i have resolved to make the experiment." she wrote another tragedy, "the cruel kindness," in , and abridged "uncle tom's cabin" for children. in a pamphlet on "spiritualism and the age we live in," constituted the last of her more important works, although she continued, for some time after recovery from the attack of insanity which we have mentioned, to write papers and stories for periodicals. in spite of mrs. crowe's love for the supernatural and the horrible, she is one of the pioneers of the purely domestic story--that story of the affections and the emotions peculiar to the victorian age. she is allied to the schools of richardson and fanny burney rather than to those of sir walter scott or miss austen; for although her incidents are often romantic and even far-fetched, her characters are curiously homely and generally of humble environment. thus, for instance, "susan hopley" is a maid-servant (though not of the pamela kind nor with the faintest resemblance to esther waters); lilly dawson, although proved ultimately to be the daughter of a colonel, passes the greater part of her earlier life as a drudge and a dependent; and linny lockwood, while refined and educated, is reduced to the situation of a lady's maid. the circumstances of her heroines are, as a rule, extremely prosaic, and would possibly have been condemned by writers of miss austen's school as hopelessly vulgar; but mrs. crowe's way of treating these characters and their surroundings bears upon it no stamp of vulgarity at all. its great defect is its want of humour to light up the sordid side of the life which she describes. she is almost always serious, full of exalted and occasionally overstrained sentiment. and even when treating of childhood, it is rarely that she relaxes so far as (in "lilly dawson") to describe the naughtiness of the little girl who insisted upon praying for the cat. this is almost the sole glimpse of a sense of fun to which mrs. crowe treats us in her numerous volumes. to the present age "susan hopley," although so popular at the time of its publication, is less attractive than the stories of "linny lockwood" and "lilly dawson." the form adopted for the recital of susan's narrative is extremely inartistic, for it comprises susan's reminiscences, interspersed at intervals with narrative, and supposed to be told by her in mature age, when she is housekeeper to the hero of the story. nevertheless, the plot is ingenious, turning on the murder of susan's brother by a handsome and gentlemanly villain, and the subsequent exposure of his guilt by means of susan's energy and the repentance of one of his victims. it has all the elements of a sensational story, with the exception of a "sympathetic" heroine or any other really interesting character; for susan hopley, the embodiment of all homely virtues, is distinctly dull, and it is difficult to feel the attractiveness of the "beautiful and haughty" dairymaid, mabel lightfoot, whose frailty forms an important element in the discovery of gaveston's guilt. "lilly dawson" may be said to possess something of a psychological interest, which redeems it from the charge of dulness brought against "susan hopley." the heroine is thrown as a child into the hands of a wild and lawless family, smugglers and desperadoes, who make of her a household slave; and the child appears at first to be utterly stupid and apathetic. a touch of affection and sympathy is needed before her intellect awakes. in fear of being forced to marry one of the sons of the house in which she has been brought up, when she is only fifteen, she escapes from her enemies, becomes the guide and adopted child of an old blind man, takes service as a nursemaid, is employed in a milliner's workroom, narrowly escapes being murdered by the man whom she refused to marry, and finally acts as maid in the house of her own relations, where she is discovered and received with the greatest affection. nevertheless, she cannot endure the life of "a fine lady," and goes back ultimately to marry the humble lover whose kindness had cheered her in the days of her childhood and poverty. in "linny lockwood" there is a touch of emotion, even of passion, which is wanting in the previous stories. it embraces scenes and situations which are quite as moving as any which thrilled the english public in the pages of "jane eyre" or "east lynne," but, owing possibly to mrs. crowe's obstinate realism and somewhat didactic homeliness of diction and sentiment, it seems somewhat to have missed its mark. linny lockwood marries a man entirely unworthy of her, whose love strays speedily from her to another woman--a married woman with whom he elopes and whom he afterwards abandons. linny, being poor and destitute, looks about for work, and takes the post of maid to her husband's deserted mistress, without, of course, knowing what had been the connection between them. but before the birth of kate's child, linny learns the truth and nevertheless remains with her to soothe her weakness, and lessen the pangs of remorse of which the poor woman ultimately dies. a full explanation between the two women takes place before kate's death; and the child that is left behind is adopted by linny lockwood, who refuses to pardon the husband, who sues to her for forgiveness, or to live with him again. the character of linny lockwood is a very beautiful one, and the story appeals to the reader's sensibilities more strongly than the recital of susan hopley's adventures or the girlish sorrows of lilly dawson. * * * * * mrs. crowe's writings certainly heralded the advent of a new kind of fiction: a kind which has been, perhaps more than any other, characteristic of the early years of the victorian age. it is the literature of domestic realism, of homely unromantic characters, which no accessories of exciting adventure can render interesting or remarkable in themselves--characters distinguished by every sort of virtue, yet not possessed of any ideal attractiveness. she is old-fashioned enough to insist upon a happy ending, to punish the wicked and to reward the good. but amid all the conventionality of her style, one is conscious of a note of hard common sense and a power of seeing things as they really are, which in these days would probably have forced her (perhaps against her will) into the realistic school. she seems, in fact, to hover between two ages of literature, and to be possessed at times of two different spirits--one the romantic and the supernatural, the other distinctly commonplace and workaday. perhaps it is by the former that she will be chiefly remembered, but it is through the latter that she takes a place in english literature. she left a mark upon the age in which she lived, and she helped, in a quiet, undemonstrative fashion, to mould the women of england after higher ideals than had been possible in the early days of the century. those who consider the development of women to be one of the distinguishing features of queen victoria's reign should not forget that they owe deep gratitude to writers like mrs. crowe, who upheld the standard of a woman's right to education and economic independence long before these subjects were discussed in newspapers and upon public platforms. for, as george eliot has said, with her usual wisdom, it is owing to the labours of those who have lived in comparative obscurity and lie in forgotten graves, that things are well with us here and now. caroline clive was the second daughter and co-heiress of edmund meysey-wigley, of shakenhurst, worcestershire. she was born in , at brompton green, london, and was married in to the rev. archer clive, rector of solihull, warwickshire. in the latest edition of her poems, her daughter states that "mrs. archer clive, from a severe illness when she was three years old, was lame; and though her strong mind and high spirit carried her happily through childhood and early life, as she grew up she felt sharply the loss of all the active pleasures enjoyed by others." her novel, "paul ferroll," contains a touching poem which shows how deeply she felt the privations consequent on her infirmity. "gaeta's orange groves were there half circling round the sun-kissed sea; and all were gone and left the fair rich garden solitude but me. "my feeble feet refused to tread the rugged pathway to the bay; down the steep rocky way they tread and gain the boat and glide away. * * * * * "above me hung the golden glow of fruit which is at one with flowers; below me gleamed the ocean's flow, like sapphires in the midday hours. "a passing by there was of wings, of silent, flower-like butterflies; the sudden beetle as it springs full of the life of southern skies. * * * * * "it was an hour of bliss to die, but not to sleep, for ever came the warm thin air, and, passing by, fanned sense and soul and heart to flame." a great love of nature and a yearning to tread its scenes breathe in every word of these lines, which possess an essentially pathetic charm of their own. mrs. clive died in july , from the result of an accident, by which her dress was set on fire when she was writing in her boudoir at whitfield, with her books and papers around her. her health was extremely delicate, and she had been for many years a confirmed invalid. her first work consisted of the well-known "ix poems by v." published in . these poems were very favourably received, and were much praised by dugald stewart, by lockhart, and by mr. gladstone, who says of them, "they form a small book, which is the life and soul of a great book." they were also very favourably reviewed in the _quarterly_ (lxvi. - ). her other poems, "i watch the heavens," "the queen's ball," "the vale of the rea," etc., have been re-published with the original "ix" in a separate volume. "year after year," published in , passed into two editions; but mrs. clive's reputation chiefly rests upon her story of "paul ferroll," published in , and its sequel, "why paul ferroll killed his wife." the second story was, however, in no way equal to the first; and a subsequent novel, "john greswold," which appeared in , was decidedly inferior to its predecessors, although containing passages of considerable literary merit. "paul ferroll" has passed through several editions, and has been translated into french. it was not until the fourth edition that the concluding chapter, which brings the story down to the death of paul ferroll, was added. * * * * * there is little difference in date between the writings of mrs. crowe and those of mrs. archer clive, but there is a tremendous gap between their methods and the tone of their novels. as a matter of fact they belong to different generations, in spite of their similarity of age. mrs. crowe belongs to the older school of fictionists, while mrs. archer clive is curiously modern. the tone and style are like the tone and style of the present day, not so much in the dialogue, which is generally stilted, after the fashion of the age in which she lived, as in the mental attitude of the characters, in the atmosphere of the books, and the elaborate, sometimes even artistic, collocation of scenes and incidents. * * * * * "paul ferroll" is often looked upon merely as a novel of plot, almost the first "sensational" novel, as we call it, of the century. but it is more than that. there is a distinct working out of character and a subordination of mere incident to its development; and the original ending was of so striking and pathetic a nature that we can only regret the subsequent addition, which probably the influence of others made necessary, just as in "villette" charlotte brontë was obliged to soften down her own conception, in order to satisfy the conventional requirements of her friends. the story of "paul ferroll" displays a good deal of constructive skill, although the mystery enfolded in its pages is more easily penetrated than would be the case in a modern sensational novel. the fact is, we have increased our knowledge of the intricacies both of human nature and of criminal law in these latter days, and our novelists are cleverer in concealing or half revealing their mysteries than they were in "the forties." for a few pages, at least, the reader may be deluded into the belief that paul ferroll is a worthy and innocent man, and that his wife has been murdered by some revengeful servant or ruffianly vagabond. but the secret of his guilt is too speedily fathomed; and from that point to the end of the book, the question turns on the possibilities of its discovery or the likelihood and effects of his own confession. mrs. clive's picture of the "bold bad man" is not so successful as that of charlotte brontë's rochester. rochester, with all his faults, commands sympathy, but our sympathies are alienated from paul ferroll when we find (in the first chapter) that he could ride out tranquilly on a summer's morning, scold his gardener, joke with the farmer's wife, and straighten out the farmer's accounts, when he had just previously murdered his wife in her sleep by thrusting a sharp pointed knife through her head "below the ear." even although he afterwards exhibits agitation on being brought face to face with the corpse of his wife, we cannot rid ourselves of our remembrance of the insensibility which he had shown. the motive for the crime is not far to seek. he had fixed his affections on a young girl, his marriage with whom had been prevented by the woman who became his wife. dissension and increasing bitterness grew up between the pair; and her death was held as a release by paul ferroll, who hastened to bring home, as his second wife, the girl whom he had formerly loved. no suspicion attached to him, and he is careful to provide means of defence for the labourer franks and his wife, who have been accused of the murder. on returning home with his second wife, to whom he is passionately attached, he devotes himself entirely to literary pursuits, refusing to mix with any of the society of the place. from time to time his motive is allowed to appear; he has determined never to accept a favour from, nor become a friend of, the country gentlemen, with whom he is thrown into contact, so that they shall never have to say, supposing the truth should ever be acknowledged, that he has made his way into their houses on false pretences. but in spite of his seclusion, he lives a life of ideal happiness with his wife, ellinor, and their beautiful little child, janet, who, however, occupies quite a secondary place in the hearts of her father and mother, who are wrapt up in one another. the events of the next few years are not treated in detail, although there is at one point a most interesting description of the state of a town in which cholera rages, when paul ferroll flings himself with heroic ardour into every effort to stem the tide of the disease. owing to a riot at the time of the assizes, ferroll fires on one of the crowd and kills him, so that by a curious coincidence, he is tried for murder, and has full experience of the horrors accompanying the situation of a criminal. he is sentenced to death but pardoned, and returns to his old life at home. the widow of the labourer who had formerly been accused of the murder of his first wife then returns to england, and ferroll knows that her return increases the danger of discovery. he tries to escape it by going abroad, but finds on his return that martha franks, the widow, is in possession of some trinkets which belonged to the late mrs. ferroll, that she has been accused of theft and finally of the murder of her mistress. this is the very conjuncture which had always appeared possible to paul ferroll; the moment has come when he feels himself obliged to confess the truth, in order to save a fellow creature from unjust condemnation. he thereupon acknowledges his guilt, is at once conveyed to prison, and after a merely formal trial is condemned to death--the execution to take place, apparently, in three days, according to the inhuman custom of the time. ellinor dies on the day when she hears of his confession; and janet, his daughter, now eighteen years old, and janet's young lover, hugh bartlett, are the only persons who remain faithful to him or make efforts for his safety. through hugh's efforts and the treachery of the gaoler, paul ferroll manages, in a somewhat improbable manner, to escape from prison; and he and janet make their way to spain, whence they will be able to take ship for america. the conclusion of the story, as at first written, is particularly striking. janet, after an illness, has come to herself: "she did not know the place where she was. the air was warm and perfumed, the windows shaded, the room quite a stranger to her. an elderly woman, with a black silk mantle on her head and over her shoulders, spoke to her. she did not understand the meaning, but she knew the words were spanish. then the tide of recollection rushed back, and the black cold night came fully before her, which was the last thing she recollected. 'my father,' she said, rising as well as she could. the woman had gone to the window and beckoned, and in another minute mr. ferroll stood by her bedside. 'can you still love me, janet?' said he. 'love you! oh yes, my father.'" it seems a pity that a concluding chapter was afterwards added, containing a description of janet's life with her father in boston, and of his dying moments and last words, which might well have been left to the imagination. the original conclusion was more impressive without these details. it is rather curious, too, that mrs. clive should have written another volume to explain _why_ paul ferroll killed his wife; but possibly she thought further explanation was necessary, since she prefixed to the latter volume a quotation from froude's "henry the eighth": "a man does not murder his wife gratuitously." in this book she changes the names of all the characters except that of ellinor. paul ferroll is leslie, and his wife, anne, is laura. ellinor, the young and beautiful girl out of a convent, completely enchants leslie, whom laura had intended to marry; and laura contrives, by deliberate malice, so completely to sever them that he makes laura his wife, while ellinor returns to the convent. "violent were the passions of the strong but bitter man; fierce the hatred of the powerful but baffled intellect. wild was the fury of the man who believed in but one world of good, and saw the mortal moments pass away unenjoyed and irretrievable. out of these hours arose a purpose. the reader sees the man and knows the deed. from the premises laid before him, he need not indeed conclude that even that man would do the deed, but since it was told in that the husband killed his wife, so now in it is explained _why_ he killed her." this second volume is decidedly inferior to the first, but it shared in the popularity which "paul ferroll" had already achieved, and the author's vigorous portraiture of characters and events was well marked in both volumes. * * * * * with her third volume, "john greswold," came a sudden falling off, at any rate as regards dramatic force. "john greswold" is the autobiography of a young man who has very little story to tell and does not know how to tell it. no grip is laid on the reader's attention; no character claims especial interest, but the thing that is remarkable in the book is the literary touch, which is far more perceptible than in the more interesting story of "paul ferroll." the book is somewhat inchoate, but contains short passages of real beauty, keen shafts of observation, and an occasional flight of emotional expression, which raise the writer to a greater literary elevation than the merely sensational incidents of her earlier novels. she has gained in reflective power, but lost her dramatic instinct. consequently "john greswold" was less successful than "paul ferroll." the conclusion of the book, vague and indecisive, shows the author to be marked out by nature as one of the impressionist school. it is powerful and yet indefinite; in fact it could only have been written by one with a true poetic gift. "the seven stars that never set are going westward. the funeral car of lazarus moves on and the three mourners follow behind. they are above the fir wood and that's the sign of midnight. twenty-three years ago i was born into this world and now the twenty-third has run out. the time is gone. the known things are all over and buried in the darkness behind. before me lies the great blank page of the future and no writing traced upon it. but it is nothing to me. i won't ask nor think, nor hope, nor fear about it. the leaf of the book is turned and there's an end--the tale is told." * * * * * "paul ferroll" may be considered as the precursor of the purely sensational novel, or of what may be called the novel of mystery. miss brontë in "jane eyre" uses to some extent the same kind of material, but her work is far more a study of character than the story of "paul ferroll" can claim to be. in "paul ferroll," indeed, the analysis of motive is entirely absent. the motives that actuated paul ferroll are to be gathered simply from chance expressions or his actions. no description of the human heart has been attempted. the picture of the violent, revengeful, strongly passionate nature of the man is forcible enough, but it is displayed by action and not by introspection. it is for this reason that mrs. clive may be placed in the forefront of the sensational novelists of the century. she anticipated the work of wilkie collins, of charles reade, of miss braddon, and many others of their school, in showing human nature as expressed by its energies, neither diagnosing it like a physician, nor analysing it like a priest. a vigorous representation of the outside semblance of things is the peculiar characteristic of the so-called sensational novelist; and it is in this respect that "paul ferroll" excels many of the novels of incident written during the first half of this century. it heralded a new departure in the ways of fiction. it set forth the delights of a mystery, the pleasures of suspense, together with a thrilling picture of "the strong man in adversity," which has been beloved of fiction-mongers from the first days of fable in the land. but perhaps it was successful, most of all, because it introduced its readers to a new sensation. hitherto they had been taught to look on the hero of a novel as necessarily a noble and virtuous being, endowed with heroic, not to say angelic qualities; but this conviction was now to be reversed. the change was undoubtedly startling. even scott had not got beyond the tradition of a good young man as hero, a tradition which the brontës and mrs. archer clive were destined to break down. for scott's most fascinating character, brian de bois-guilbert, was confessedly the villain of the piece; and the splendidly picturesque figure of dundee was supposed to be less attractive than the tame and scrupulous personality of henry morton. it was a convention amongst writers that vice and crime must be repulsive, and that there was something inherently attractive in virtue--a wholesome doctrine, insufficiently preached in these days, but not strictly consistent with facts. to find, therefore, a villain--and a thorough-paced villain, the murderer of his wife--installed in the place of hero and represented as noble, handsome, and gifted, naturally thrilled the readers' minds with a mixture of horror and delight. the substitution of villain for hero is now too common to excite remark, but it was a striking event in the days when "paul ferroll" was published, although there had been instances of a similar kind in the novels of the eighteenth century. the new fashion gained ground and speedily exceeded the limits which mrs. archer clive would no doubt have set to it; but it is nevertheless in part to her that we owe this curious transposition of _rôles_, which has revolutionised the aims and objects of fiction in the latter half of the nineteenth century. mrs. henry wood the art of the _raconteur_, pure and simple, is apt to be undervalued in our days. a rage for character-painting, for analysis, for subtle discrimination, down to the minutest detail, has taken hold upon us; and although we have lately returned to a taste for adventure of the more stirring kind, there is still an underlying conviction that the highest forms of literary art deal with mental states and degrees of emotions, instead of with the ordinary complications of every-day life. hence the person who is gifted simply with a desire (and the power) of telling a story _as_ a story, with no ulterior motive, with no ambition of intellectual achievement, the scheherazade of our quiet evenings and holiday afternoons, is apt to take a much lower place in our estimation than she deserves. this is especially the case with mrs. henry wood. it is impossible to claim for her any lofty literary position; she is emphatically un-literary and middle-class. but she never has cause to say, "story? god bless you, i have none to tell, sir," for she always has a very distinct and convincing story, which she handles with a skill which can perhaps be valued only by the professional novelist, who knows the technical difficulty of handling the numerous _groups_ of characters which mrs. wood especially affects. there is no book of hers which deals--as so many novels deal--with merely one or two characters. she takes the whole town into her story, wherever it may be. we not only know the lord-lieutenant and the high sheriff and the squire, but we are intimate (particularly intimate) with the families of the local lawyer and doctor. we are almost equally well acquainted with their bootmaker and green-grocer, while their maids and their grooms are as much living entities to us as if they had served us in our own houses. to take a great group of _dramatis personæ_, widely differing in circumstances, in character, in individuality; to keep them all perfectly clear without confusion and without wavering; to evolve from them some central figures on which the attention of the subsidiary characters shall be unavoidably fixed, and to weave a plot of mystery, intrigue, treachery or passion which must be resolved to its ultimate elements before the last page of the book--to do all this is really an achievement of which many a writer, who values himself on his intellectual superiority to mrs. henry wood, might well be proud. it is no more easy to marshal a multitude of characters in the pages of your book than to dispose bodies of soldiers in advantageous positions over an unknown country. the eye of a general is in some respects needed for both operations, and the true balance and proportion of a plot are not matters which come by accident or can be accomplished without skill. it may not be literary skill, but it is skill of a kind which deserves recognition, under what name soever it may be classed. * * * * * mrs. henry wood was born in worcestershire in , and died in london in . she suffered from delicate health and passed the greater part of her life as an invalid. she was the daughter of mr. thomas price, one of the largest glove manufacturers in the city of worcester. she married mr. henry wood, the head of a large banking and shipping firm, who retired early from work and died comparatively young. it was not until middle life that mrs. wood began to write; and her first work,--perhaps, of all her works, the most popular--was "east lynne," which first appeared in _colburn's new monthly magazine_. its success was prodigious and it is still one of the most popular novels upon the shelves of every circulating library. it has been translated into many languages and dramatised in different forms. it was published in , and reached a fifth edition within the year. amongst her most popular works also are "the channings" and "mrs. halliburton's troubles," ; "the shadow of ashlydyat," ; "st. martin's eve," ; "a life's secret," ; "roland yorke," a sequel to "the channings," ; "johnny ludlow," stories re-printed from the _argosy_, to ; "edina," ; "pomeroy abbey," ; "court netherleigh," ; and many other stories and novels. mrs. wood was for many years the editor of the _argosy_. * * * * * the reason of the popularity of "east lynne" is not far to seek. it is, to begin with, a very touching story; and its central situation, which in some respects recalls the relation of the two women in mrs. crowe's "linny lockwood," is genuinely striking. it is perhaps not worth while to argue as to its probability. it is, of course, barely possible that a woman should come disguised into the house where she formerly reigned as mistress, and act as governess to her own children, without being recognised. as a matter of fact, she is recognised by one of the servants only on account of a momentary forgetfulness of her disguise. her own husband, her own children, do not know her in the least; and although he and his kinswoman are vaguely troubled by what they consider a chance resemblance, they dismiss it from their minds as utterly impossible, until the day when lady isabel, dying in her husband's house, begs to see him for the last time. the changes in her personal appearance, her lameness, for instance, and the greyness of her hair, are very ingeniously contrived; but it certainly seems almost impossible that two or three years should have so completely changed her that nobody should even guess at her identity. the present generation complains that the pathos of the story is overdone; but even if detail after detail is multiplied, so as to harrow the reader's feelings almost unnecessarily, the fact still remains that mrs. wood has imagined as pitiful and tragic a situation as could possibly exist in the domestic relations of man and woman. the erring wife returning to find her husband married to another woman, to nurse one of her own children through his last illness without being recognised by him or by her husband, and to die at last in her husband's house with the merest shadow of consolation in the shape of his somewhat grudging forgiveness, presents us with a figure which cannot fail to be extremely pathetic. the faults of mrs. henry wood's style, its occasional prolixity and commonplaceness, the iteration of the moral reflections, as well as the triteness and feebleness sometimes of the dialogue, very nearly disappear from view when we resign ourselves to a consideration of this tragic situation. it cannot be denied that there is just a touch of mawkishness now and then, just a slight ring of false sentiment in the pity accorded to lady isabel, who was certainly one of the silliest young women that ever existed in the realms of fiction. nevertheless the spectacle of the mother nursing the dying boy, who does not know her, is one that will always appeal to the heart of the ordinary reader, and will go far to account for the extraordinary popularity of "east lynne." a novelist of more aspiring genius would perhaps have concentrated our attention exclusively upon lady isabel's feelings and tragic fate. here mrs. wood's failings, as well as her capacities, reveal themselves. she sees the tragic side of things, but she sees also (and perhaps too much) the pathos of small incidents, the importance of trifles. she spares us no jot of the sordid side of life. and in a novel of the undoubted power of "east lynne" there are some details which might have been spared us. the rapacity of the creditors who seize the body of lady isabel's father, the gossip of the servants, the suspicions of afy hallijohn, and, in short, almost all the underplot respecting richard hare--these matters are superfluous. the reader's eye ought to be kept more attentively upon the heroine and her relations with mr. carlisle and sir francis. the one inexplicable point in the story is lady isabel's desertion of her husband for a man whom she must despise. it is never hinted that she had for one moment lost her heart to francis levison. she left her husband out of sheer pique and jealousy, loving him ardently all the while, although, in her ignorance and folly, she scarcely knew that she loved him. here the story is weak. we feel that mrs. wood sacrifices probability in her effort to obtain a striking situation. for the strongest part of "east lynne" is the description of what occurs when lady isabel returns as a governess to her old home, when her husband, supposing her to be dead, has married his old love barbara hare. to this situation, everything is subordinate; and it is in itself so strong that we cannot wonder if the author strains a point or two in order to achieve it. but the curious, the characteristic, thing is that even in this supreme crisis of the story, mrs. wood's essential love of detail, and of somewhat commonplace detail, asserts itself over and over again. the incidents she takes pains to narrate are rational enough. there is no reason why pathos should be marred because a dying child asks for cheese with his tea, or because the sensible stepmother condemns lucy to a diet of bread and water for some trifling offence, or because miss cornelia carlisle displays her laughable eccentricities at lady isabel's bedside. the pathos is marred now and then, not because of these trifling yet irritating incidents, but because we get an impression that the author has forced a number of utterly prosaic people into a tragic situation for which they are eminently unfitted. the ducking of sir francis levison in the horsepond is an example of this. the man was a heartless villain and murderer, yet he is presented to us in a scene of almost vulgar farce as part of his retribution. if the author had herself realised the insufficiency of her characters to rise to the tragic height demanded of them, she might have achieved either satire or intense realism; but there is a certain smugness in mrs. henry wood's acceptance of the commonplaces of life which makes us feel her an inadequate painter of tragedy. we close the book with a suspicion that she preferred the intolerable barbara to the winsome and erring lady isabel. "east lynne" owes half its popularity, however, to that reaction against inane and impossible goodness which has taken place since the middle of the century. just as rochester and paul ferroll are protests against the conventional hero, so lady isabel is a protest against the conventional heroine--and a portent of her time! we were all familiar with beauty and virtue in distress, from clarissa harlowe downwards. it is during later years that we have become conversant with beauty and guilt as objects of our sympathy and commiseration. the moralists of the time--saturday reviewers, and others--perceived the change from one point of view, and were not slow to comment on it. their opposition to the modern novel was chiefly based upon what they called a glorification of vice and crime. now that the mists of prejudice have cleared away, we can see very well that no more praise of wrong-doing was implied by mrs. wood's portrait of lady isabel than by thackeray's keen-edged delineation of becky sharp or george eliot's sorrowful sympathy with maggie tulliver. what was at first set down as a new and revolutionary kind of admiration for weakness and criminality soon resolved itself into a manifestation of that remarkable _zeit-geist_ which has made itself felt in every department of human life. it is that side of the modern spirit which leads to the comprehension of the sufferings of others, to a new pity for their faults and weaknesses, a new breadth of tolerance, and a generous reluctance to judge harshly of one's fellow man. it has crept into the domain of law, of religious thought, of philanthropic effort, and it cannot be excluded from the realms of literature and art. it is, in fact, the scientific spirit, which says "there's nothing good or ill but thinking makes it so;" which refuses to dogmatise or hastily to condemn; which looks for the motives and reasons and causes of men's actions, and knows the infinite gradations between folly and wisdom, between black and white, between right and wrong. if science had done nothing else, it would be an enormous gain that she should teach us to suspend our judgment, to weigh evidence, and thus to pave the way for that diviner spirit by which we refuse to consider any sinner irreclaimable or any criminal beyond the reach of human sympathy. "east lynne" was received with general acclamation, and has been translated, it is said, into every known tongue, including parsee and hindustanee. "some years ago," her son states, "one of the chief librarians in madrid informed mrs. henry wood that the most popular book on his shelves, original or translated, was 'east lynne.' not very long ago it was translated into welsh and brought out in a welsh newspaper. it has been dramatised and played so often that had the author received a small royalty from every representation it was long since estimated that it would have returned to her no less than a quarter of a million sterling, but she never received anything.... in the english colonies the sale of the various works increased steadily year by year. in france the story has been dramatised and is frequently played in paris and the provinces." on its first appearance, an enthusiastic review in the _times_ produced a tremendous effect upon the public; the libraries were besieged for copies, and the printers had to work night and day upon new editions. in fact the success of "east lynne" was one of the most remarkable literary incidents of the century. * * * * * the most popular of mrs. henry wood's books, next to "east lynne," seem to be "mrs. halliburton's troubles" and "the channings." these are stories of more entirely quiet domestic interest than "east lynne." the situations are less tragical and the plots less complicated. mrs. halliburton's quiet endurance of the privations and difficulties of her life, the pathetic life and death of her little janey, and the ultimate success and achievements of her sons, linger in the memory of the reader as a pleasant and homely picture of the vicissitudes of english life. there is a more humorous element in "the channings," from the introduction of so many youthful characters--the boys of the cathedral school, notably bywater, who is the incarnation of good-humoured impudence, giving brightness to the tone of the story. the schoolboys are in this, as in many other of mrs. wood's novels, particularly well drawn. they are not prigs; they are anything but angels, in spite of their white surplices and their beautiful voices; and their escapades and adventures in the old cloisters were wild enough to make the old monks turn in their graves. no doubt many incidents of this kind were drawn from life and owe their origin to mrs. wood's acquaintance with the choir school belonging to worcester cathedral. it was not the only occasion on which the manufacturer's daughter turned her knowledge of worcester to good account. it may be said that the majority of her novels are coloured, more or less, by the author's lengthy residence in a cathedral town. it was in that the first series of short stories, supposed to be narrated by johnny ludlow, began in the _argosy_. johnny ludlow is a young lad belonging to a worcestershire family, who is supposed to narrate incidents which have come under his observation at school or at home. some of the stories thus produced are striking and vigorous; others are of less merit, but all are distinguished by the strong individuality of the characters, and by the fidelity with which worcester and worcestershire life are described. it now seems extraordinary that there should have been the slightest doubt as to the authorship of these stories, for mrs. wood's peculiarities of style are observable on every page. mr. charles w. wood, her son, remarks that "no one knew, or even guessed at, the authorship;" but this is a rather exaggerated statement, as we have reason to be aware that the author was recognised at once by critics of discrimination. still the general public were for some time deceived, imagining johnny ludlow to be a new author, whose stories they occasionally contrasted with those of mrs. henry wood, and were said to prefer, probably much to the novelist's own amusement. the great variety of plot and incident found in the "johnny ludlow" stories is their most remarkable feature. the same characters are, of course, introduced again and again, as johnny ludlow moves in a circle of country squires, clergy, and townspeople. but it is astonishing with how much effect the stories of different lives can be placed in the same setting, and with what infinite changes the life of a country district can be reproduced. the characters are clearly drawn and often very well contrasted, and no doubt mrs. henry wood's memories of her earlier life in the district contributed largely to the success of this series. the first series ran in the _argosy_ and were re-printed, - , while a second and third series maintained their popularity in and in . * * * * * it has been computed that mrs. wood wrote not fewer than from three to four hundred short stories, every one of them with a distinct and carefully worked-out plot, in addition to nearly forty long novels: a proof, if any were wanted, of the extreme fertility of her imagination and the facility of her pen. it has, however, sometimes been wondered why mrs. henry wood's works should have attained so great a circulation when they are conspicuously wanting in the higher graces of literary style or intellectual attainment. the reason appears to lie chiefly in certain qualities of her writings which appeal in an entirely creditable way to the heart and mind of the british public. mrs. wood's stories, although sensational in plot, are purely domestic. they are concerned chiefly with the great middle-class of england, and she describes lower middle-class life with a zest and a conviction and a sincerity which we do not find in many modern writers, who are apt to sneer at the _bourgeois_ habits and modes of thought found in so many english households. now the _bourgeoisie_ does not like to be sneered at. if it eats tripe and onions, and wears bright blue silk dresses, and rejoices in dinner-tea, it nevertheless considers its fashions to be as well worth serious attention as those of the upper ten. mrs. henry wood never satirises, she only records. it is her fidelity to truth, to the smallest domestic detail, which has charmed and will continue to charm, a large circle of readers, who are inclined perhaps to glory in the name of "philistine." then there is the loftier quality of a high, if somewhat conventional, moral tone. mrs. wood's novels are emphatically on the side of purity, honesty, domestic life and happiness. there is no book of hers which does not breathe this spirit, or can be said to be anything but harmless. her character-drawing has merit; but it is not to be wondered at, considering the number of works she produced, that she should repeat the same type over and over again with a certain monotonous effect. the sweet and gentle wife and mother, not too strong in character, but perfectly refined and conscientious, such as maria in the "shadow of ashlydyat"; the "perfect gentleman," noble, upright, proud, generally with blue eyes and straight features, like oswald cray and mr. carlisle and mr. north--these are characters with which we continually meet and of which, admirable in themselves as they are, we sometimes weary. but although the portraiture is not very subtle, it is on the whole faithful to life. then there is that especial group of mrs. wood's stories already mentioned, into which an element of freshness, then somewhat unusual in fiction, is largely introduced. these are the stories which have much to do with boys and boy-life--notably "the channings," "roland yorke," "orville college," "mrs. halliburton's troubles," "lady grace," and the "johnny ludlow" series. these books, less sensational in plot than many of mrs. wood's novels, have been peculiarly successful, perhaps because the scenes and characters are largely drawn from real life. mrs. wood's long residence at worcester made her familiar with the life of the college boys, who haunt the precincts of the stately old cathedral, and she has introduced her knowledge of their pranks with very great effect. her descriptions of the old city itself, of the streets, of the cloisters, of the outlying villages and byways, are remarkably accurate, and remind one of the use which charles dickens made, in the same way, of rochester and its cathedral. it is really extraordinary to see how large a part of mrs. wood's work is concerned with worcester, and how well she could render, when she chose, the dialogue of the country and the customs of its people. the reason is, of course, that these things are true; that she gives us in these books a part of her own experience, of her own life. another group of her books is interesting for a similar reason--the novels in which she deals with business life, and the relations of employers to their men. such are "a life's secret," which is the very interesting history of a strike; "the foggy night at offord," "mrs. halliburton's troubles," and several of the "johnny ludlow" stories, where incidents of the manufacturing districts of england have been introduced with very good effect, mrs. wood's own connection with glove manufacturers in worcester having supplied her with ample materials for this kind of fiction. in "a life's secret" there is an extremely clever picture of the lower type of workman, and some excellent sketches of poor people and of the misery they suffer during the strike and subsequent lockout. the third class of mrs. wood's books consists of what may be called works of pure imagination, with sometimes a slight touch of the romantic and supernatural--such as "the shadow of ashlydyat," "st. martin's eve," "lady adelaide's oath," "lord oakburn's daughters," "george canterbury's will," etc. from the literary point of view these books are less worthy than the others, but they are particularly well constructed and ingenious. there are no loose ends, and mrs. wood's skill in weaving a plot seems never to have diminished to the last day of her life. but her earlier and perhaps simpler work had more real value than even the books which display such great constructive skill. mrs. wood would possibly have taken a higher place amongst english novelists if she had avoided mere sensation, and confined herself to what she could do well--namely, the faithful and realistic rendering of english middle class life. she has had, perhaps, more popularity than any novelist of the victorian age; and her popularity is justified by the wholesomeness and purity of her moral tone, the ingenuity and sustained interest of her plots, and the quiet truthfulness, in many cases, of her delineation of character. her faults are those of the class for which she wrote, her merits are theirs also. it is no small praise to say that she never revelled in dangerous situations, nor justified the wrong-doing of any of her characters. when one considers the amount of work that she produced, and the nature of that work, it is amazing to reflect on the variety of incident and character which she managed to secure. her plots often turned upon sad or even tragic events, but the sadness and the tragedy were natural and simple. there was nothing unwholesome about her books. she will probably be read and remembered longer than many writers of a far higher literary standing; and although fashions, even in fiction, have greatly changed since the days when "east lynne" and "the channings" made their mark, there is no doubt that they hold their place in the affections of many an english novel-reader. they neither aim high nor fall low: their gentle mediocrity is soothing; and they are not without those gleams of insight and intensity which reveal the gift of the born story-teller--a title to which mrs. henry wood may well lay claim. [signature: adeline sergeant.] lady georgiana fullerton mrs. stretton. anne manning _by_ charlotte m. yonge lady georgiana fullerton mrs. stretton. anne manning the three ladies here grouped together are similar in the purity and principle which breathe throughout their writings, though different in other respects. the first named wrote in the stress, and later in the calm, of a religious struggle; the second in the peaceful, fond memory of a happy home-life; the third in the pleasurable realisation of historic days long gone by. in each case, the life is reflected in the books. georgiana charlotte leveson gower was born on september , , being the second daughter of one of those noble families predestined, by their rank and condition, to a diplomatic course. her father became ultimately earl granville, and when his little daughter was twelve years old, he received the appointment of ambassador at paris. it is well known that the upper diplomatic circles form the _crème de la crème_ of aristocratic society, their breeding, refinement, knowledge of man and manners, as well as their tact, being almost necessarily of the highest order. lady granville was noted for her admirable management of her receptions, and her power of steering her way through the motley crowd of visitors and residents presented to her. the charm of her manner was very remarkable, and made a great impression on all who came in her way. and, giving reality and absolute sincerity to all this unfailing sweetness, lady granville was a deeply religious and conscientious woman, who trained her daughters to the highest standard of excellence, and taught them earnest devotion. naturally, french was as familiar to the young ladies as english, and they became intimate with many of the best and purest families in france, among others, with that of de ferronaye, whose memoirs, as told by one of them, mrs. augustus craven, has touched many hearts. it was a happy life, in which study and accomplishment had their place, and gaieties did not lose the zest of youthful enjoyment because they were part of the duty of station. between france and england the time of the family was spent, and, in , both sisters were married--lady georgiana on july , to alexander fullerton, heir to considerable estates in gloucestershire and in ireland. he had been in the guards, but had resigned his commission, and become an _attaché_ to the embassy at paris. there the young couple continued, and there, at the end of the year, was born their only child, a son, whose very delicate health was a constant anxiety. in lord granville ceased to be ambassador, and the whole family led a wandering life in the south of france, italy, and germany, interspersed with visits in england. in mr. fullerton, after long study of the controversy, was received into the church of rome. his wife had always greatly delighted in the deep and beautiful rites of that communion, in its best aspects, and many of her most intimate friends were devout and enlightened members of that church; but she had been bred up as a faithful anglican, and she made no change as long as her father lived. the tale on which her chief fame rests was the product of the heart-searchings that she underwent, at the very time when the thoughts and studies of good men were tending to discover neglected truths in the church of england. lady georgiana said, in her old age, that she had never written for her own pleasure, or to find expression of feeling, but always with a view to the gains for her charities. she would rather have written poetry, and the first impulse was given by her publisher telling her that she would find a novel far more profitable than verses. yet it is hardly possible to believe that when once embarked she did not write from her heart. she was a long time at work on her tale, which was written during sojourns at various continental resorts, and finally submitted to two such different critics as lord brougham and charles greville, both of whom were carried away by admiration of the wonderful pathos of the narrative, and the charm of description, as well as the character-drawing. it is, however, curious that, while marking some lesser mistakes, neither advised her to avoid the difficulty which makes the entire plot an impossibility, namely, the omission of an inquest, which must have rendered the secrecy of "ellen middleton" out of the question. the story opens most effectively with the appearance of a worn and wasted worshipper in salisbury cathedral. one of the canons becomes interested, and with much difficulty induces her to confide her griefs to him in an autobiography, which she had intended to be read only after her death. the keynote of ellen's misfortunes is a slight blow, given in a moment of temper, at fifteen years old, to her cousin, a naughty child of eight, causing a fatal fall into the river below. no one knows the manner of the disaster, except two persons whose presence was unknown to her: henry lovell, a relative of the family, and his old nurse, whom he swears to silence. this woman, however, cannot refrain from strewing mysterious hints in ellen's way, and henry lovell obtains a power over the poor girl which is the bane of her life. his old nurse (by very unlikely means) drives him into a marriage with her grand-daughter, alice, whose lovely, innocent, devotional character, is one of the great charms of the book. ellen, almost at the same time, marries her cousin, edward middleton, whom she loves with all her heart; but he is a hard man, severe in his integrity, and his distrust is awakened by henry's real love for ellen, and the machinations by which he tries to protect her from the malice of the old nurse. the net closes nearer and nearer round ellen, till at last edward finds her on her knees before henry, conjuring him to let her confess her secret. without giving her a hearing, edward commands her to quit his house. a letter from henry, declaring that she is his own, and that she will not escape him, drives her to seek concealment at salisbury, where she is dying of consumption, caused by her broken heart, when the good canon finds her, gives her absolution, and brings about repentance, reconciliation, and an infinite peace, in which we are well content to let her pass away, tended by her husband, her mother-like aunt, and the gentle alice. it is altogether a fine tragedy. the strong passions of henry lovell, the enthusiastic nature of ellen, beaten back in every higher flight by recurring threats from her enemies, the unbending nature of edward, and in the midst the exquisite sweetness of alice, like a dove in the midst of the tempest, won all hearts, either by the masterly analysis of passion or by the beauty of delineation, while the religious side of the tale was warmly welcomed by those who did not think, like lord brougham, that it was "rank popery." the sense of the power and beauty of the story is only enhanced by freshly reading it after the lapse of many years. naturally, it was a great success, and the second book, "grantley manor," which was not published till after her father's death and her own secession to rome, was floated up on the same tide of popularity. it contrasted two half-sisters, margaret and ginevra, one wholly english, the other half italian by race and entirely so by breeding. still, though ginevra is the more fascinating, margaret is her superior in straightforward truth. for, indeed, lady georgiana never fell into the too frequent evil of depreciation and contempt of the system she had quitted, and remained open-minded and loving to the last. the excellence of style and knowledge of character as well as the tone of high breeding which are felt in all these writings recommended both this and "ladybird," published in . both are far above the level of the ordinary novel, and some readers preferred "ladybird" to the two predecessors. * * * * * in the meantime, an estate in england at midgham had become a home, and young granville fullerton had gone into the army. on the th of may , he was cut off by a sudden illness, and his parents' life was ever after a maimed one, though full of submission and devotion. externally, indeed, lady georgiana still showed her bright playfulness of manner, and keen interest in all around her, so that the charm of her society was very great, but her soul was the more entirely absorbed in religion and in charity, doing the most menial offices for the sick poor and throwing herself into the pleasures of little children. she questioned with herself whether she ought to spend time in writing instead of on her poor, when the former task meant earning two hundred pounds a year for them, but she decided on uniting the two occupations, the more readily because she found that her works had a good influence and helped on a religious serial in which she took a warm interest. but her _motifs_ were now taken from history, not actual life. "la comtesse de boneval" is a really marvellous _tour de force_, being a development from a few actual letters written by a poor young wife, whose reluctant husband left her, after ten days, for foreign service, and never returned. lady georgiana makes clear the child's hero-worship, the brief gleam of gladness, the brave resolve not to interfere with duty and honour, and the dreary deserted condition. all is written in french, not only pure and grammatical, but giving in a wonderful manner the epigrammatic life and freshness of the old parisian society. this is really the ablest, perhaps the most pathetic, of her books. "ann sherwood" is a picture of the sufferings of the romanists in elizabethan times, "a stormy life" is the narrative of a companion of margaret of anjou--both showing too much of the author's bias. "too strange not to be true" is founded on a very curious story, disinterred by lord dover, purporting that the unhappy german wife of the ferociously insane son of peter the great, at the point of death from his brutality, was smuggled away by her servants, with the help of countess konigsmark, the mother of marshal saxe, while a false funeral took place. she was conveyed to the french settlements in louisiana, and there, after hearing that the czarowitz was dead, she married a french gentleman, the chevalier d'auban. here, in these days of one-volume tales, the story might well have ended, but lady georgiana pursues the history through the latter days of the princess, after she had returned to europe and had been bereaved of her husband and her daughter. she lived at brussels, and again met marshal saxe in her extreme old age. the figures of the chevalier, and the sweet daughter, mina, are very winning and graceful, and there are some most interesting descriptions of the jesuit missions to the red indians; but, as a whole, the book had better have closed with the marriage with d'auban. * * * * * there is little more to say of lady georgiana's life. it was always affectionate, cheerful and unselfish, and it became increasingly devout as she grew older. after a long illness, she died at bournemouth, on the th of january , remembered fondly by many, and honoured by all who knew her saintly life. as to literary fame, she may be described as having written one first-rate book and a number fairly above the average. mrs. stretton about the same time as "ellen middleton" appeared, a novel was making its way rather by force of affectionate family portraiture than by plot or incident. "the valley of a hundred fires" is really and truly mrs. stretton's picture of her father and mother, and her home; and her mother is altogether her heroine, while old family habits and anecdotes are given with only a few alterations. "the valley of the hundred fires" has been placed by her on the borders of wales, but it really was gateshead, in durham, quite as black and quite as grimy as the more southern region, inasmuch as no flowers would grow in the rectory garden which, nevertheless, the children loved so heartily as to call it dear old dingy. (it is cinder tip in the story.) literally, they lived so as to show that "love's a flower that will not die for lack of leafy screen; and christian hope may cheer the eye that ne'er saw vernal green;" and that--at least, in the early days of this century--an abnormally large family was no misfortune to themselves or their parents. the real name was collinson, and the deep goodness and beneficence of the father, the reverend john collinson, and the undaunted cheerfulness, motherliness, and discipline of emily, his wife, shine throughout, not at all idealised. the number of their children was fifteen, ten daughters and five sons; and the second daughter, julia cecilia, was, as she describes herself, a tall, lank, yellow baby who was born on the th of november . she became as the eldest daughter to the others, for there had always been a promise that if there were several girls the eldest should be adopted by her aunt, wife to a clergyman and childless. the two homes were a great contrast: the one kept in absolute order and great refinement, with music and flowers the constant delight and occupation, and the single adopted child trained up in all the precision of the household; while the other was a house of joyous freedom, kept under the needful restraints of sound religious principle, discipline and unselfishness. the story went that when the children were asked how many of them there were, they answered, "one young lady and eight little girls." mrs. collinson used to say, that if she ever saw any signs that her "one young lady" was either pining for companionship, or growing spoilt by the position, she would recall her at once; but the child was always happy and obedient, and pleased to impart her accomplishments to her sisters, who admired without jealousy. comical adventures are recorded in the "valley," such as when the whole train of little damsels, walking out under the convoy of julia and a young nurserymaid, encountered a bull, which had lifted a gate on its horns. the maid thrust the baby into julia's arms and ran away, while her charges retired into a ditch, the elder ones not much alarmed, because, as they said, the bull could not hurt them with the gate on its horns. it passed safely by them; but the little ones confessed to having been dreadfully frightened by a snail in the ditch, "which put out its horns like a little kerry cow," and it creeped and it creeped! one incident in their early childhood was the rioting that pervaded the collieries in the years immediately following the great french war. mr. collinson, being a magistrate, was called upon to accompany the dragoons in order to read the riot act. he thus left his family unprotected; but the seven thousand pitmen never touched the rectory, and, according to the "valley," replied courteously to two of the children, who rushed out to the top of the cinder tip, begging to know whether they had seen "our papa" and if he was safe. there was another sadder episode, related also with much feeling, though a little altered, for it concerned the second son, not the eldest (then the only son) as described. a blow from a cricket ball did irreparable mischief to his knee, and it was suddenly decreed that amputation was necessary, long before the days of chloroform. the father was away from home, the mother sentenced not to be present, and the doctors consented that julia should hold the patient's hand, smooth his hair, and try to tell him stories through the operation. it was successfully and bravely carried out, but the evil was not removed, and a few weeks later this much-loved boy was taken away. the circumstances, very beautiful and consoling, are given in the story; and there too is told how, before sunset on that sad day, the ninth little daughter was given, and struggled hard for the vigorous life she afterwards attained. the "parson's man" said one day, when his mistress, for once in her life, indulged in a sigh that her garden could never rival that of her sister, "we've got the finer flowers, ma'am." education was not the tyrannical care in those days that it is at present, and the young people obtained it partly through their parents, some at school, and some by the help of their grandmother and their aunt, but mostly by their own intelligence and exertions; and the family income was augmented by mr. collinson taking pupils. he had a fair private income; he had a curate, and was able to give a good education to his sons, one of whom made himself a name as admiral collinson, one of the arctic explorers. if there were anxieties, they did not tell upon the children, whose memories reflect little save sunshine. * * * * * at nineteen, julia collinson became the wife of walter de winton, esquire, of maedlwch castle, radnorshire; but after only twelve years was left a widow, with two sons and a daughter. her life was devoted to making their home as bright and joyous as her own had been; and it was only in the loneliness that ensued on the children going to school that her authorship commenced, with a child's book called "the lonely island." later she wrote "the valley of the hundred fires," tracing the habits, characters and the destiny of the family of gateshead. the father was by this time dead, and extracts from his sermons and diary appear; but "emily," the mother, is the real heroine of the whole narrative, and though there is so little plot that it hardly deserves the name of novel, there is a wonderful charm in the delineation. there are a few descriptions of manners and of dresses which are amusing; nor must we omit the portrait of the grandmother, mrs. king (called reine in the book), daughter to the governor of one of the colonies in america before the separation, with the manners of her former princess-ship and something of the despotism. she was a friend of hannah more, a beneficent builder of schools, and produced a revolt by herself cutting the hair of all the scholars! "the queen of the county" relates mrs. de winton's experiences of elections among "the stormy hills of wales" in the early days of the reform bill. "margaret and her bridesmaids" draws more upon invention. each of two young girls, through the injudiciousness of her parents, has married the _wrong_ person. margaret acquiesces too much in her husband's indolence, and when herself roused to the perception of duty tries in vain to recover lost ground. her friend lottie is a high-spirited little soul, determined to do her duty as a wife, but not to pretend the love she does not feel, till it has been won. she is rather provokingly and unnaturally perfect, especially as she is only seventeen, always knowing when to obey up to the letter in a manner which must so have "riled" her husband that his persistent love is hardly credible, though it shows itself in attempts to isolate her, so that she shall have no resource save himself. his endeavours bring upon him heart complaint, whereof he dies, under her tender care, though she never affects to be grief-stricken. only, as margaret has lost her husband about the same time in a yachting accident, lottie refuses to listen to the addresses of a former lover of margaret's until she is convinced both that her friend will never form another attachment and that the original passion she had inspired is absolutely dead. there is a good deal of character in the story, though overdrawn, and it has survived so as to call for a new edition. * * * * * to her children, as well as to her many nephews and nieces, mrs. de winton was a charming companion-mother, always fresh, young, vigorous and as full of playfulness as the julia who led the band of little sisters. when all her children were grown up, in , she married richard william stretton, who had been their guardian and an intimate friend of the family, by whom he was much beloved. he died in , and mrs. stretton followed him on the th of july , leaving behind her one of the brightest of memories. her books are emphatically herself in their liveliness, their tenderness, their fond enshrining of the past. the third of our group had an even more eventless life, and, instead of letting her imagination dwell on her own past, she studied the women of past history, and realised what they must have felt and thought in the scenes where most of them figure only as names. her father belonged to the higher professional class, and lived with his large family, of whom anne was the eldest, at the paragon, chelsea, where at eight years old anne listened to the crash of the carriages, when the bourbons were on their return to france, and witnessed the ecstasy of london on the visit of the allied sovereigns after waterloo. with the help of masters for special accomplishments, the daughters had the best of educations, namely, the stimulating influence of their father, an accomplished man, for whom they practised their music, wrote their themes, went out star-gazing, and studied astronomy, listening with delight to his admirable reading of scott or shakspere; they also had the absolute freedom of an extensive library. anne manning was pronounced to be no genius, but a most diligent, industrious girl; as indeed was proved, for, becoming convinced during the brief reign of a good governess of the duty of solid reading, she voluntarily read from the age of fourteen ten pages a day of real, if dry, history, persevering year after year, and thus unconsciously laying in a good foundation for her future work. for health's sake the family went into the country, where they became tenants of a tumble-down cistercian priory on the borders of salisbury plain. the numerous girls, with their mother and governess, lived there constantly; the father coming down as often as his business would allow, almost always by the saturday coach, to spend sunday. here the first literary venture was made, when anne was about seventeen. it was a short dialogue on a serious subject, which a young aunt managed to get accepted in st. paul's churchyard; and, as miss manning candidly avows, was so well advertised privately by her fond grandfather that--such were the palmy days of authorship--five hundred copies brought her in a profit of £ . the story, "village belles," was completed at tenby, the priory having become too ruinous for habitation. it was put into the hands of baldwin and cradock, and no proofs were sent till the whole of the two first volumes came together. it was introduced to mr. manning thus, "papa, i don't know what you will say, but i have been writing a story." "ho! ho! ho!" was his first answer, but he afterwards said, "my dear, i like your story very much"--and never again referred to it. her own after judgment was that it was an "incurably young, inexperienced tale which, after all top dressing, remained but daisied meadow grass." sorrow came in to fill the minds of the family (to the exclusion of mere fictitious interests) in the deaths within short intervals of two of the sisters, and their mother's invalidism, ending, within a few years, in her death. after this the winters were spent by the three sisters at the paragon, the summers in a cottage at penshurst, their father coming down for the sunday. anne manning, meantime, was pursuing studies in painting and was an excellent amateur artist. she was also a botanist, and this has much to do with her accuracy in writing details of country life and habits. * * * * * dates, alas! are wanting both in her own "passages in the life of an authoress," and in the recollections of her kind and affectionate biographer, mrs. batty; but it seems to have been in that her "maiden and married life of mary powell," at first written to amuse herself and her sisters, and afterwards sent to assist a brother in australia, who was starting a local magazine, was given to the editor of "sharpe's magazine," then in its early youth. it made her fame. nobody had particularly thought of milton in his domestic capacity before, except as having advocated divorce and made his daughters read greek to him, and it was reserved for miss manning to make the wife paint her own portrait as the lively, eager girl, happy in country freedom with her brothers, important with her "housewife-skep" in her mother's absence, pleased with dress, but touched by the beautiful countenance and the sudden admiration of the strange visitor. there proves to be a debt which makes her marriage with him convenient to the father, and it is carried out in spite of the mother's strong objections, alike to the suitor's age, his politics, and his puritanism. we go along with the country girl in her disappointment and sense of dreariness in her unaccustomed london life, in the staid and serious household, where she sorely misses her brothers and is soon condemned for love of junketing. then come her joy in her visit to her home at forest hill and her reluctance to return, fortified by her father's disapproval of milton's opinions. by the time that a visit to some wise relatives has brought her to a better mind and to yearning after her husband, milton has taken offence and has put forth his plea for divorce, which so angers her father that he will not hear of her return; nor does she go back till after many months and the surrender of oxford, when on her own impulse she hurries to london, meets her husband unexpectedly, and when he "looks down on her with goodness and sweetness 'tis like the sun's gleams shining after rain." there mary powell's journal ends. it is written in beautiful english, such as might well have been contemporary and could only have been acquired by familiarity with the writers of the period, flowing along without effort or pedantry so as to be a really successful imitation. it crept into separate publication anonymously, and achieved a great success, being in fact the first of many books imitating the like style of autobiography; nor has it ever been allowed to drop into oblivion. it was followed up after a time by "deborah's diary," being the record supposed to be kept by milton's one faithful and dutiful daughter, who lived with him in his old age. the "fascination of the old style," as she calls it, led her to deal with "the household of sir thomas more" in the person of his noble daughter margaret. there was a good deal more genuine material here, and she has woven in the fragments from erasmus and others with great ingenuity, and imitated the style of the fifteenth century as well as she had done that of the seventeenth. from that time anne manning's books had a ready sale, though still her name did not appear. "cherry and violet" was a tale of the plague of london; "edward osborne" told of the apprentice who leapt from the window of a house on london bridge to save his master's daughter from drowning; "the old chelsea bunhouse" described the haunts with which miss manning was familiar; and there were other stories of country life, such as the "ladies of bever hollow." all were written in the purest style, such as could only be attained by one to whom slip-shod writing was impossible, and to whom it was equally impossible not to write what was gentle, charitable, and full of religious principle. miss manning was a kind friend and charming letter-writer. her health began to fail in , when she was writing for a magazine "some passages in the life of an authoress," never completed. she continued to be an invalid under the care of her sisters till her death on the th of september, . [signature: c m yonge] dinah mulock (mrs. craik) _by_ mrs. parr dinah mulock (mrs. craik) in the small circle of women writers who shed literary lustre on the early years of her present majesty's reign was dinah mulock, best known to the present novel-reading generation as the author of "john halifax, gentleman." to appreciate fully the position that we claim for her, it will be necessary to turn back to the period when she began to write, and see who were her contemporaries. pre-eminent among these stand out three names--names immortal on the roll of fame for so long as taste and critical judgment last; the books of charlotte brontë, elizabeth gaskell, and george eliot must be regarded as masterpieces of fiction. we, their humble followers, bow before their genius which time, fashion, or progress cannot dim or take from; therefore, to have achieved success and to have made an abiding fame while such luminaries were shining in the firmament was a distinction to be justly proud of--the result of talent, delicacy of handling, and grasp of character that were only a little below genius. how vast the difference that one small step would have made it is not our purpose to show; our intention is rather to take a general view of the work of a writer who--now that close upon half a century has passed, since, in , timidly and without giving her name, she launched on the world her first novel, "the ogilvies"--has never lost her hold upon the reading public of great britain, the colonies, america, or wherever the english tongue is spoken. * * * * * dinah mulock was born in at stoke-upon-trent in staffordshire. her disposition towards literature seems to have been inherited from her father, who was connected--but in no very prosperous way--with letters, and was known to byron and to the poet moore, whose fellow countryman he was. at the time of his daughter's birth, he was acting as spiritual minister to a small congregation who were followers of what were then generally thought to be his advanced and unorthodox opinions. few who forsake the established road for their own peculiar rut find that prosperity bears them company, and the fortunes of the mulock family during the embryo authoress's early years were unsettled and unsatisfactory. we are all given to rebel against the clouds which overcast our youth, seldom realising that to this pinch of adverse circumstance we owe much of that power to depict the sorrows, joys, and perplexities of life in the setting forth of which miss mulock became so eminently successful. before she had reached the age of twenty, she left her home and came to london, "feeling conscious," we are told, "of a vocation for authorship." now, in the present day, when novel writing has become an employment, profession, distraction, i might almost say a curse, there would be nothing remarkable in such a conviction; but in the mania of desiring to see their names in print had not seized upon our sex; therefore the divine afflatus must have been very strong which sent a timid attractive girl, hampered by all the prejudices of her day, to try the fortunes of her pen in london. that she had not been deceived in her quality is shown by the success of "the ogilvies," which not only was popular with novel readers, but raised hopes that the writer possessed great dramatic power, to be more ably used when experience had corrected the crude faults of a first book. the story, based on passionate first love, is written with the enthusiasm and vigour which comes pleasantly from a young hand, and makes us disposed to view leniently the superabundance of sentiment which, under other circumstances, we should censure. the death of the boy, leigh pennythorne, is rendered with a pathos which calls for admiration, and we are not surprised to see it ranked with the death of little paul dombey; while that of katherine lynedon, spoken of at the time as possessing great dramatic force, strikes us now as melodramatic and sensational. * * * * * encouraged by having found favour with the public, miss mulock followed up her success with "olive" ( ), "agatha's husband" ( ), "head of the family" ( ). her literary reputation was now established; and, though her _magnum opus_, "john halifax," had yet to be written, it may be as well to consider some of the merits and weaknesses of her style, her treatment of her subjects, and her delineation of character. in a short sketch, such as this, it is not possible to give a synopsis of the plots of the various books, or even, in most cases, extracts from them. we have to confine ourselves to the endeavour to realise the effect they produced at the time they were written--the estimation they were then held in, and to see what position they now command among the novels of the present day. perhaps it will be only fair towards the faults we are about to find that we should recall the forward strides made by women in the past forty years. we who can recall the faulty teaching and the many prejudices of that date must often question if women now are sufficiently sensible of the advantages they possess. a reviewer of miss mulock's novels, writing in , says: "it is one of the chief misfortunes of almost every female novelist that her own education, as a woman, has been wretchedly defective;" and further on he adds: "the _education_ of the majority of women leaves them not only without information, but without intelligent interest in any subject that does not immediately concern them." he then points out that it seems impossible for women to describe a man as he is--that they see him only from the outside. "they are ignorant of the machinery which sets the thing going, and the principle of the machinery; and so they discreetly tell you what kind of case it has, but nothing more." now, when the time has come that young men and maidens have other interests in common than those which spring out of flirtation and love-making, we may feel quite sure that each sex will get a better insight and have a juster knowledge of the other. the general taste for exercise, and the development of activity and health of body, has killed sentimentality and the heroines of the rosa matilda school. not that these were the heroines that miss mulock created. her ideals are to a certain extent made of flesh and blood, although they are not always living figures. even at the period when we are told that "in the world of letters few authors have so distinct and at the same time so eminent a position as this lady," her judicious admirers find fault with her overflow of feminine sentimentality, which never permitted her ideal sufferers to conquer their griefs so far that they could take a practical and healthy interest in the affairs of the living world. "they live only 'for others'" says one critic, "'the beautiful light' is always in their faces; their hands 'work spasmodically' at least once in every two or three chapters." regarding the cramping influence of the prejudices which hedged in women in miss mulock's day, is it not very possible that this flaw in the portraiture of her own sex may have been due to the narrowness of her training rather than to any deficiency in her talent? nothing more plainly shows how warped her judgment had become than many of the passages in "a woman's thoughts about women." this is a book with much sound argument in it, and full of the desire to rectify the feminine grievances to which she was not blind. but when we come to a passage like the following, in which she asserts that all who "preach up lovely uselessness, fascinating frivolity, delicious helplessness, not only insult womanhood but her creator," we ask how is this to be reconciled with the text which comes immediately after: "equally blasphemous, and perhaps even more harmful, is the outcry about the equality of the sexes; the frantic attempt to force women, many of whom are either ignorant of, or unequal for, their own duties, into the position and duties of men. a pretty state of matters would ensue! who that ever listened for two hours to the verbose confused inanities of a ladies' committee would immediately go and give his vote for a female house of commons? or who, on receipt of a lady's letter of business--i speak of the average--would henceforth desire to have our courts of justice stocked with matronly lawyers and our colleges thronged by 'sweet girl graduates with their golden hair'? as for finance, if you pause to consider the extreme difficulty there always is in balancing mrs. smith's housekeeping book, or miss smith's quarterly allowance, i think, my dear paternal smith, you need not be much afraid lest this loud acclaim for women's rights should ever end in pushing you from your counting house, college, or elsewhere." on this showing, such crass ignorance is to be accepted in women, and is to be taken as a matter of course and as natural to them as cutting their teeth or having measles or chicken pox. it is of little use to advocate "self dependence," "female professions," "female handicrafts," for those who cannot write a business letter or do a simple sum. miss mulock may have had, indeed i fear had, much reason to cast these reproaches at her sex. but that she did not feel their shame, and urge her sister women to strive for an education more worthy of intelligent beings, proves to me how deeply her mental gifts suffered from the cramping influence of the time in which she lived. could she have enjoyed some of the advantages which spring out of the greater freedom of thought and action permitted in the present day, how greatly it would have enlarged her mental vision! her male creations would have been cast in a more vigorous man-like mould. her feminine ideals would no longer be incarnations of sentiment but living vital creatures. where the mind is stunted the mental insight must be limited; and strong as were miss mulock's talents, they were never able to burst the bonds which for generations had kept the greater number of women in intellectual imprisonment. * * * * * in "olive," the novel which immediately followed "the ogilvies," miss mulock ventured on a very fresh and interesting subject. olive, the heroine of the story, is a deformed girl, "a puir bit crippled lassie" with a crooked spine. to make this centre-character attractive and all-absorbing was a worthy effort on the part of an author, and we take up the book and settle ourselves to see how it will be done. unfortunately, before long, the courage which conceived the personal blemish gives way, and, succumbing to the difficulties of making mind triumph over beauty, miss mulock commits the artistic error of trying to impress upon you that, notwithstanding the pages of lamentations over this deformity and the attack made on your sympathy, the disfigurement was so slight that no person could possibly have noticed it. naturally this puts the heroine in a more commonplace position; and as several minor plots are introduced which olive only serves to string together, much of the interest in her with which we started is frittered away. finally, olive marries and restores the faith of a religious sceptic. and here it is curious to read the objections raised at the time against bringing into fiction "subjects most vital to the human soul." one critic, after describing the hero he is willing to accept--and, much to our regret, space prevents us showing this terrible model that we have escaped--says: "but a hero whose intellectual crotchets, or delusions, or blindness, are to be entrusted for repairs to a fascinating heroine--a mental perplexity which is to be solved in fiction--a deep-rooted scepticism which is to lose its _vis vitæ_ according to the artistic demands of a tale of the fancy, this we cannot away with. sceptics are not plastic and obliging. would to heaven scepticism _could_ be cured by bright eyes, dulcet tones, and a novelist's art of love!" criticisms in this tone make more plain to us the difficulties which novelists in the fifties had to grapple with. so many subjects were tabooed, so many natural impulses restrained, while the bogey propriety was flaunted to scare the most innocent actions, so that nothing short of genius could ride safely over such narrow-minded bigotry. that an extreme licence should follow before the happy mean could be arrived at, was a safe prediction; but many of the writers in that day must have had a hard task while trying to clip the wings of their soaring imaginations, so that they might not rise above the level marked out by mrs. grundy. now, all these social dogmas must have had an immense influence on the receptive mind of dinah mulock, and readers must not lose sight of this fact should they be inclined to call some of her books didactic, formal, or old-fashioned. she never posed as a brilliant, impassioned writer of stories which tell of wrongs, or crimes, or great mental conflicts. in her novels there is no dissection of character, no probing into the moral struggles of the human creature. her teaching holds high the standard of duty, patience, and the unquestioning belief that all that god wills is well. * * * * * the enormous hold which, ever since its first appearance in , "john halifax" has had on a great portion of the english-speaking public, is due to the lofty elevation of its tone, its unsullied purity and goodness, combined with a great freshness, which appeals to the young and seems to put them and the book in touch with each other. those who read the story years ago still recollect the charm it had for them; and, in a degree, the same fascination exists for youthful readers at the present time. the theme is noble, setting forth the high moral truth of "the nobility of man as man," and into its development the author threw all her powers. from the opening sentence, where you are at once introduced to the ragged, muddy boy and the sickly helpless lad, you feel that these two will prove to be the leading actors in the story--probably made contrasts of, and perhaps played one against the other. this idea, however, is speedily dispelled. possibly from a dread of failing where it is thought so many women do fail--in the portrayal of the unseen sides of character and the infinite subtleties it gives rise to--miss mulock, wisely we think, decided to place her story in the autobiographic form; and the gentle refined invalid, phineas fletcher, is made the _deus ex machinâ_ to unravel to the reader not only the romance of his friend john halifax's history, but also the working of his noble chivalrous nature. few situations are more pathetically drawn than the attitude of these two lads, with its exchange of dependence and hero-worship on the one side, and of tender, helpful compassion on the other. a true david and jonathan we see them, full of the trust, confidence, and sincerity young unsullied natures are capable of. and the story of the friendship, as it grows towards maturity, is equally well told. his energy and his indomitable faith in himself make a prosperous man of the penniless boy. we follow him on from driving the skin cart to being master of the tan-yard; and throughout all his temptations, struggles, success, he maintains the same honest, fearless spirit. it seems natural that when to such an exalted nature love comes it should come encircled with romance, and the wooing of ursula march, as told by sensitive, affectionate phineas fletcher, is very prettily described. for the reason that ursula is an heiress with a host of aristocratic relations, john believes his love for her to be hopeless. he struggles against this overwhelming passion for some time, until the continuous strain throws him into a fever of which his friend fears he will die. in this agonising strait phineas is inspired with the idea of confessing the truth to ursula; and, after a touching scene in which this is most delicately done, she determines to go to the man who is dying of love for her. in the interview, which is too long to be given in its entirety and too good to be curtailed, john tells her that owing to a great sorrow that has come to him he must leave norton bury and go to america. she begs to be told the reason, and without an actual avowal he lets her see his secret. "'john, stay!' "it was but a low, faint cry, like that of a little bird. but he heard it--felt it. in the silence of the dark she crept up to him, like a young bird to its mate, and he took her into the shelter of his love for evermore. at once all was made clear between them, for whatever the world might say they were in the sight of heaven equal, and she received as much as she gave." when lights are brought into the room john takes ursula's hand and leads her to where old abel fletcher is sitting. "his head was erect, his eyes shining, his whole aspect that of a man who declares before all the world, 'this is my _own_." 'eh?' said my father, gazing at them from over his spectacles. "john spoke brokenly, 'we have no parents, neither she nor i. bless her--for she has promised to be my wife.' "and the old man blessed her with tears." abel fletcher, grave, stern, uncompromising--as members of the society of friends in that day were wont to be--is a clever study. he will not yield readily to the influence of john, and when he does give way it is by slow degrees. yet one of the most winning traits in this somewhat over-perfect young man, given at times to impress his moral obligations rather brusquely, is the deference he pays to his former master and the filial affection he keeps for him; and the author manages in these scenes to put the two into excellent touch with each other--so that, through john's attitude to him, the hard close-fisted old tanner is transfigured into a patriarch who fitly gives his blessing to the bride, and later on, in a scene of great pathos, bestows his last benediction on her blind baby daughter. it was said at the time of its publication, and it is still said, that in "john halifax" miss mulock reached the summit of her power. that she felt this herself seems to be shown by her adopting the title of "author of 'john halifax.'" its publication was in many ways a new departure. it was the first of that numerous series of books brought out by her (after) life-long friend, mr. blackett. those were not the days when "twenty thousand copies were exhausted before a word of this novel was written;" yet the book had a remarkable and legitimate success. of its merits a notable critic said, "if we could erase half a dozen sentences from this book it would stand as one of the most beautiful stories in the english language, conveying one of the highest moral truths." and that these few sentences, while in no way affecting the actual beauty of the story, are a blot and an "artistic and intellectual blunder--" the more to be deplored in a book whose moral teaching throughout is so excellent--we must confess. "the ragged boy, with his open, honest face, as he asks the respectable quaker for work, is no beggar; the lad who drives the cart of dangling skins is not inferior to phineas fletcher, who watches for him from his father's windows and longs for his companionship; and the tanner--the honest and good man who marries ursula march, a lady born--is her equal. having shown that men in the sight of god are equal and that therefore all good men must be equal upon earth, what need that john should have in his keeping a little greek testament which he views as a most precious possession because in it is written 'guy halifax, gentleman'? are we to conclude that all his moral excellence and intellectual worth were derived from _ladies_ and _gentlemen_ who had been his remote ancestors, but with whom he had never been in personal contact at all, since at twelve years old he was a ragged orphan, unable to read and write?" miss mulock could not have meant this, and yet she lays herself open to the charge, a kind of echo of which is heard in the adding to her good plain title of "john halifax" the unnecessary tag, "gentleman." * * * * * her literary career being now fully established, miss mulock decided on taking up her permanent residence in london; and, about this time, she went to live at wildwood, a cottage at north end, hampstead. the now ubiquitous interviewer--that benefactor of those who want to know--had not then been called into being, so there is no record at hand to tell how the rooms were furnished, what the mistress wore, her likes, dislikes, and the various idiosyncrasies she displayed in half an hour's conversation. such being the case we must be content with the simple fact that, charming by the candid sincerity of her disposition, and the many personal attractions that when young she possessed, miss mulock speedily drew around her a circle of friends whom, with rare fidelity, she ever after kept. * * * * * "john halifax" was followed in by "a life for a life," a novel which, although it never obtained the same popularity, fully maintains the position won by its precursor. in it miss mulock breaks new ground both as to plot and the manner in which she relates the story, which is told by the hero and heroine in the form of a journal kept by each, so that we have alternate chapters of _his_ story and _her_ story. this form of construction is peculiar and occasionally presents to the reader some difficulties, but as a medium to convey opinions and convictions which the author desires to demonstrate it is happily conceived. the motive of the book is tragedy, the keynote murder--that is murder according to the exigencies of the story-teller. max urquhart, the hero--who at the time the tale opens is a staid, serious man of forty--is the perpetrator of this crime, committed at the age of nineteen in a fit of intoxication on a man named johnston. journeying from london to join a brother who is dying of consumption at pau, urquhart, through a mistake, finds that instead of being at southampton he is at salisbury. on the way he has made the acquaintance of the pseudo-driver of the coach, a flashy, dissipated fellow, who by a tissue of lies induces the raw scotch lad to remain for some hours at the inn and then be driven on by him to where they will overtake the right coach. by this man young urquhart is made drunk, and when as a butt he no longer amuses the sottish company they brutally turn him into the street. later on he is aroused by the cut of a whip. it is his coach companion who pacifies him with the assurance that if he gets into the gig he will be speedily taken by him to southampton. the lad consents, he is helped up and soon falls fast asleep to be awakened in the middle of salisbury plain by his savage tormentor, who pushes him out and tells him to take up his lodging at stonehenge. the poor youth, with just sufficient sense left in him to feel that he is being kept from his dying brother, implores the ruffian to take him on his way. "to the devil with your brother," is the answer, and in spite of all entreaties, johnston whips up his horse, and is on the point of starting, when urquhart, maddened by rage, catches him unawares, drags him from the gig, and, flings him violently on the ground, where his head strikes against one of the great stones, and he is killed. how urquhart manages to reach southampton, and to get to pau, he never knows; but when he does arrive at his destination, it is to find his brother dead and buried, and the fit of mania which follows is set down to the shock this gives him. at the end of a year, hearing that johnston's death is attributed to accident, and being under the conviction that if the truth were told he would be hanged, he resolves to lock the secret in his own breast until the hour of his death draws near, and, in the meanwhile, to expiate his offence by living for others, and for the good he can do to them. he becomes an army doctor, goes through the crimean war, and, when we are introduced to him, is doing duty at aldershot, near where, at a ball, he meets the inevitable she, theodora johnston. if the hero is drawn dark, thin, with a spare, wiry figure, and a formal, serious air, the portrait of the heroine, with her undeniably ordinary figure, and a face neither pretty nor young, forms a fitting pendant to it. these two are irresistibly drawn towards each other, and, notwithstanding that the lady bears the fatal name of johnston, they soon become engaged. dr. urquhart's tender conscience then demands that the tragic misdeed of his life shall be confessed to the woman he is about to make his wife, and, in a letter, he confides to her the sad history, adding, as postscript, some few days later: "i have found his grave at last." here follows the inscription, which proves the dead man to have been the son of theodora's father, her own half-brother, henry johnston. "farewell, theodora!" it is impossible here to give more than this crude outline of the plot of a book in which, far beyond the story she means to tell, the author has her own individual opinions and convictions to impress on us. the temptation to earnest writers to try, through their writings, to make converts of their readers, is often very strong, and in this instance miss mulock undoubtedly gave way to it. she had not only a vehement abhorrence of capital punishment, but, to quote from her book, she maintained "that any sin, however great, being repented of and forsaken, is, by god, and ought to be by man, altogether pardoned, blotted out, and done away." as was at the time said, "her argument demands a stronger case than she has dared to put;" but so ably are the incidents strung together, so touchingly are the relative positions of these suffering souls described, that their sorrows, affection, and fidelity become convincing; and, full of the pathetic tragedy of the situation, we are oblivious of the fact that what is called a crime is nothing greater than an accident, a misfortune, and that for murder we must substitute manslaughter. * * * * * from the date of the appearance of "john halifax," miss mulock's pen was never long idle. composition was not a labour to her; and friends who knew her at that time, describe her as walking about the room, or bending over on a low stool, rapidly setting down her thoughts in that small delicate writing which gave no trouble to read. she had beautiful hands; a tall, slim, graceful figure; and, with the exception of her mouth, which was too small, and not well shaped, delicate and regular features. these attractions, heightened by a charming frankness of manner, made her very popular. her poetic vein was strong. she published several volumes of poems, and many of her verses, when set to music, became much admired as songs. following "a life for a life," came, in somewhat quick succession, "studies from life," "mistress and maid," "christian's mistake," "a noble life," "two marriages." these in a period of ten years. as may be supposed, they are not all of equal merit; neither does any one of them touch the higher level of the author's earlier books. still, there is good honest work in each, and the same exalted purity of tone, while much of the sentimentality complained of before is wholly omitted or greatly toned down. "mistress and maid" is one of those good, quiet stories, full of homely truths and pleasant teaching, in which is shown the writer's quick sympathy with the working class. the maid, elizabeth, is as full of character and of refined feelings as is hilary leaf, the mistress, and her one romance of love, although not so fortunate, has quite as much interest. the opening scenes, in which these two first meet, are excellent, giving us, all through their early association, touches of humour--a quality which, in miss mulock's writings, is very rare. the picture of the rather tall, awkward, strongly built girl of fifteen, hanging behind her anxious-eyed, sad-voiced mother, who pushes her into notice with "i've brought my daughter, ma'am, as you sent word you'd take on trial. 'tis her first place, and her'll be awk'ard like at first. hold up your head, elizabeth," is drawn with that graphic fidelity which gives interest to the most commonplace things in life. the awkward girl proves to be a rough diamond, capable of much polish, and by the kindly teaching of hilary leaf she is turned into an admirable, praiseworthy woman. one has to resist the temptation to say more about hilary leaf, an energetic, intelligent girl who, when she cannot make a living for herself and her sister by school-keeping, tries, and succeeds, by shop-keeping. the description of the struggles of these two poor ladies to pay their way, and keep up a respectable appearance, comes sympathetically from the pen of a woman whose heart was ever open to similar distresses in real life. to her praise be it remembered that to any tale of true suffering dinah mulock never closed her ears or her hand. * * * * * her next two novels, "christian's mistake" and "a noble life," in our opinion, fall far short of any of her previous efforts. yet they were both received with much popular favour, particularly the former, which called forth warm praise from reviewers. for us not one of the characters has a spark of vitality. christian is not even the shadow of a young girl made of flesh and blood. her forbearance and self-abnegation are maddening. her husband, the "master of st. bede's,'" twenty-five years her senior and a widower, is nothing but a lay figure, meant to represent a good man, but utterly devoid of intellect and, one would think, of feeling, since he permits his young bride, possessed of all the seraphic virtues, to be snubbed and brow-beaten by two vulgar shrewish sisters-in-law. there is no interest of plot or depicting of character, and the children are as unreal and offensive as their grown up relations. in "a noble life," also, there is nothing which stirs our sympathies. even the personal deformities of the unfortunate little earl fail to touch us, and, when grown up and invested with every meritorious attribute, he is more like the "example" of a moral tale than a being of human nature. * * * * * as has been said, the portrayal of men is not this author's strong point. "her sympathy with a good man is complete on the moral, but defective on the intellectual side"--a serious deficiency in one who has to create beings in whom we are asked to take a sustained interest. that she could rise superior to this defect is shown in "the woman's kingdom." in this story miss mulock displays all her old charm of simplicity and directness, and is strong in her treatment of domestic life. at the outset she announces that it will be a thorough love story, and takes as her text that "love is the very heart of life, the pivot upon which its whole machinery turns, without which no human existence can be complete, and with which, however broken and worn in part, it can still go on working somehow, and working to a comparatively useful and cheerful end." this question we shall not stop to argue, but proceed with--we cannot say the plot, for of plot there is none; it is just an every-day version of the old, old story, given with admirable force and sweetness. it is said to appeal principally to young women, and it is possible that this is true, as the writer can recall the intense pleasure reading it gave to her nearly thirty years ago. the book opens with the description of some seaside lodgings, in which we find twin sisters as opposite in character as in appearance. edna is an epitome of all the virtues in a very plain binding. letty, vain, spoilt, but loving her sister dearly, is a beauty. "such women nature makes rarely, very rarely; queens of beauty who instinctively take their places in the tournament of life, and rain influence upon weak mortals, especially men mortals." two of the latter kind arrive as lodgers at the same house, brothers, also most dissimilar--julius stedman, impulsive, erratic and undisciplined; william, his elder brother, a grave, hard-working doctor, just starting practice. the four speedily become acquaintances--friends--and when they part are secretly lovers. letty, by reason of what she calls "her unfortunate appearance," never doubts but that she has conquered both brothers; but happily it is to edna that the young doctor has given his heart; and when in time letty hears the news, "and remembers that she had been placing herself and dr. stedman in the position of the irish ballad couplet, did ye ever hear of captain baxter, whom miss biddy refused afore he axed her? her vanity was too innocent and her nature too easy to bear offence long." "but to think that after all the offers i have had you should be the first to get married, or anyhow, engaged! who would ever have expected such a thing?" "who would, indeed?" said edna, in all simplicity, and with a sense almost of contrition for the fact. "well, never mind," answered letty consolingly, "i am sure i hope you will be very happy; and as for me"--she paused and sighed--"i should not wonder if i were left an old maid after all, in spite of my appearance." but to be left an old maid is not to be letty's fate. julius, already bewitched by her beauty through being much more thrown into her society, falls passionately in love with her, and for lack of any one else, and because his ardour flatters and amuses her, letty encourages him, permits an engagement, and promises to join him in india. but on the voyage out she meets a rich mr. vanderdecken, with whom she lands at the cape, and whom she marries. this is the tragic note in the happy story, the one drop of gall in the stedmans' cup of felicity. edna and her husband are patterns of domestic well-being. the joys and cares of every-day life have mellowed all that was good in them, and the account given of their home and their family is one we dwell upon lovingly. perhaps it is but natural that in our later reading we should note some small discrepancies that had formerly escaped us. we regret that the sisters had drifted so widely apart, and that each should seem to be so unconcerned at the distance which divides them. it is as if happiness can make us callous as well as luxury. and although it was true that letty's desertion suddenly wrecked the hopes of her lover, it seems hardly probable that such an unstable being as julius would have taken her falseness so seriously. a wiser man might have foreseen the possibility. still, when this and more is said, our liking for the story remains as strong as ever. we know of few books which give a better picture of healthful domestic happiness and pure family life. * * * * * although we have hitherto called, and shall continue to call, our authoress by her maiden name, she had in changed it by marrying mr. g. lillie craik, a partner in the house of macmillan & co., and shortly after she removed to shortlands, near bromley, in kent. this change in her state does not appear to have interfered with her occupation, and for many years volume followed volume in quick succession. unwisely, we think, for her literary reputation, she was led, through her strong sympathy, to advocate marriage with a deceased wife's sister in a novel, published in , called "hannah." the novel with a purpose is almost certain to fall into the error of giving the argument on one side only. its author has rarely any toleration for the ethical aspect of the other side of the question, and it is to be doubted if such books ever advance the cause they desire to advocate. in "hannah" we are perfectly surfeited by those who wish to marry within the forbidden degree, and we feel as little toleration for the placid bernard rivers--one of those men who never believe in the pinch of a shoe until they want to put it on their own feet--as for jim dixon, who, after evading the law, speedily grows tired of the deceased wife's sister, and avails himself of his legal advantage to take another wife. the objections we feel to novels of this class are well stated by a writer in the _edinburgh review_, no. clxxxix. "we object," he says, "on principle to stories written with the purpose of illustrating an opinion, or establishing a doctrine. we consider this an illegitimate use of fiction. fiction may be rightfully employed to impress upon the public mind an acknowledged truth, or to revive a forgotten woe--never to prove a disputed one. its appropriate aims are the delineation of life, the exhibition and analysis of character, the portraiture of passion, the description of nature." in most of these aims miss mulock had proved herself an expert. in addition to her numerous novels and volumes of poems, she wrote a large number of tales for children, many of which, i am told, are exceedingly charming. one cannot read her books without being struck by the intense affection she felt for children. she had none of her own, but she adopted a daughter to whom she gave a mother's love and care. from time to time there appeared from her pen volumes of short stories, studies, and essays; but it is not by these that her name and fame will be kept green. neither will her reputation rest on her later novels. this she must have realised herself when writing, "brains, even if the strongest, will only last a certain time and do a certain quantity of work--really good work." miss mulock had begun to work the rich vein of her imagination at an early age. she took few holidays, and gave herself but little rest. she was by no means what is termed a literary woman. she was not a great reader; and although much praise is due to the efforts she made to improve herself, judged by the present standard, her education remained very defective. that she lacked the fire of genius is true, but it is no less true that she was gifted with great imaginative ability and the power of depicting ordinary men and women leading upright, often noble lives. the vast public that such books as hers appeal to is shown in the large circulation of some of her works, the sale of "john halifax, gentleman" amounting to , copies, , of which--the sixpenny edition--have been sold within the last few months. this shows that her popularity is not confined to any one class. the gospel she wrote was for all humanity. as a woman, she was loved best by those who knew her best. "dinah was far more clever than her books," said an old friend who had been recalling pleasant memories to repeat to me. she died suddenly on the th of october , from failure of the heart's action--the death she had described in the cases of catherine ogilvie, of john halifax, and of ursula, his wife--the death she had always foreseen for herself. around her grave in keston churchyard stood a crowd of mourners--rich, poor, old and young--sorrowing for the good loyal friend who had gone from them, whose face they should see no more. [signature: louisa parr] julia kavanagh. amelia blandford edwards _by_ mrs. macquoid julia kavanagh. amelia blandford edwards it is difficult to think of two writers more strongly contrasted, judging from the revelation their books afford of their natures and ways of thought. they both strove, in their novels, to represent individual specimens of humanity. they must both have possessed the power of distinct vision; but though miss kavanagh was a keen observer of externals, her types seem to have been created by imaginative faculty rather than by insight into real men and women, while miss edwards appears to have gone about the world open-eyed, and with note-book in hand, so vivid are some of her portraits. in traditions, also, these writers differ. miss kavanagh has complete faith in the old french motto, "le bon sang ne peut pas mentir;" while one of miss edwards's heroes, an aristocrat by birth, is extremely happy as a merchant captain, with his plebeian italian wife. the two writers, however, strike the same note in regard to some of their female personages. both barbara churchill and nathalie montolieu are truthful to rudeness. julia kavanagh never obtrudes her personality on the reader, though she lifts him into the exquisitely pure and peaceful atmosphere which one fancies must have been hers. there is something so restful in her books, that it is difficult to believe she was born no longer ago than , and that only twenty years ago she died in middle life; she seems to belong to a farther-away age--probably because her secluded life kept her strongly linked to the past, out of touch with the new generation and the new world of thought around her. she began to write for magazines while still very young, and was only twenty-three when her first book, "the three paths," a child's story, was published. after this she wrote about fourteen novels, the best known of which are "madeleine," "nathalie," and "adèle." she wrote many short stories, some of which were re-printed in volumes--notably the collection called "forget-me-nots," published after her death. she also wrote "a summer and winter in the two sicilies," "woman in france in the th century," "women of christianity," and two books which seem to have been highly praised--"englishwomen of letters" and "frenchwomen of letters." * * * * * julia kavanagh's first novel, "madeleine," appeared in --a charming story, its scene being in the auvergne. the beginning is very striking, the theme being somewhat like that of "bertha in the lane"; but madeleine, when she has given up her false lover, devotes the rest of her life to founding and caring for an orphanage. born in ireland, julia kavanagh spent the days of her youth in normandy, and the scene of her second novel, "nathalie," is norman, though nathalie herself is a handsome, warm-blooded provençale. the scenery and surroundings are very lifelike, but, with one exception, the people are less attractive than they are in "adèle." in both books one feels a wish to eliminate much of the interminable talk, which could easily be dispensed with. nathalie, the country doctor's orphan daughter, teacher to the excellently drawn schoolmistress, mademoiselle dantin, is sometimes disturbingly rude and tactless, in spite of her graceful beauty. with all this _gaucherie_, and a violent temper to boot, nathalie exercises a singular fascination over the people of the story, especially over the delightful canoness, aunt radégonde, who is to me the most real of miss kavanagh's characters. madame radégonde de sainville is a true old french lady of fifty years ago, as charming as she is natural. the men in julia kavanagh's books have led secluded lives, or they are extremely reserved--very hard nuts indeed to crack for the ingenuous, inexperienced girls on whom they bestow their lordly affection. one does not pity nathalie, who certainly brings her troubles on herself; but in the subsequent book, sweet little adèle is too bright a bit of sunshine to be sacrificed to such a being as william osborne. the old château in which adèle has spent her short life is in the north-east of france; its luxuriant but neglected garden, full of lovely light and shade, its limpid lake, and the old french servants, are delightfully fresh. the chapters which describe these are exquisite reading--a gentle idyll glowing with sunshine, and with a leisureful charm that makes one resent the highly coloured intrusion of the osborne family, though the osborne women afford an effective contrast. adèle is scantily educated, but she is always delightful, though we are never allowed to forget that she is descended from the ancient family of de courcelles. she is thoroughly amiable and much enduring, in spite of an occasional waywardness. * * * * * fresh and full of beauty as these novels are, with their sweet pure-heartedness, their truth and restful peace, they cannot compare with the admirable short sketches of the quiet side of french life by the same writer. the scenes in which the characters of these short stories are set, show the truth of julia kavanagh's observation, as well as the quality of her style; they are quite as beautiful as some of guy de maupassant's little gem-like norman stories, but they are perfectly free from cynicism, although she truly shows the greedy grasping nature of the norman peasant. the gifts of this writer are intensified, and more incisively shown, in these sketches because they contain few superfluous words and conversations. julia kavanagh must have revelled in the creation of such tales as "by the well," and its companions; they are steeped in joyous brightness, toned here and there with real pathos as in "clément's love" and "annette's love-story," in the collection called "forget-me-nots." * * * * * such a story as "by the well" would nowadays be considered a lovely idyll, and, by critics able to appreciate its breadth and finished detail, a meissonier in point of execution: it glows with true colour. fifine delpierre is not a decked-out peasant heroine; she is a bare-footed, squalid, half-clothed, half-starved little girl, when we first see her beside the well. this is the scene that introduces her. "it has a roof, as most wells have in normandy, a low thatched roof, shaggy, brown, and old, but made rich and gorgeous when the sun shines upon it by many a tuft of deep green fern, and many a cluster of pink sedum and golden stonecrop. beneath that roof, in perpetual shade and freshness, lies the low round margin, built of heavy ill-jointed stones, grey and discoloured with damp and age; and within this ... spreads an irregular but lovely fringe of hart's-tongue. the long glossy leaves of a cool pale green grow in the clefts of the inner wall, so far as the eye can reach, stretching and vanishing into the darkness, at the bottom of which you see a little tremulous circle of watery light. this well is invaluable to the lenuds, for, as they pass by the farm the waters of the little river grow brackish and unfit for use. so long ago, before they were rich, the lenuds having discovered this spring through the means of a neighbouring mason, named delpierre, got him to sink and make the well, in exchange for what is called a servitude in french legal phrase; that is to say, that he and his were to have the use of the well for ever and ever. bitter strife was the result of this agreement. the feud lasted generations, during which the lenuds throve and grew rich, and the delpierres got so poor, that, at the time when this story opens, the last had just died leaving a widow and three children in bitter destitution. maître louis lenud, for the parisian monsieur had not yet reached manneville, immediately availed himself of this fact to bolt and bar the postern-door through which his enemy had daily invaded the courtyard to go to the well.... "'it was easily done, and it cost me nothing--not a sou,' exultingly thought maître louis lenud, coming to this conclusion for the hundredth time on a warm evening in july. the evening was more than warm, it was sultry; yet maître louis sat by the kitchen fire watching his old servant, madeleine, as she got onion soup ready for the evening meal, utterly careless of the scorching blaze which shot up the deep dark funnel of the chimney. pierre, his son, unable to bear this additional heat, stood in the open doorway, waiting with the impatience of eighteen for his supper, occasionally looking out on the farmyard, grey and quiet at this hour, but oftener casting a glance within. the firelight danced about the stone kitchen, now lighting up the _armoire_ in the corner, with cupids and guitars, and shepherds' pipes and tabors, and lovers' knots carved on its brown oak panels; now showing the lad the bright copper saucepans, hung in rows upon the walls; now revealing the stern grim figure of his father, with his heavy grey eyebrows and his long norman features both harsh and acute; and very stern could maître louis look, though he wore a faded blue blouse, an old handkerchief round his neck, and on his head a white cotton nightcap, with a stiff tassel to it; now suddenly subsiding and leaving all in the dim uncertain shadows of twilight. "during one of these grey intervals, the long-drawling norman voice of maître louis spoke: "'the delpierres have given up the well,' he said, with grim triumph. "'ay, but fifine comes and draws water every night,' tauntingly answered pierre. "'hem!' the old man exclaimed with a growl.... "'fifine comes and draws water every night,' reiterated pierre.... "... he had seen the eldest child fifine, a girl of eight or ten, sitting on her doorstep singing her little brother to sleep, with a wreath of hart's-tongue round her head, and a band of it round her waist. 'and a little beggar, too, she looked,' scornfully added pierre, 'with her uncombed hair and her rags.' "'shall we let the dog loose to-night?' he said." "maître louis uttered his deepest growl, and promised to break every bone in his son's body if he attempted such a thing. "pierre silently gulped down his onion soup, but the 'do it if you dare' of the paternal wink only spurred him on. he gave up the dog as too cruel, but not his revenge. "the night was a lovely one and its tender subdued meaning might have reached pierre's heart, but did not. he saw as he crouched in the grass near the old well that the full round moon hung in the sky; he saw that the willows by the little river looked very calm and still" ... [the revengeful lad watches for the child and falls asleep, then wakes suddenly]. "... behold ... there was little fifine with her pitcher standings in the moonlight ... she stood there with her hair falling about her face, her torn bodice, her scanty petticoats, and her little bare feet. how the little traitress had got in, whilst he, the careless dragon, slept, pierre could not imagine; but she was evidently quite unconscious of his presence.... the child set her pitcher down very softly, shook back the hanging hair from her face, and peeped into the well. she liked to look thus into that deep dark hole, with its damp walls clothed with the long green hart's-tongue that had betrayed her. she liked also to look at that white circle of water below; for you see if there was a wrathful adam by her, ready for revenge, she was a daughter of eve, and eve-like enjoyed the flavour of this forbidden fruit.... fifine ... took up her pitcher again and walked straight on to the river. pierre stared amazed, then suddenly he understood it all. there was an old forgotten gap in the hedge beyond the little stream, and through that gap fifine and her pitcher nightly invaded maître louis lenud's territory.... having picked up a sharp flint which lay in the grass pierre rose and bided his opportunity. fifine went on till she had half-crossed a bridge-like plank which spanned the stream, then, as her ill-luck would have it, she stood still to listen to the distant hooting of an owl in the old church tower on the hill. pierre saw the child's black figure in the moonlight standing out clearly against the background of grey willows, he saw the white plank and the dark river tipped with light flowing on beneath it. above all, he saw fifine's glazed pitcher, bright as silver; he was an unerring marksman, and he took a sure aim at this. the flint sped swiftly through the air; there was a crash, a low cry, and all was suddenly still. both fifine and her pitcher had tumbled into the river below and vanished there." pierre rescues her, and when fifine has been for some years in service with the repentant pierre's cousin her improved looks and clothing make her unrecognisable to the thick-headed well-meaning young farmer. * * * * * the only fault that can be found with these chronicles of manneville is the likeness between them. the "miller of manneville," in the "forget-me-not" collection, is full of charm, but it too much resembles "by the well." the "story of monique" gives, however, a happy variety, and monique is a thorough french girl; so is mimi in the bright little story called "mimi's sin." angélique again, in "clément's love," is a girl one meets with over and over again in normandy, but these norman stories are all so exquisitely told that it is invidious to single out favourites. the stories laid in england, in which the characters are english, are less graphic; they lack the fresh and true atmosphere of their fellows placed across the channel. julia kavanagh died at nice, where she spent the last few years of her life. had she lived longer she would perhaps have given us some graphic stories from the riviera, for it is evident that foreign people and foreign ways attracted her sympathies so powerfully that she was able to reproduce them in their own atmosphere. in a brief but touching preface to the collection called "forget-me-nots," published after her death, mr. c. w. wood gives us a lovable glimpse of this charming writer; reading this interesting little sketch deepens regret that one had not the privilege of personally knowing so sweet a woman. in regard to truth of atmosphere in her foreign stories, julia kavanagh certainly surpasses amelia b. edwards. in "barbara's history," in "lord brackenbury," and in other stories by miss edwards, there are beautiful and graphic descriptions of foreign scenery, and we meet plenty of foreign people; but we feel that the latter are described by an englishwoman who has taken an immense amount of pains to make herself acquainted with their ways and their speech--they somewhat lack spontaneity. in the two novels named there are chapters so full of local history and association that one thinks it might be well to have the books for companions when visiting the places described; they are full of talent--in some places near akin to genius. "barbara's history" contains a great deal of genuine humour. it is a most interesting and exciting story, though in parts stagey; the opening chapters, indeed the whole of barbara's stay at her great-aunt's farm of stoneycroft, are so excellent that one cannot wonder the book was a great success. now and again passages and characters remind one of dickens; the great-aunt, mrs. sandyshaft, is a thorough dickens woman, with a touch of the great master's exaggeration; barbara's father is another dickens character. there are power and passion as well as humour in this book, but in spite of its interest it becomes fatiguing when barbara leaves her aunt and the hundred pigs. there is remarkable truth of characterisation in some of this writer's novels. hugh farquhar is sometimes an eccentric bore, but he is real. barbara churchill at times is wearyingly pedantic; then, again, she is just as delightfully original--her first meeting with mrs. sandyshaft is so inimitable that i must transcribe a part of it. a rich old aunt has invited barbara churchill, a neglected child of ten years old, to stay with her in suffolk. barbara is the youngest of mr. churchill's three girls, and she is not loved by either her widowed father or her sisters, though an old servant named goody dotes on the child. barbara is sent by stage-coach from london to ipswich:-- "dashing on between the straggling cottages, and up a hill so closely shaded by thick trees that the dusk seems to thicken suddenly to-night, we draw up all at once before a great open gate, leading to a house of which i can only see the gabled outline and the lighted windows. "the guard jumps down; the door is thrown open; and two persons, a man and a woman, come hurrying down the path. "'one little girl and one box, as per book,' says the guard, lifting me out and setting me down in the road, as if i were but another box, to be delivered as directed. "'from london?' asks the woman sharply. "'from london,' replies the guard, already scrambling back to his seat; 'all right, ain't it?' "'all right.' "whereupon the coach plunges on again into the dusk; the man shoulders my box as though it were a feather; and the woman who looks strangely gaunt and grey by this uncertain light, seizes me by the wrist and strides away towards the house at a pace that my cramped and weary limbs can scarcely accomplish. "sick and bewildered, i am hurried into a cheerful room where the table is spread as if for tea and supper, and a delicious perfume of coffee and fresh flowers fills the air; and--and, all at once even in the moment when i am first observing them, these sights and scents grow all confused and sink away together, and i remember nothing ... when i recover, i find myself laid upon a sofa, with my cloak and bonnet off, my eyes and mouth full of eau de cologne, and my hands smarting under a volley of slaps, administered by a ruddy young woman on one side, and by the same gaunt person who brought me in from the coach on the other. seeing me look up, they both desist; and the latter, drawing back a step or two, as if to observe me to greater advantage, puts on an immense pair of heavy gold spectacles, stares steadily for some seconds, and and at length says: "'what did you mean by that now?' "unprepared for so abrupt a question, i lie as if fascinated by her bright grey eyes, and cannot utter a syllable. "'are you better?' "still silent, i bow my head feebly, and keep looking at her. "'hey now. am i a basilisk? are you dumb, child?' "wondering why she speaks to me thus, and being, moreover, so very weak and tired, what can i do, but try in vain to answer, and failing in the effort, burst into tears again? hereupon she frowns, pulls off her glasses, shakes her head angrily, and, saying: 'that's done to aggravate me, i know it is,' stalks away to the window, and stands there grimly, looking out upon the night. the younger woman, with a world of kindness in her rosy face ... whispers me not to cry. "'that child's hungry,' says the other coming suddenly back. 'that's what's the matter with her. she's hungry, i know she is, and i won't be contradicted. do you hear me, jane?--i won't be contradicted.' "'indeed, ma'am, i think she is hungry, and tired too, poor little thing.' "'tired and hungry!... mercy alive, then why don't she eat? here's food enough for a dozen people. child, what will you have? ham, cold chicken pie, bread, butter, cheese, tea, coffee, ale?' " ... everything tastes delicious; and not even the sight of the gaunt housekeeper ... has power to spoil my enjoyment. "for she is the housekeeper, beyond a doubt. those heavy gold spectacles, that sad-coloured gown, that cap with its plain close bordering can belong to no one but a housekeeper. wondering within myself that she should be so disagreeable; then where my aunt herself can be; why she has not yet come to welcome me; how she will receive me when she does come; and whether i shall have presence of mind enough to remember all the curtseys i have been drilled to make, and all the speeches i have been taught to say, i find myself eating as though nothing at all had been the matter with me, and even staring now and then quite confidently at my opposite neighbour.... left alone now with the sleeping dogs and the housekeeper--who looks as if she never slept in her life--i find the evening wearisome. observing too that she continues to look at me in the same grim imperturbable way, and seeing no books anywhere about, it occurs to me that a little conversation would perhaps be acceptable, and that, as i am her mistress's niece, it is my place to speak first. "'if you please, ma'am,' i begin after a long hesitation. "'hey?' "somewhat disconcerted by the sharpness and suddenness of this interruption, i pause, and take some moments to recover myself. "'if you please, ma'am, when am i to see my aunt?' "'hey? what? who?' "'my aunt, if you please, ma'am?' "'mercy alive! and pray who do you suppose i am?' "'you, ma'am,' i falter, with a vague uneasiness impossible to describe; 'are you not the housekeeper?' "to say that she glares vacantly at me from behind her spectacles, loses her very power of speech, and grows all at once quite stiff and rigid in her chair, is to convey but a faint picture of the amazement with which she receives this observation. "'i,' she gasps at length, 'i! gracious me, child, i am your aunt.' i feel my countenance become an utter blank. i am conscious of turning red and white, hot and cold, all in one moment. my ears tingle; my heart sinks within me; i can neither speak nor think. a dreadful silence follows, and in the midst of this silence my aunt, without any kind of warning, bursts into a grim laugh, and says: "'barbara, come and kiss me.' "i could have kissed a kangaroo just then, in the intensity of my relief; and so getting up quite readily, touch her gaunt cheek with my childish lips, and look the gratitude i dare not speak. to my surprise she draws me closer to her knee, passes one hand idly through my hair, looks not unkindly, into my wondering eyes, and murmurs more to herself than me, the name of 'barbara.' "this gentle mood is, however, soon dismissed, and as if ashamed of having indulged it, she pushes me away, frowns, shakes her head, and says quite angrily: "'nonsense, child, nonsense. it's time you went to bed.'" [next morning at breakfast.] "'your name,' said my aunt, with a little off-hand nod, 'is bab. remember that.'" ... [mrs. sandyshaft asks her great niece why she took her for the housekeeper; the child hesitates, and at last owns that it was because of her dress.] ... "'too shabby?' "'n--no, ma'am, not shabby; but....' "'but what? you must learn to speak out, bab. i hate people who hesitate.' "'but papa said you were so rich, and....' "'ah! he said i was rich did he? rich! oho! and what more, bab? what more? rich indeed! come, you must tell me. what else did he say when he told you i was rich?' "'n--nothing more, ma'am,' i replied, startled and confused by her sudden vehemence. 'indeed nothing more.' "'bab!' said my aunt bringing her hand down so heavily upon the table that the cups and saucers rang again, 'bab, that's false. if he told you i was rich, he told you how to get my money by-and-by. he told you to cringe and fawn, and worm yourself into my favour, to profit by my death, to be a liar, a flatterer, and a beggar, and why? because i am rich. oh yes, because i am rich.' "i sat as if stricken into stone, but half comprehending what she meant, and unable to answer a syllable. "'rich indeed!' she went on, excited more and more by her own words and stalking to and fro between the window and the table, like one possessed. 'aha! we shall see, we shall see. listen to me, child. i shall leave you nothing--not a farthing. never expect it--never hope for it. if you are good and true, and i like you, i shall be a friend to you while i live; but if you are mean and false, and tell me lies, i shall despise you. do you hear? i shall despise you, send you home, never speak to you, or look at you again. either way, you will get nothing by my death. nothing--nothing!' "my heart swelled within me--i shook from head to foot. i tried to speak and the words seemed to choke me. "'i don't want it,' i cried passionately. 'i--i am not mean. i have told no lies--not one.' "my aunt stopped short, and looked sternly down upon me, as if she would read my very soul. "'bab,' said she, 'do you mean to tell me that your father said nothing to you about why i may have asked you here, or what might come of it? nothing? not a word?' "'he said it might be for my good--he told miss whymper to make me curtsey and walk better, and come into a room properly; he said he wished me to please you. that was all. he never spoke of money, or of dying, or of telling lies--never.' "'well then,' retorted my aunt, sharply, 'he meant it.' "flushed and trembling in my childish anger, i sprang from my chair and stood before her, face to face. "'he did not mean it,' i cried. 'how dare you speak so of papa? how dare....' "i could say no more, but, terrified at my own impetuosity, faltered, covered my face with both hands, and burst into an agony of sobs. "'bab,' said my aunt, in an altered voice, 'little bab,' and took me all at once in her two arms, and kissed me on the forehead. "my anger was gone in a moment. something in her tone, in her kiss, in my own heart, called up a quick response; and nestling close in her embrace, i wept passionately. then she sat down, drew me on her knee, smoothed my hair with her hand, and comforted me as if i had been a little baby. "'so brave,' said she, 'so proud, so honest. come, little bab, you and i must be friends.' "and we were friends from that minute; for from that minute a mutual confidence and love sprang up between us. too deeply moved to answer her in words, i only clung the closer, and tried to still my sobs. she understood me. "'come,' said she, after a few seconds of silence, 'let's go and see the pigs.'" the sketch of hilda churchill is very good, and so is that of the grand duke of zollenstrasse. taken as a whole, if we leave out the concluding chapters, "barbara's history" is a stirring, original, and very amusing book, full of historical and topographical information, written in terse and excellent english, and very rich in colour--the people in it are so wonderfully alive. * * * * * "lord brackenbury" is very clever and full of pictures, but it lacks the brightness and the originality of "barbara's history." amelia b. edwards wrote several other novels--"half a million of money," "miss carew," "debenham's vow," &c. &c. she also published a collection of short tales--"monsieur maurice," etc.--and a book of ballads. born in , she began to write at a time when sensational stories were in fashion, and produced a number of exciting stories--"the four-fifteen express," "the tragedy in the bardello palace," "the patagonian brothers"--all extremely popular; though, when we read them now, they seem wanting in the insight into human nature so remarkably shown in some of her novels. she was a distinguished egyptologist, and the foundation in of the egypt exploration fund was largely due to her efforts; she became one of the secretaries to this enterprise, and wrote a good deal on egyptian subjects for european and american periodicals. she wrote and illustrated some interesting travel books, especially her delightful "a thousand miles up the nile," and an account of her travels in among the--at that time--rarely visited dolomites. the latter is called "untrodden peaks and unfrequented valleys:" it is interesting, but not so bright as the nile book. when one considers that a large part of her output involved constant and laborious research--that for the purposes of many of the books she had to take long and fatiguing journeys--the amount of good work she accomplished is very remarkable; the more so, because she was not only a writer, but an active promoter of some of the public movements of her time. she was a member of the biblical archæological society--a member, too, of the society for the promotion of hellenic literature. then she entered into the woman's question, not so popular in those days as it is in these, and was vice-president of a society for promoting women's suffrage. it is difficult to understand how in so busy and varied a life she could have found sufficient leisure for writing fiction; but she had a very large mental grasp, and probably as large a power of concentration. remembering that she was an omnivorous reader, a careful student, possessed too of an excellent memory, we need not wonder at the fulness and richness of her books. [signature: katherine s. macquoid] mrs. norton _by_ mrs. alexander mrs. norton it is hardly necessary to state that this beautiful and charming woman was the second daughter of thomas sheridan and grand-daughter of richard brinsley sheridan, of regency renown. she was one of three sisters famous for beauty and brains, the eldest of whom married lord dufferin, and the youngest lord seymour, afterwards duke of somerset. born in the first decade of the present century, she married at nineteen, in , george norton, brother of the third lord grantley--a union which proved most unhappy. in mr. norton sought for a divorce, in an action which entirely failed. nevertheless, norton remained irreconcilable, and availed himself of all the powers which the law then lent to a vindictive husband, claiming the proceeds of his wife's literary work, and interfering between her and her children. but it is with mrs. norton as a writer rather than as a woman that we are concerned, and it is useless now to dwell upon the story of her wrongs and struggles. previous to this unfortunate suit she produced, in , "the story of rosalie, with other poems," which seems to have been her first published work. this was well received and much admired. in "the undying one," a poem on the wandering jew, was brought out, followed in by "the dream and other poems." this was highly praised in the _quarterly review_ by lockhart, who spoke of her as "the byron of poetesses." other poems from her pen touched on questions of social interest: "a voice from the factories" and "the child of the islands," a poem on the social condition of the english people. she also printed "english laws for women in the nineteenth century," and published much of it in pamphlets on lord cranworth's divorce bill of this year ( ), thus assisting in the amelioration of the laws relating to the custody of children, and the protection of married women's earnings. her natural tendency was towards poetry, and the first five books published by her were all in verse. in appeared a novel, in three volumes, called "stuart of dunleath," which was succeeded by "lost and saved" and "old sir douglas." it is curious to observe the depth and width of the gulf which yawns between the novel of and the novel of to-day. the latter opens with some brief sentence spoken by one of the characters, or a short dialogue between two or three of them, followed by a rapid sketch of their position or an equally brief picture of the scene in which the action of the piece is laid. the reader is plunged at once into the drama, and left to guess the parts allotted by the author to his puppets. forty-five years ago, when mrs. norton wrote "stuart of dunleath," the reader had to pass through a wide porch and many long passages before he reached the inner chambers of the story. an account of the hero and heroine's families, even to the third and fourth generation, was indispensable, and the minutest particulars of their respective abodes and surroundings were carefully detailed. the tale travelled by easy stages, with many a pause where byways brought additional wayfarers to join the throng of those already travelling through the pages; while each and all, regardless of proportion, were described with equal fulness whatever their degree of importance. * * * * * these are the characteristics of mrs. norton's novels, which stretch in a leisurely fashion to something like two hundred thousand words. nevertheless, "stuart of dunleath" shows great ability and knowledge of the world. it is evidently written by a well-read, cultivated, and refined woman, with warm feelings and strong religious convictions. the descriptions are excellent, the language is easy and graceful. the scene of the story lies chiefly in scotland, and the scotch characters are very well drawn, save one, lady macfarren, who is inhumanly hard. this, too, is one of the peculiarities of the forty or forty-five year old novel; its people are terribly consistent in good or evil. the dignity, the high-mindedness, the angelic purity of the heroine is insupportable, and the stainless honour, the stern resistance to temptation, the defiance of tyrannical wrongdoers, makes the hero quite as bad. in "stuart of dunleath," however, the hero is decidedly weak. he is the guardian of eleanor raymond, the heroine, and, seeing a probability of making a large profit by a speculative loan, risks her money, hoping to obtain the means to buy back his estate without diminishing her fortune. the speculation fails. eleanor is reduced to poverty, and stuart is supposed to drown himself. then the impoverished heroine, who is desperately in love with her guardian, is compelled to marry a wealthy baronet, sir stephen penrhyn. this is the beginning of troubles, and very bad troubles they are, continuing steadily through two-thirds of the book. sir stephen is a brutally bad husband, is shamelessly unfaithful, personally violent, breaks his wife's arm, and makes her life a burden. her little twin sons are drowned in a boating accident, and then stuart returns from the grave, having been stopped in his attempt to drown himself by a picturesque old clergyman, and started off to america, where he manages to recover the lost fortune. by his advice, eleanor leaves her tyrant and takes steps to obtain a divorce, but before the case is ready for hearing is seized with scruples and gives up the attempt, chiefly because she fears she is influenced by an unholy love for stuart. finally she gets leave of absence from her amiable spouse, and dies of a broken heart before it expires, stuart having married her dearest friend, the brilliant lady margaret fordyce, thinking that eleanor had no real affection for him. the scruples are much to her credit, of course, but she might have tried to save the remainder of her life from the degradation which must have been the result of a reunion with her husband, yet kept aloof from stuart without offending god or breaking any sacred law. eighteen very distinct characters figure in these pages, and three or four children. of these the best drawn are those most lightly sketched. the author's favourites are too much described, their merits, their peculiarities, their faults (if allowed to have any) are detailed as the writer sees them. but they do not act and live and develop themselves to the reader, and, therefore, become abstractions, not living entities. * * * * * "lost and saved," written some dozen of years afterward, has much the same qualities as "stuart of dunleath." the subsidiary characters are more convincing than the leading ladies and gentlemen. the hero, if such a man could be so termed, with his extreme selfishness, his surface amiability, his infirmity of purpose and utter faithlessness, is well drawn. there is a respectable hero also, but we do not see much of him, which is not to be regretted, as he is an intolerable prig. in this romance the heroine elopes with treherne, the villainous hero. (of course, there are the usual family objections to their wedding.) they intend to go to trieste, but in the confusion of a night march they get on board the wrong steamer, and find themselves at alexandria. here treherne is confronted with his aunt, the magnificent marchioness of updown. he is therefore obliged to suppress beatrice (the heroine) until the marchioness "moves on." they consequently set off on a voyage up the nile, apparently in search of a clergyman to marry them. it seems, by the way, a curious sort of hunting-ground in which to track an english parson. then beatrice falls dangerously ill, and nothing will save her save a parson and the marriage service. a benevolent and sympathetic young doctor is good enough to simulate a british chaplain, and the knot is tied to the complete satisfaction of beatrice. much misery ensues. it must be added that the magnificent marchioness of updown is an extraordinary picture. besides being a peeress by marriage, she is the daughter of an earl, an aristocrat born and bred. yet her vulgarity is amazing. her stupid ill-nature, her ignorance, her speech and manner, suggest the idea of a small shopkeeper in a shabby street. in this novel mrs. norton portrays the whited-sepulchre sort of woman very clearly in milly, lady nesdale, who is admired and petted by society, always smiling, well tempered, well dressed, careful to observe _les bienséances_, making herself pleasant even to her husband; while, screened by this fair seeming, she tastes of a variety of forbidden fruit, one mouthful of which would be enough to consign a less astute woman to social death. this class of character figures largely in present day novels, but few equal, none surpass, mrs. norton's masterly touch. "old sir douglas," her last novel, was published in _macmillan's magazine_, . it is planned on the same lines as her previous works of fiction--the plot rather complicated, the characters extremely numerous; among these is an almost abnormally wicked woman who works endless mischief. * * * * * it was, however, as a poetess that mrs. norton was chiefly known. her verse was graceful and harmonious, but more emotional than intellectual. wrath at injustice and cruelty stirred the depths of her soul; her heart was keenly alive to the social evils around her and she longed passionately for power to redress them. the effect of her own wrongs and sufferings was to quicken her ardour to help her fellow women smarting under english law as it at that time existed. what that law then permitted is best exemplified by her own experience. when the legal proceedings between her and her husband were over, and her innocence of the charges brought against her was fully established, she was allowed to see her children only _once_ for the space of half an hour in the presence of two witnesses chosen by mr. norton, though this state of things was afterwards ameliorated by the infant custody act, which allowed some little further restricted intercourse. but these evil times are past. indeed, it seems hard to believe that barely fifty years separates the barbarous injustice of that period from the decent amenities of this, as regards the respective rights of husbands and wives. mrs. norton's second poem of importance, "the undying one," is founded on the legend of the wandering jew, a subject always attractive to the poetic imagination. it contains many charming lines, and touches on an immense variety of topics, wandering, like its hero, over many lands. the sufferings of isolation are vividly depicted, and isolation must, of necessity, be the curse of endless life in this world. "thus, thus, to shrink from every outstretched hand, to strive in secret and alone to stand, or, when obliged to mingle in the crowd, curb the pale lip which quiveringly obeys, gapes wide with sudden laughter, vainly loud, or writhes a faint, slow smile to meet their gaze. this, this is hell! the soul which dares not show the barbed sorrow which is rankling there, gives way at length beneath its weight of woe, withers unseen, and darkens to despair!" in these days of rapidity and concentration, poems such as this would never emerge from the manuscript stage, in which they might be read by appreciative friends with abundant leisure. the same observation applies to "the dream." a mother sits watching the slumber of her beautiful young daughter who, waking, tells her dream of an exquisite life with the one she loves best, unshadowed by grief or pain. the mother warns her that life will not be like this, and draws a somewhat formidable picture of its realities. from this the girl naturally shrinks, wondering where good is to be found, and is answered thus: "he that deals blame, and yet forgets to praise, who sets brief storms against long summer days, hath a sick judgment. and shall we _all_ condemn, and _all_ distrust, because some men are false and some unjust?" some of mrs. norton's best and most impassioned verses are to be found in the dedication of this poem to her friend, the duchess of sutherland. affection, gratitude, indignation, grief, regret--_these_ are the sources of mrs. norton's inspiration; but of any coldly intellectual solution of life's puzzles, such as more modern writers affect, there is little trace. "the lady of la garaye" is a breton tale (a true one) of a beautiful and noble châtelaine, on whom heaven had showered all joy and blessing. adored by her husband, she shared every hour of his life and accompanied him in his favourite sport of hunting. one day she dared to follow him over too wide a leap. her horse fell with and on her. she was terribly injured, and crippled for life. after much lamenting she is comforted by a good priest, and institutes a hospital for incurables, she and her husband devoting themselves to good works for the remainder of their days. the versification is smooth, the descriptions are graceful and picturesque; but neither the subject nor its treatment is enthralling. mrs. norton's finest poetic efforts are to be found in her short pieces. one entitled "ataraxia" has a soothing charm, which owes half its melody to the undertone of sadness which pervades the verse. "come forth! the sun hath flung on thetis' breast the glittering tresses of his golden hair; all things are heavy with a noon-day rest, and floating sea-birds cleave the stirless air. against the sky in outlines clear and rude the cleft rocks stand, while sunbeams slant between and lulling winds are murmuring through the wood which skirts the bright bay, with its fringe of green. "come forth! all motion is so gentle now it seems thy step alone should walk the earth, thy voice alone, the 'ever soft and low,' wake the far haunting echoes into birth. "too wild would be love's passionate store of hope, unmeet the influence of his changeful power, ours be companionship whose gentle scope hath charm enough for such a tranquil hour." from the perusal of her writings, the impression given by her portrait, and the reminiscences of one who knew her, we gather an idea of this charming and gifted woman, whose nature seems to have been rich in all that makes for the happiness of others, and of herself. we feel that she possessed a mind abundantly stored, an imagination stimulated and informed by sojourning in many lands; a heart, originally tender and compassionate, mellowed by maternal love, a judgment trained and restrained by constant intercourse with the best minds of the period, a wit keen as a damascene blade, and a soul to feel, even to enthusiasm, the wrongs and sufferings of others. add to these gifts the power of swift expression, and we can imagine what a fascination mrs. norton must have possessed for those of her contemporaries who had the privilege of knowing her. "she was the most brilliant woman i ever met," said the late charles austen, "and her brilliancy was like summer lightning; it dazzled, but did not hurt." unless, indeed, she was impelled to denounce some wrong or injustice, when her words could strike home. yet to this lovely and lovable woman, life was a long disappointment; and through all she has written a strain of profound rebellion against the irony of fate colours her views, her delineations of character, her estimate of the social world. by her relations and friends she was warmly appreciated. she did not succeed in obtaining the relief of divorce until about . mr. norton survived till , and in , a few months before her death, his widow married sir william stirling-maxwell. * * * * * it is a curious instance of the change of fashion and the transient nature of popular memory that great difficulty is experienced in obtaining copies of mrs. norton's works, especially of her poems. "the undying one," "the dream," and one or two smaller pieces, are found only in the british museum library. the novels are embedded in the deeper strata of mudie's, but are not mentioned in the catalogue of that all-embracing collection. yet forty years ago, mrs. norton acknowledged that she made at one time about £ a year by her pen, this chiefly by her contributions to the annuals of that time. mrs. norton, however, had not to contend with the cruel competition which lowers prices while it increases labour. in her day, the workers were few, and the employers less difficult to please. but these comparisons are not only odious, but fruitless. the crowd, the competition, the desperate struggle for life, exists, increases, and we cannot alter it. we can but train for the contest as best we may, and say with the lovely and sorely tried subject of this sketch, as she writes in her poem to her absent boys: "though my lot be hard and lonely, yet i hope--i hope through all." [signature: annie hector] ("mrs. alexander") "a. l. o. e." (miss tucker) mrs. ewing _by_ mrs. marshall "a. l. o. e." (miss tucker) mrs. ewing forty years ago, the mystic letters "a. l. o. e." ("a lady of england") on the title-page of a book ensured its welcome from the children of those days. there was not then the host of gaily bound volumes pouring from the press to be piled up in tempting array in every bookseller's shop at christmas. the children for whom "a. l. o. e." wrote were contented to read a "gift-book" more than once; and, it must be said, her stories were deservedly popular, and bore the crucial test of being read aloud to an attentive audience several times. many of these stories still live, and the allegorical style in which "a. l. o. e." delighted has a charm for certain youthful minds to this day. there is a pride and pleasure in thinking out the lessons hidden under the names of the stalwart giants in the "giant killer," which is one of "a. l. o. e.'s" earlier and best tales. a fight with giant pride, a hard battle with giant sloth, has an inspiriting effect on boys and girls, who are led to "look at home" and see what giants hold them in bondage. "a. l. o. e.'s" style was almost peculiar to herself. she generally used allegory and symbol, and she was fired with the desire to arrest the attention of her young readers and "do them good." we may fear that she often missed her aim by forcing the moral, and by indulging in long and discursive "preachments," which interrupted the main current of the story, and were impatiently skipped that it might flow on again without vexatious hindrances. in her early girlhood and womanhood "a. l. o. e." had written plays, which, we are told by her biographer, miss agnes giberne, were full of wit and fun. although her literary efforts took a widely different direction when she began to write for children, still there are flashes of humour sparkling here and there on the pages of her most didactic stories, showing that her keen sense of the ludicrous was present though it was kept very much in abeyance. from the first publication of "the claremont tales" her success as a writer for children was assured. the list of her books covering the space of fifteen or twenty years is a very long one, and she had no difficulty in finding publishers ready to bring them out in an attractive form. * * * * * "the rambles of a rat" is before me, as i write, in a new edition, and is a very fair specimen of "a. l. o. e.'s" work. weighty sayings are put into the mouth of the rats, and provoke a smile. the discussion about the ancestry of whiskerando and ratto ends with the trite remark--which, however, was not spoken aloud--that the great weakness of one opponent was pride of birth, and his anxiety to be thought of an ancient family; but the chief matter, in ratto's opinion, was not whether our ancestors do honour to us, but whether by our conduct we do not disgrace them. probably this page of the story was hastily turned here, that the history of the two little waifs and strays who took shelter in the warehouse, where the rats lived, might be followed. later on there is a discussion between a father and his little boy about the advantage of ragged schools, then a somewhat new departure in philanthropy. imagine a boy of nine, in our time, exclaiming, "what a glorious thing it is to have ragged schools and reformatories, to give the poor and the ignorant, and the wicked, a chance of becoming honest and happy." boys of neddy's age, nowadays, would denounce him as a little prig, who ought to be well snubbed for his philanthropical ambition, when he went on to say, "how i should like to build a ragged school myself!" "the voyage of the rats to russia" is full of interest and adventure, and the glimpse of russian life is vivid, and in "a. l. o. e.'s" best manner. indeed, she had a graphic pen, and her descriptions of places and things were always true to life. in "pride and his prisoners," for instance, there are stirring scenes, drawn with that dramatic power which had characterised the plays she wrote in her earlier days. "the pretender, a farce in two acts, by charlotte maria tucker," is published in miss giberne's biography. in this farce there is a curious and constantly recurring play on words, but the allegory and the symbol with which she afterwards clothed her stories are absent. * * * * * "a. l. o. e." did not write merely to _amuse_ children; and the countless fairy tales and books of startling adventure, in their gilded covers and with their profuse illustrations, which are published every year, have thrown her stories into the shade. but they are written with verve and spirit, and in good english, which is high praise, and cannot always be given to the work of her successors in juvenile literature. in her books, as in every work she undertook throughout her life, she had the high and noble aim of doing good. whether she might have widened the sphere of her influence by less of didactic teaching, and by allowing her natural gifts to have more play, it is not for us to inquire. it is remarkable that this long practice in allegory and symbol fitted her for her labours in her latter years, amongst the boys and girls of the far east. her style was well adapted to the oriental mind, and kindled interest and awoke enthusiasm in the hearts of the children in the batala schools. here she did a great work, which she undertook at the age of fifty-four, when she offered her services to the church missionary society as an unpaid missionary. "all for love, and no reward" may surely be said to be "a. l. o. e.'s" watchword, as, with untiring energy, she laboured amongst the children in a distant part of the empire. even there she was busy as an author. by her fertile pen she could reach thousands in that part of india who would never see her face or hear her voice. she wrote for india as she had written for england, ever keeping before her the good of her readers. the hindu boys and girls, as well as the children of this country, have every reason to hold her name in grateful remembrance as one of the authors who have left a mark on the reign of queen victoria. mrs. ewing there lingers over some people whom we know a nameless charm. it is difficult to define it, and yet we feel it in their presence as we feel the subtle fragrance of flowers, borne to us on the wings of the fresh breeze, which has wandered over gorse and heather, beds of wild hyacinth, and cowslip fields, in the early hours of a sunny spring day. a charm like this breathes over the stories which mrs. ewing has left as an inheritance for english children, and for their elders also, for all time. the world must be better for her work; and looking back over the sometimes toilsome paths of authorship, this surely, above all others, is the guerdon all craftswomen of the pen should strive to win. there is nothing morbid or melodramatic in mrs. ewing's beautiful stories. they bubble over with the joys of child-life; they bristle with its humour; they touch its sorrows with a tender, sympathetic hand; they lend a gentle sadness of farewell to death itself, with the sure hope of better things to come. * * * * * it was in and that those who were looking for healthy stories for children found, in "melchior's dream and other tales," precisely what they wanted. soon after, _aunt judy's magazine_, edited by mrs. ewing's mother, mrs. gatty, made a new departure in the periodical literature for children. the numbers were eagerly looked for month by month, and the title of the magazine was given to commemorate the "judy" of the nursery, who had often kept a bevy of little brothers and sisters happy and quiet by pouring forth into their willing ears stories full of the prowess of giants, the freaks of fairies, with occasional but always good-natured shafts aimed at the little faults and frailties of the listening children. _aunt judy's magazine_ had no contributions from mrs. ewing's pen till may and may . then the delightful "remembrances of mrs. overtheway" enchanted her youthful readers. little ida's own story and her lonely childhood had an especial charm for them; and mrs. overtheway's remembrances of the far-off days when she, too, was a child, were told as things that had really happened. and so they had! for, in the disappointment of the imaginative child who had created a fair vision from her grandmother's description of mrs. anastasia moss as a golden-haired beauty in rose-bud brocade, and instead, saw an old lady with sunken black eyes, dressed in _feuilles mortes_ satin, many a child may have found the salient parts of her own experience rehearsed! "alas!" says mrs. overtheway, when little ida, soothed by her gentle voice, has fallen asleep. "alas! my grown-up friends, does the moral belong to children only? have manhood and womanhood no passionate, foolish longings, for which we blind ourselves to obvious truth, and of which the vanity does not lessen the disappointment? do we not all toil after rose-buds to find _feuilles mortes_?" it is in touches like this, in her stories, that mrs. ewing appeals to many older hearts as well as to those of the young dreamers, taking their first steps in the journey of life. in , juliana horatia gatty married alexander ewing, a.p.d., and for some time "mrs. overtheway's remembrances" were not continued. the last of them, "kerguelin's land," is considered by some critics the most beautiful of the series, ending with the delightful surprise of little ida's joy in the return of her lost father. * * * * * mrs. ewing's stories are so rich in both humour and pathos, that it is difficult to choose from them distinctive specimens of her style, and of that charm which pervades them, a charm which we think is peculiarly her own. mrs. ewing gave an unconsciously faithful portrait of herself in "madam liberality." the reader has in this story glimpses of the author's own heroic and self-forgetful childhood. perhaps this tale is not as well known as some which followed it: so a few notes from its pages may not be unwelcome here. madam liberality, when a little girl, was accustomed to pick out all the plums from her own slice of cake and afterwards make a feast with them for her brothers and sisters and the dolls. oyster shells served for plates, and if by any chance the plums did not go round the party, the shell before madam liberality's place was always the empty one. her eldest brother had given her the title of madam liberality; and yet he could, with refreshing frankness, shake his head at her and say, "you are the most _meanest_ and the _generousest_ person i ever knew." madam liberality wept over this accusation, and it was the grain of truth in it that made her cry, for it was too true that she screwed, and saved, and pinched to have the pleasure of "giving away." "tom, on the contrary, gave away without pinching and saving. this sounds much handsomer, and it was poor tom's misfortune that he always believed it to be so, though he gave away what did not belong to him, and fell back for the supply of his own pretty numerous wants upon other people, not forgetting madam liberality." what a clever analysis of character is this! we have all known the "toms," for they are numerous, and some of us have known and but scantily appreciated the far rarer "madam liberalitys." it is difficult to read unmoved of the brave child's journey alone to the doctor to have a tooth taken out which had caused her much suffering. then when about to claim the shilling from her mother, which was the accustomed reward for the unpleasant operation, she remembered the agreement was a shilling for a tooth with fangs, sixpence for a tooth without them. she did so want the larger sum to spend on christmas presents; so, finding a fang left in her jaw, she went back to the doctor, had it extracted, and staggered home once more, very giddy but very happy, with the tooth and the fang safe in a pill box! "moralists say a great deal about pain treading so very closely on the heels of pleasure in this life, but they are not always wise or grateful enough to speak of the pleasure which springs out of pain. and yet there is a bliss which comes just when pain has ceased, whose rapture rivals even the high happiness of unbroken health. "relief is certainly one of the most delicious sensations which poor humanity can enjoy." madam liberality often suffered terrible pain from quinsy. thus we read sympathetically of her heroic efforts one christmastide, when nearly suffocated with this relentless disease, to go on with her preparations to get her little gifts ready for the family. and how we rejoice when a cart rumbles up to the door and brings a load of beautiful presents, sent by a benevolent lady who has known madam liberality's desire to make purchases for her brothers and sisters, and has determined to give her this delightful surprise. * * * * * the story of madam liberality, from childhood to maturity, is, we think, written in mrs. ewing's best manner, though, perhaps, it has never gained the widespread popularity of "jackanapes," and "the story of a short life," or "a flat iron for a farthing." of the last-named story mrs. bundle is almost the central figure. in the childhood of reginald dacre, who writes his own reminiscences, she played a prominent part. loyal and true, she held the old traditions of faithful service; her master's people were her people, and she had but few interests apart from them. the portrait of reginald's mother hung in his father's dressing-room, and was his resort in the early days of his childish sorrows. once when his dog rubens had been kicked by a guest in his father's house, reginald went to that picture of his golden-haired mother and wept out his plaintive entreaties that "mamma would come back to rubens and to him--they were so miser-ra-ble." "then," he says, "in the darkness came a sob that was purely human, and i was clasped in a woman's arms and covered with tender kisses and soothing caresses. for one wild moment, in my excitement and the boundless faith of childhood, i thought my mother had heard me and come back. but it was only nurse bundle!" then, passing over many years, when reginald dacre brought his bride to his old home, this faithful friend, after giving her loving welcome to the new mrs. dacre, went, in the confusion and bewilderment of old age, with its strange mingling of past and present, to the room where the portrait of her lost lady with the golden hair still hung; and there, the story goes on to say, "there, where years before she had held me in her arms with tears, i, weeping also, held her now in mine--quite dead!" this is one of the most pathetic incidents in all mrs. ewing's works, told without the least exaggeration and with the simplicity which is one of the characteristics of her style. "lob lie by the fire" contains some of the author's brightest flashes of humour, and yet it closes with a description of macalister's death, drawn with the tender hand with which that solemn mystery is ever touched by mrs. ewing, beautiful in its pathetic simplicity. nothing in its way can be more profoundly touching than the few words which end this story:-- "after a while macalister repeated the last word, '_home_.' and as he spoke there spread over his face a smile so tender and so full of happiness that john broom held his breath as he watched him. as the light of sunrise creeps over the face of some rugged rock, it crept from chin to brow, and the pale blue eyes shone, tranquil, like water that reflects heaven. and when it had passed, it left them still open--but gems that had lost their ray." * * * * * "jackanapes" is so well known, almost the best known of the author's charming stories, that we will not dwell on the pathos of that last scene, when jackanapes, like one in the old allegory, heard the trumpets calling for him on the other side--the gallant boy who had laid down his life for his friend. but the character of the gray goose, who slept securely with one leg tucked up under her on the green, is so delightfully suggestive that we must give some of her wisdom as a specimen of the author's humorous but never unkindly hits at the weaknesses to which we are all prone. "the gray goose and the big miss jessamine were the only elderly persons who kept their ages secret. indeed, miss jessamine never mentioned any one's age, or recalled the exact year in which anything had happened. the gray goose also avoided dates. she never got farther than 'last michaelmas,' 'the michaelmas before that,' and 'the michaelmas before the michaelmas before that.' after this her head, which was small, became confused, and she said 'ga-ga!' and changed the subject." then again: "the gray goose always ran away at the first approach of the caravans, and never came back to the green till nothing was left of the fair but footmarks and oyster-shells. running away was her pet principle; the only system, she maintained, by which you can live long and easily, and lose nothing. "why in the world should any one spoil the pleasures of life, or risk his skin, if he can help it? 'what's the use? said the goose.' before answering which one might have to consider what world, which life, and whether his skin were a goose skin. but the gray goose's head would never have held all that." * * * * * major ewing was stationed at aldershot in , and during the eight years mrs. ewing lived there her pen was never idle. _aunt judy's magazine_ for was well supplied with tales, of which "amelia" is perhaps one of the best. to her life at aldershot we owe the story which had for its motto "loetus sorte mea," and which is full of the most graphic descriptions of the huts and the soldiers' life in camp. as in the story of madam liberality we have glimpses of the author's childhood with all its little cares and joys, so in the "story of a short life" we have the actual experience of a soldier's life in camp. o'reilly, the useful man of all trades, with his warm irish heart, and his devotion to the colonel's wife, his erratic and haphazard way of performing his duties, his admiration for the little gentleman in his velvet coat and lace collar, who stood erect by his side when the funeral passed to the music of the dead march, imitating his soldierlike bearing and salute, is a vivid picture touched by the skilled hand of a word painter. so also is the figure of the v.c., who in his first talk with the crippled child, stands before us as the ideal of a brave soldier, who sets but little store on his achievements, modest as the truly great always are, and encouraging the boy to fight a brave battle against irritable temper and impatience at the heavy cross of suffering laid upon him. "'you are a v.c.,' leonard is saying, 'and you ought to know. i suppose nothing--not even if i could be good always from this minute right away till i die--nothing could ever count up to the courage of a v.c.?' "'god knows it could, a thousand times over,' was the v.c.'s reply. "'where are you going? please don't go. look at me. they're not going to chop the queen's head off, are they?' "'heaven forbid! what are you thinking about?' "'why because--look at me again--ah! you've winked it away; but your eyes were full of tears, and the only other brave man i ever heard of crying was uncle rupert, and that was because he knew they were going to chop the poor king's head off.' that was enough to make anybody cry." they were in the room where the picture of the young cavalier ancestor of leonard hung. he always called him "uncle rupert," and he would meditate on the young face with the eyes dim with tears--eyes which always seemed to follow him, and, as he fancied, watched him sorrowfully, now no longer able to jump about and play with the sweep, but lying helpless on his couch, or limping about on his crutches, often with pain and difficulty. this conversation between the v.c. and leonard was the beginning of a strong friendship which was put to the test one sunday when leonard lay dying in the hut of his uncle, the barrack-master. the v.c. hated anything like display or bringing himself into notice. thus it cost him something to take up his position outside the iron church in the camp, that leonard might hear the last verses of the tug-of-war hymn. the v.c.'s attachment to his little friend triumphed over his dislike to stand alone singing, "the son of god goes forth to war, a kingly crown to gain." the melodious voice of the gallant young soldier rang through the air and reached the dying ears of little leonard. the soldiers loved this hymn, and the organist could never keep them back. the soldiers, the story says, had begun to tug. in a moment more the organ stopped, and the v.c. found himself with over three hundred men at his back, singing without accompaniment and in unison: "a noble army, men and boys, the matron and the maid, around the saviour's throne rejoice in robes of white arrayed." even now, as the men paused to take breath after their "tug," the organ spoke again softly but seraphically. clearer and sweeter above the voices behind him rose the voice of the v.c. singing to his little friend: "they climbed the steep ascent to heaven through peril, toil and pain." the men sang on, but the v.c. stopped as if he had been shot. for a man's hand had come to the barrack master's window _and pulled down the blind_! here, again, we have an instance of this author's power to touch her readers, even to tears, by the true pathos which needs but few words to bring it home to many hearts. taken as a whole, "the story of a short life" has, it may be, some faults of construction, which arose from its being written in detached portions. the history of st. martin, though it is not without its bearing on the story of the beautiful and once active child's bruised and broken life, and his desire to be a soldier, rather spoils the continuity of the narrative. "the story of a short life" was not published in book form until four days before the author's death; but it was not her last work, though from its appearance at that moment the title was spoken of by some reviewers as singularly appropriate. mrs. ewing's love for animals may be seen in all her stories--leonard's beloved "sweep," lollo the red-haired pony on which jackanapes took his first ride, and the dog in the blind man's story dying of grief on his grave, are all signs of the author's affection for those who have been well called "our silent friends." her own pets were indeed her friends--from a pink-nosed bulldog called hector, to a refugee pup saved from the common hang-man, and a collie buried with honours, his master making a sketch of him as he lay on his bier. mrs. ewing was passionately fond of flowers, and "mary's meadow" was written in the last years of her life as a serial for _aunt judy's magazine_. her very last literary work was a series of letters from a little garden, and the love of and care for flowers is the theme. * * * * * much of mrs. ewing's work cannot be noticed in a paper which is necessarily short. but enough has been said to show what was her peculiar gift as a writer for children. it is sometimes said that to write books for children cannot be considered a high branch of literature. we venture to think this is a mistake. there is nothing more difficult than to arrest the attention of children. they do not as a rule care to be _written down_ to--they can appreciate what is good and are pleased when their elders can enter into and admire the story which has interested and delighted them. to write as mrs. ewing wrote is undoubtedly a great gift which not many possess, but a careful study of her works by young and old authors and readers alike cannot be without benefit. she was a perfect mistress of the english language; she was never dull and never frivolous. there is not a slip-shod sentence, or an exaggerated piling up of adjectives to be found in her pages. she knew what she had to say, and she said it in language at once pure, forcible, and graceful. we must be grateful to her for leaving for us, and for our children's children, so much that is a model of all that tends to make the literature of the young--yes, and of the old also--attractive, healthy, and delightful. [signature: emma marshall] printed by ballantyne, hanson & co. london & edinburgh * * * * * transcriber notes: punctuation has been normalized without note. the following have been corrected: page : "beween" changed to "between" (discriminate between them) page : "esipodes" changed to "episodes" (of the episodes in her own life) page : "of of" changed to "of" (part of a woman's virtue) page : "shakespeare" changed to "shakspere" for consistency (did not shakspere make hector) page : "sorel" chanaged to "sorrel" (and who hetty sorrel) page : "mon s" changed to "monks" (to make the old monks) page : "melchoir's" changed to "melchior's" ("melchior's dream and other tales") hagar hagar by mary johnston [illustration] boston and new york houghton mifflin company the riverside press cambridge copyright, , by mary johnston all rights reserved _published october _ contents i. the packet-boat ii. gilead balm iii. the descent of man iv. the convict v. maria vi. eglantine vii. mr. laydon viii. hagar and laydon ix. romeo and juliet x. gilead balm xi. the letters xii. a meeting xiii. the new springs xiv. new york xv. looking for thomasine xvi. the maines xvii. the socialist meeting xviii. a telegram xix. alexandria xx. medway xxi. at roger michael's xxii. hagar in london xxiii. by the sea xxiv. denny gayde xxv. hagar and denny xxvi. gilead balm xxvii. a difference of opinion xxviii. new york again xxix. rose darragh xxx. an old acquaintance xxxi. john fay xxxii. ralph xxxiii. gilead balm xxxiv. brittany hagar hagar chapter i the packet-boat "_low braidge!_" the people on deck bent over, some until heads touched knees, others, more exactly calculating, just sufficiently to clear the beams. the canal-boat passed beneath the bridge, and all straightened themselves on their camp-stools. the gentlemen who were smoking put their cigars again between their lips. the two or three ladies resumed book or knitting. the sun was low, and the sycamores and willows fringing the banks cast long shadows across the canal. the northern bank was not so clothed with foliage, and one saw an expanse of bottom land, meadows and cornfields, and beyond, low mountains, purple in the evening light. the boat slipped from a stripe of gold into a stripe of shadow, and from a stripe of shadow into a stripe of gold. the negro and the mule on the towpath were now but a bit of dusk in motion, and now were lit and, so to speak, powdered with gold-dust. now the rope between boat and towpath showed an arm-thick golden serpent, and now it did not show at all. now a little cloud of gnats and flies, accompanying the boat, shone in burnished armour and now they put on a mantle of shade. a dark little girl, of twelve years, dark and thin, sitting aft on the deck floor, her long, white-stockinged legs folded decorously under her, her blue gingham skirt spread out, and her leghorn hat upon her knees, appealed to one of the reading ladies. "aunt serena, what is 'evolution'?" miss serena ashendyne laid down her book. "'evolution,'" she said blankly, "'what is evolution?'" "i heard grandfather say it just now. he said, 'that man darwin and his evolution'--" "oh!" said miss serena. "he meant a very wicked and irreligious englishman who wrote a dreadful book." "was it named 'evolution'?" "no. i forget just what it is called. 'beginning'--no! 'origin of species.' that was it." "have we got it in the library at gilead balm?" "heavens! no!" "why?" "your grandfather wouldn't let it come into the house. no lady would read it." "oh!" miss serena returned to her novel. she sat very elegantly on the camp-stool, a graceful, long-lined, drooping form in a greenish-grey delaine picked out with tiny daisies. it was made polonaise. miss serena, alone of the people at gilead balm, kept up with the fashions. at the other end of the long, narrow deck a knot of country gentlemen were telling war stories. all had fought in the war--the war that had been over now for twenty years and more. there were an empty sleeve and a wooden leg in the group and other marks of bullet and sabre. they told good stories, the country gentlemen, and they indulged in mellow laughter. blue rings of tobacco-smoke rose and mingled and made a haze about that end of the boat. "how the gentlemen are enjoying themselves!" said placidly one of the knitting ladies. the dark little girl continued to ponder the omission from the library. "aunt serena--" "yes, hagar." "is it like 'tom jones'?" "'tom jones'! what do you know about 'tom jones'?" "grandfather was reading it one day and laughing, and after he had done with it i got it down from the top shelf and asked him if i might read it, and he said, 'no, certainly not! it isn't a book for ladies.'" "your grandfather was quite right. you read entirely too much anyway. dr. bude told your mother so." the little girl turned large, alarmed eyes upon her. "i don't read half as much as i used to. i don't read except just a little time in the morning and evening and after supper. it would _kill_ me if i couldn't read--" "well, well," said miss serena, "i suppose we shall continue to spoil you!" she said it in a very sweet voice, and she patted the child's arm and then she went back to "the wooing o't." she was fond of reading novels herself, though she liked better to do macramé work and to paint porcelain placques. the packet-boat glided on. it was almost the last packet-boat in the state and upon almost its last journey. presently there would go away forever the long, musical winding of the packet-boat horn. it would never echo any more among the purple hills, but the locomotive would shriek here as it shrieked elsewhere. beyond the willows and sycamores, across the river whose reaches were seen at intervals, gangs of convicts with keepers and guards and overseers were at work upon the railroad. the boat passing through a lock, the dark little girl stared, fascinated, at one of these convicts, a "trusty," a young white man who was there at the lock-keeper's on some errand and who now stood speaking to the stout old man on the coping of masonry. as the water in the lock fell and the boat was steadily lowered and the stone walls on either hand grew higher and higher, the figure of the convict came to stand far above all on deck. dressed hideously, in broad stripes of black and white, it stood against the calm evening sky, with a sense of something withdrawn and yet gigantic. the face was only once turned toward the boat with its freight of people who dressed as they pleased. it was not at all a bad face, and it was boyishly young. the boat slipped from the lock and went on down the canal, between green banks. the negro on the towpath was singing and his rich voice floated across-- "for everywhere i went ter pray, i met all hell right on my way." the country gentlemen were laughing again, wrapped in the blue and fragrant smoke. the captain of the packet-boat came up the companionway and passed from group to group like a benevolent patriarch. down below, supper was cooking; one smelled the coffee. the sun was slipping lower, in the green bottoms the frogs were choiring. standing in the prow of the boat a negro winded the long packet-boat horn. it echoed and echoed from the purple hills. the dark little girl was still staring at the dwindling lock. the black-and-white figure, striped like a zebra, was there yet, though it had come down out of the sky and had now only the green of the country about and behind it. it grew smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a black-and-white woodpecker--it was gone. she appealed again to miss serena. "aunt serena, what do you suppose he did?" miss serena, who prided herself upon her patience, put down her book for the tenth time. "of whom are you speaking, hagar?" "that man back there--the convict." "i didn't notice him. but if he is a convict, he probably did something very wicked." hagar sighed. "i don't think _anybody_ ought to be made to dress like that. it--it smudged my soul just to look at it." "convicts," said miss serena, "are not usually people of fine feelings. and you ought to take warning by him never to do anything wicked." a silence while the trees and the flowering blackberry bushes went by; then, "aunt serena--" "yes?" "the woman over there with the baby--she says her husband got hurt in an accident--and she's got to get to him--and she hasn't got any money. the stout man gave her something, and i _think_ the captain wouldn't let her pay. can't i--wouldn't you--can't i--give her just a little?" "the trouble is," said miss serena, "that you never know whether or not those people are telling the truth. and we aren't rich, as you know, hagar. but if you want to, you can go ask your grandfather if he will give you something to give." the dark little girl undoubled her white-stockinged legs, got up, smoothed down her blue gingham dress, and went forward until the tobacco-smoke wrapped her in a fragrant fog. out of it came, genially, the colonel's voice, rich as old madeira, shot like shot silk with curious electric tensions and strains and agreements, a voice at once mellifluous and capable of revealments demanding other adjectives, a voice that was the colonel's and spoke the colonel from head to heel. it went with his beauty, intact yet at fifty-eight, with the greying amber of his hair, mustache, and imperial; with his eyes, not large but finely shaped and coloured; with his slightly aquiline nose; with the height and easy swing of his body that was neither too spare nor too full. it went with him from head to foot, and, though it was certainly not a loud voice nor a too-much-used one, it quite usually dominated whatever group for the moment enclosed the colonel. he was speaking now in a kind of energetic, golden drawl. "so he came up to me and said, 'dash it, ashendyne! if gentlemen can't be allowed in this degenerate age to rule their own households and arrange their own duels--'" he became aware of the child standing by him, and put out a well-formed, nervous hand. "yes, gipsy? what is it you want now?" hagar explained sedately. "her husband hurt and can't get to him to nurse him?" said the colonel. "well, well! that's pretty bad! i suppose we must take up a collection. pass the hat, gipsy!" hagar went to each of the country gentlemen, not with the suggested hat, but with her small palm held out, cupped. one by one they dropped into it quarter or dime, and each, as his coin tinkled down, had for the collector of bounty a drawling, caressing, humorous word. she thanked each gentleman as his bit of silver touched her hand and thanked with a sedate little manner of perfection. manners at gilead balm were notoriously of a perfection. hagar took the money to the woman with the baby and gave it to her shyly, with a red spot in each cheek. she was careful to explain, when the woman began to stammer thanks, that it was from her grandfather and the other gentlemen and that they were anxious to help. she was a very honest little girl, with an honest wish to place credit where it belonged. back beside miss serena she sat and studied the moving green banks. the sun was almost down; there were wonderful golden clouds above the mountains. willow and sycamore, on the river side of the canal, fell away. across an emerald, marshy strip, you saw the bright, larger stream, mirror for the bright sky, and across it in turn you saw limestone cliffs topped with shaggy woods, and you heard the sound of picks against rock and saw another band of convicts, white and black, making the railroad. the packet-boat horn was blown again,--long, musical, somewhat mournfully echoing. the negro on the towpath, riding sideways on his mule, was singing still. "aunt serena--" "yes, hagar." "why is it that women don't have any money?" miss serena closed her book. she glanced at the fields and the sky-line. "we shall be at gilead balm in ten minutes.--you ask too many questions, hagar! it is a very bad habit to be always interrogating. it is quite distinctly unladylike." chapter ii gilead balm at the gilead balm landing waited captain bob with a negro man to carry up to the house the colonel's portmanteau and miss serena's small leather trunk. the packet-boat came in sight, white and slow as a deliberate swan, drew reflectively down the shining reach of water, and sidled to the landing. the colonel shook hands with all the country gentlemen and bowed to the ladies, and the country gentlemen bowed to miss serena, who in turn bent her head and smiled, and the captain said good-bye, and the colonel gave the attendant darky a quarter, and the woman with the baby came to that side of the boat and held for a moment the hand of the dark little girl, and then the gangplank was placed and the three ashendynes passed over to the colonel's land. the horn blew again, long, melodious; the negro on the towpath said, "get up!" to the mule. amid a waving of hands and a chorus of slow, agreeable voices the packet-boat glided from the landing and proceeded down the pink water between the willows and sycamores. captain bob, with his hound luna at his heels, greeted the returning members of the family: "well, serena, did you have a pleasant visit? hey, gipsy, you've grown a week! well, colonel?" the colonel shook hands with his brother. "very pleasant time, bob! good old-time people, too good for this damned new-fangled world! but--" he breathed deep. "i am glad to get home. i am always glad to get home. well? everything all right?" "right as a trivet! the bishop's here, and mrs. legrand. came on the stage yesterday." "that's good news," said the colonel. "the bishop's always welcome, and mrs. legrand is most welcome." the four began to walk toward the house, half a mile away, just visible among great trees. the dark little girl walked beside the hound, but the hound kept her nose in captain bob's palm. she was fond of hagar, but captain bob was her god. as for captain bob himself, he walked like a curious, unfinished, somewhat flawed and shortened suggestion of his brother. he was shorter than the colonel and broader; hair, nose, eyes, mouth were nothing like so fine; carriage and port were quite different; he lacked the _cachet_, he lacked the _grand air_. for all that, the fact that they were brothers was evident enough. captain bob loved dogs and hunting, and read the county newspaper and the sporting almanac. he was not complex. ninety-nine times out of a hundred he acted from instinct and habit, and the puzzling hundredth time he beat about for tradition and precedent. he was good-natured and spendthrift, with brains enough for not too distant purposes. emotionally, he was strongest in family affection. "missed you all!" he now observed cheerfully. "gilead balm's been like a graveyard." "how is mother?" asked miss serena. she was picking her way delicately through the green lane, between the evening primroses, the grey-green delaine held just right. "she wrote me that she burned her hand trying the strawberry preserves." "it's all right now. never saw old miss looking better!" the dark little girl turned her dark eyes on captain bob. "how is my mother?" "maria? well, i should say that she was all right, too. i haven't heard her complain." "gad! i wish she would complain," ejaculated the colonel. "then one could tell her there was nothing to complain about. i hate these women who go through life with a smile on their lips and an indictment in their eyes--when there's only the usual up and down of living to indict. i had rather they would whine--though i hate them to whine, too. but women are all cowards. no woman knows how to take the world." the dark little girl, who had been walking between the colonel and captain bob, began to tremble. "whoever else's a coward, my mother's not--" "i don't think, father, you ought--" captain bob was stronger yet. he was fond of gipsy, and he thought that sometimes the family bore too hardly on maria. now and then he did a small bit of cloudy thinking, and when he did it he always brought forth the result with a certain curious clearing of the throat and nodding of the head, as though the birth of an idea was attended with considerable physical strain. "no, colonel," now he said, "you oughtn't! damn it, where'd we be but for women anyhow? as for maria--i think you're too hard on maria. the chief trouble with maria is that she isn't herself an ashendyne. of course, she can't help that, but i think it is a pity. always did think that men ought to marry at least fifth or sixth cousins. bring women in without blood and traditions of people they've got to live with--of course, there's trouble adapting. seen it a score of times. maria's just like the rest when they're not cousins. ought somehow to be cousins." "bob, you are a perfect fool," remarked the colonel. he walked on, between the primroses, his hands behind him, tall and easy in his black, wide-skirted coat and his soft black hat. the earth was in shadow, but the sky glowed carnation. against it stood out the long, low red-brick house of gilead balm. at either gable end rose pyramidal cedars, high and dark against the vivid sky. in the lane there was the smell of dewy grass, and on either hand, back from the vine-draped rail fences, rolled the violet fields. somewhere in the distance sounded the tinkling of cow bells. the ardent sky began to pale; the swallows were circling above the chimneys of gilead balm, and now the silver venus came out clear. the little girl named hagar lagged a little going up the low hill on which the house stood. she was growing fast, and all journeys were exciting, and she was taking iron because she wasn't very strong, and she had had a week of change and had been thinking hard and was tired. she wanted to see her mother, and indeed she wanted to see all at gilead balm, for, unlike her mother, she loved gilead balm, but going up the hill she lagged a little. partly it was to look at the star and to listen to the distant bells. she was not aware that she observed that which we call nature with a deep passion and curiosity, that beauty was the breath of her nostrils, and that she hungered and thirsted after the righteousness of knowledge. she only came slowly, after many years, into that much knowledge of herself. to-day she was but an undeveloped child, her mind a nebula just beginning to spiral. in conversation she would have applied the word "pretty" indiscriminately to the flushed sky, the star, the wheeling swallows, the yellow primroses. but within, already, the primroses struck one note, and the wheeling swallows another, and the sky another, and the star another, and, combined, they made a chord that was like no other chord. already her moments were distinguished, and each time she saw gilead balm she saw, and dimly knew that she saw, a different gilead balm. she climbed the hill a little stumblingly, a dark, thin child with braided, dusky hair. she was so tired that things went into a kind of mist--the house and the packet-boat and the lock and the convict and the piping frogs and the cat-tails in a marsh and the word "evolution."... and then, up on the low hilltop, dilsey and plutus lit the lamps, and the house had a row of topaz eyes;--and here was the cedar at the little gate, and the smell of box--box smell was always of a very especial character, dark in hue, cool in temperature, and quite unfathomably old. the four passed through the house gate and went up the winding path between the box and the old, old blush roses--and here was the old house dog roger fawning on the colonel--and the topaz eyes were growing bigger, bigger.... "i am glad to get home," said miss serena, in front. "it's curious how, every time you go from home, something happens to cure you of a roving disposition." captain bob laughed. "never knew you had a roving disposition, serena! luna here, now,--luna's got a roving disposition--haven't you, old girl?" "luna," replied miss serena with some asperity, "luna makes no effort to alter her disposition. i do. everybody's got tendencies and notions that it is their bounden duty to suppress. if they don't, it leads to all kind of changes and upheavals.--and that is what i criticize in maria. she makes no effort, either. it's most unfortunate." the colonel, in front of them all, moved on with a fine serenity. he had taken off his hat, and in the yet warm glow the grey-amber of his hair seemed fairly luminous. as he walked he looked appreciatively up at the evening star. he read poetry with a fine, discriminating, masculine taste, and now, with a gesture toward the star, he repeated a line of byron. maria and her idiosyncrasies troubled him only when they stood actually athwart his path; certainly he had never brooded upon them, nor turned them over in his hand and looked at them. she was his son's wife--more, he was inclined to think, the pity! she was, therefore, ashendyne, and she was housed at gilead balm. he was inclined to be fond of the child hagar. as for his son--the colonel, in his cooler moments, supposed, damn it! that he and medway were too much alike to get on together. at any rate, whatever the reason, they did not get on together. gilead balm had not seen the younger ashendyne for some years. he was in europe, whence he wrote, at very long intervals, an amiable traveller's letter. neither had he and maria gotten on well together. the house grew large, filling all the foreground. the topaz eyes changed to a wide, soft, diffused light, pouring from windows and the open hall door. in it now appeared the figures of the elder mrs. ashendyne, of the bishop, and mrs. legrand, coming out upon the porch to welcome the travellers. hagar took her grandmother's kiss and mrs. legrand's kiss and the bishop's kiss, and then, after a few moments of standing still in the hall while the agreeable, southern voices rose and fell, she stole away, went up the shallow, worn stairway, turned to the left, and opened the door of her mother's room. she opened it softly. "uncle plutus says you've got a headache." maria's voice came from the sofa in the window. "yes, i have. shut the door softly, and don't let us have any light. but i don't mind your sitting by me." the couch was deep and heaped with pillows. maria's slight, small form was drawn up in a corner, her head high, her hands twisted and locked about her knees. she wore a soft white wrapper, tied beneath her breast with a purple ribbon. she had beautiful hair. thick and long and dusky, it was now loosened and spread until it made a covering for the pillows. out from its waves looked her small face, still and exhausted. the headache, after having lasted all day, was going away now at twilight. she just turned her dark eyes upon her daughter. "i don't mind your lying down beside me," she said. "there's room. only don't jar my head--" hagar lay carefully down upon the couch, her head in the hollow of her mother's arm. "did you have a good time?" "yes.... pretty good." "what did you do?" "there was another little girl named sylvie. we played in the hayloft, and we made willow baskets, and we cut paper dolls out of a 'godey's lady's book.' i named mine lucy ashton and diana vernon and rebecca, and she didn't know any good names, so i named hers for her. we named them rosalind and cordelia and vashti. then there was a lady who played backgammon with me, and i read two books." "what were they?" "one was 'gulliver's travels.' i didn't like it altogether, though i liked some of it. the other was shelley's 'shorter poems.' oh"--hagar rose to a sitting posture--"i liked that better than anything i've _ever_ read--" "you are young to be reading shelley," said her mother. she spoke with her lips only, her young, pain-stilled face high upon the pillows. "what did you like best?" hagar pondered it. "i liked the 'cloud,' and i liked the 'west wind,' and i liked the 'spirit of night'--" some one tapped at the door, and then without waiting for an answer opened it. the elder mrs. ashendyne entered. hagar slipped from the sofa and maria changed her position, though very slightly. "come in," she said, though mrs. ashendyne was already in. "old miss," as the major part of gilead balm called her, old miss crossed the room with a stately tread and took the winged chair. she intended tarrying but a moment, but she was a woman who never stood to talk. she always sat down like a regent, and the standing was done by others. she was a large woman, tall rather than otherwise, of a distinct comeliness, and authoritative--oh, authoritative from her black lace cap on her still brown, smoothly parted hair, to her low-heeled list shoes, black against her white stockings! now she folded her hands upon her black stuff skirt and regarded maria. "are you better?" "yes, thank you." "if you would take my advice," said mrs. ashendyne, "and put horseradish leaves steeped in hot water to your forehead and the back of your neck, you would find it a great relief." "i had some lavender water," said maria. "the horseradish would have been far better. are you coming to supper?" "no, i think not. i do not care for anything. i am not hungry." "i will have phoebe fetch you a little thin chipped beef and a beaten biscuit and a cup of coffee. you must eat.--if you gave way less it would be better for you." maria looked at her with sombre eyes. at once the fingers slipped to other and deeper notes. "if i gave way less.... well, yes, i do give way. i have never seen how not to. i suppose if i were cleverer and braver, i should see--" "what i mean," said old miss with dignity, "is that the lord, for his own good purposes,--and it is _sinful_ to question his purposes,--regulated society as it is regulated, and placed women where they are placed. no one claims--certainly i don't claim--that women as women do not see a great deal of hardship. the bible gives us to understand that it is their punishment. then i say take your punishment with meekness. it is possible that by doing so you may help earn remission for all." "there was always," said maria, "something frightful to me in the old notion of whipping-boys for kings and princes. how very bad to be the whipping-boy, and how infinitely worse to be the king or prince whose whipping-boy you were!" a red came into mrs. ashendyne's face. "you are at times positively blasphemous!" she said. "i do not at all see of what, personally, you have to complain. if medway is estranged from you, you have probably only yourself to thank--" "i never wish," said maria, "to see medway again." medway's mother rose with stateliness from the winged chair. "when it comes to statements like that from a wife, it is time for old-fashioned people like myself to take our leave.--phoebe shall bring you your supper. hagar, you had better come with me." "leave hagar here," said the other. "the bell will ring in ten minutes. come, child!" "stay where you are, hagar. when the bell rings, she shall come." the elder mrs. ashendyne's voice deepened. "it is hard for me to see the mind of my son's child perverted, filled with all manner of foolish queries and rebellions." "your son's child," answered maria from among her pillows, "happens to be also my child. his family has just had her for a solid week. now, pray let me have her for an hour." her eyes, dark and large in her thin, young face, narrowed until the lashes met. "i am perfectly aware of how deplorable is the whole situation. if i were wiser and stronger and more heroic, i suppose i should break through it. i suppose i should go away with hagar. i suppose i should learn to work. i suppose i should somehow keep us both. i suppose i might live again. i suppose i might ... even ... get a divorce--" her mother-in-law towered. "the bishop shall talk to you the first thing in the morning--" chapter iii the descent of man a pool of june sunlight lay on the library floor. it made a veritable pool of siloam, with all around a brown, bank-like duskiness. the room was by no means book-lined, but there were four tall mahogany cases, one against each wall, well filled for the most part with mellow calf. flanking each case hung ashendyne portraits, in oval, very old gilt frames. beneath three of these were fixed silhouettes of revolutionary ashendynes; beneath the others, war photographs, _cartes de visite_, a dozen in one frame. there was a mahogany escritoire and mahogany chairs and a mahogany table, and, before the fireplace, a fire-screen done in cross-stitch by a colonial ashendyne. the curtains were down for the summer, and the dark, polished floor was bare. the room was large, and there presided a pleasant sense of unencumbered space and coolness. in the parlour, across the hall, miss serena had been allowed full power. here there was a crocheted macramé lambrequin across the mantel-shelf, and a plush table-scarf worked with chenille, and fine thread tidies for the chairs, and a green-and-white worsted "water-lily" mat for the lamp, and embroidery on the piano cover. here were pelargoniums and azaleas painted on porcelain placques, and a painted screen--gladioli and calla lilies,--and autumn leaves mounted on the top of a small table, and a gilded milking stool, and gilded cat-tails in decalcomania jars. but the colonel had barred off the library. "embroider petticoat-world to the top of your bent--but don't embroider books!" the colonel was not in the library. he had mounted his horse and ridden off down the river to see a brother-in-law about some piece of business. ashendynes and coltsworths fairly divided the county between them. blood kin and marriage connections,--all counted to the seventeenth degree,--traditional old friendships, old acquaintances, clients, tenants, neighbours, the coloured people sometime their servants, folk generally, from judge to blacksmith,--the two families and their allies ramified over several hundred square miles, and when you said "the county," what you saw were ashendynes and coltsworths. they lived in brick houses set among green acres and in frame houses facing village streets. none were in the least rich, a frightful, impoverishing war being no great time behind them, and many were poor--but one and all they had "quality." the colonel was gone down the river to hawk nest. captain bob was in the stable yard. muffled, from the parlour, the doors being carefully closed, came the notes of "silvery waves." miss serena was practising. it was raspberry-jam time of year. in the brick kitchen out in the yard old miss spent the morning with her knitting, superintending operations. a great copper kettle sat on the stove. between it and the window had been placed a barrel and here perched a half-grown negro boy, in his hands a pole with a paddle-like cross-piece at the further end. with this he slowly stirred, round and round, the bubbling, viscous mass in the copper kettle. kitchen doors and windows were wide, and in came the hum of bees and the fresh june air, and out floated delectable odours of raspberry jam. old miss sat in an ample low chair in the doorway, knitting white cotton socks for the colonel. the bishop--who was a bishop from another state--was writing letters. mrs. legrand had taken her novel out to the hammock beneath the cedars. upstairs, in her own room, in a big four-poster bed, lay maria, ill with a low fever. dr. bude came every other day, and he said that he hoped it was nothing much but that he couldn't tell yet: mrs. ashendyne must lie quiet and take the draught he left, and her room must be kept still and cool, and he would suggest that phoebe, whom she seemed to like to have about her, should nurse her, and he would suggest, too, that there be no disturbing conversation, and that, indeed, she be left in the greatest quiet. it seemed nervous largely--"yes, yes, that's true! we all ought to fight more than we do. but the nervous system isn't the imaginary thing people think! she isn't very strong, and--wrongly, of course--she dashes herself against conditions and environment like a bird against glass. i don't suppose," said dr. bude, "that it would be possible for her to travel?" maria lay in the four-poster bed, making images of the light and shadow in the room. sometimes she asked for hagar, and sometimes for hours she seemed to forget that hagar existed. old miss, coming into the room at one of these times, and seeing her push the child from her with a frightened air and a stammering "i don't know you"--old miss, later in the day, took hagar into her own room, set her in a chair beside her, taught her a new knitting-stitch, and explained that it would be kinder to remain out of her mother's room, seeing that her presence there evidently troubled her mother. "it troubles her sometimes," said hagar, "but it doesn't trouble her most times. most times she likes me there." "i do not think you can judge of that," said her grandmother. "at any rate, i think it best that you should stay out of the room. you can, of course, go in to say good-morning and good-night.--throw the thread over your finger like that. mimy is making sugar-cakes this morning, and if you want to you can help her cut them out." "grandmother, please let me go _four_ times a day--" "no. i do not consider it best for either of you. you heard the doctor say that your mother must not be agitated, and you saw yourself, a while ago, that she did not seem to want you. i will tell phoebe. be a good, obedient child!--bring me the bag yonder, and let's see if we can't find enough pink worsted for a doll's afghan." that had been two days ago. hagar went, morning and evening, to her mother's room, and sometimes maria knew her and held her hands and played with her hair, and sometimes she did not seem to know her and ignored her or talked to her as a stranger. her grandmother told her to pray for her mother's recovery. she did not need the telling; she loved her mother, and her petitions were frequent. sometimes she got down on her knees to make them; sometimes she just made them walking around. "o god, save my mother. for jesus' sake. amen."--"o god, let my mother get well. for jesus' sake. amen."--she had finished the pink afghan, and she had done the dusting and errands her grandmother appointed her. this morning they had let her arrange the flowers in the bowls and vases. she always liked to do that, and she had been happy for almost an hour--but then the feeling came back.... the bright pool on the library floor did not reach to the bookcases. they were all in the gold-dust powdered umber of the rest of the room. hagar standing before one of them, first on a hassock, and then, for the upper shelves, on a chair, hunted something to read. "ministering children"--she had read it. "stepping heavenward"--she had read it. "home influence" and "mother's recompense"--she had read them. mrs. sherwood--she had read mrs. sherwood--many volumes of mrs. sherwood. in after life it was only by a violent effort that she dismissed, in favour of any other india, the spectre of mrs. sherwood's india. "parent's assistant and moral tales"--she knew simple susan and rosamond and all of them by heart. "rasselas"--she had read it. "scottish chiefs"--she had read it. the forms of wallace and helen and murray and edwin flitted through her mind--she half put out her hand to the book, then withdrew it. she wasn't at all happy, and she wanted novelty. miss mühlbach--"prince eugene and his times"--"napoleon and marie louise"--she had read those, too. "the draytons and the davenants"--she half thought she would read about olive and roger again, but at last she passed them by also. there wasn't anything on that shelf she wanted. she called it the blue and green and red shelf, because the books were bound in those colours. miss serena's name was in most of these volumes. the shelf that she undertook next had another air. to hagar each case had its own air, and each shelf its own air, and each book its own air. "blair's rhetoric"--she had read some of that, but she didn't want it to-day. "pilgrim's progress"--she knew that by heart. "burke's speeches"--"junius"--she had read "junius," as she had read many another thing simply because it was there, and a book was a book. she had read it without much understanding, but she liked the language. milton--she knew a great part of milton, but to-day she didn't want poetry. poetry was for when you were happy. scott--on another day scott might have sufficed, but to-day she wanted something new--so new and so interesting that it would make the hard, unhappy feeling go away. she stepped from the hassock upon the chair and began to study the titles of the books on almost the top shelf.... there was one in the corner, quite out of sight unless you were on a chair, right up here, face to face with the shelf. the book was even pushed back as though it had retired--or had been retired--behind its fellows so as to be out of danger, or, perhaps, out of the way of being dangerous. hagar put in her slender, sun-browned hand and drew it forward until she could read the legend on the back--"the descent of man." she drew it quite forth, and bringing both hands into play opened it. "by charles darwin." she turned the leaves. there were woodcuts--cuts that exercised a fascination. she glanced at the first page: "he who wishes to decide whether man is the modified descendant of some preëxisting form--" hagar turned upon the chair and looked about her. the room was a desert for solitude and balmy quiet. distantly, through the closed parlour doors, came miss serena's rendering of "monastery bells." she knew that her grandfather was down the river, and that her grandmother was making raspberry jam. she knew that the bishop was in his room, and that mrs. legrand was out under the cedars. uncle bob did not count anyway--he rarely asked embarrassing questions. she may have hesitated one moment, but no more. she got down from the chair, put it back against the wall, closed the bookcase door, and taking the "descent of man" with her went over to the old, worn horsehair sofa and curled herself up at the end in a cool and slippery hollow. a gold-dust shaft, slipping through the window, lit her hair, the printed page, and the slim, long-fingered hand that clasped it. hagar knew quite well what she was doing. she was going to read a book which, if her course were known, she would be forbidden to read. it had happened before now that she had read books under the ban of gilead balm. but heretofore she had always been able to say that she had not known that they were so, had not known she was doing wrong. that could not be said in this case. aunt serena had distinctly told her that charles darwin was a wicked and irreligious man, and that no lady would read his books.... but then aunt serena had unsparingly condemned other books which hagar's mind yet refused to condemn. she had condemned "the scarlet letter." when gilead balm discovered hagar at the last page of that book, there had ensued a family discussion. miss serena said that she blushed when she thought of the things that hagar was learning. the colonel had not blushed, but he said that such books unsettled all received notions, and while he supported her he wasn't going to have medway's child imbibing damned anarchical sentiments of any type. old miss said a number of things, most of which tended toward maria. the latter had defended her daughter, but afterwards she told hagar that in this world, even if you didn't think you were doing wrong, it made for all the happiness there seemed to be not to do what other people thought you ought not to do.... but hagar didn't believe yet that there was anything wrong in reading "the scarlet letter." she had been passionately sorry for hester, and she had felt--she did not know why--a kind of terrified pity for mr. dimmesdale, and she had loved little pearl. she had intended asking her mother what the red-cloth letter that hester prynne wore meant, but it had gone out of her mind. the chapter she liked best was the one with little pearl playing in the wood.... perhaps aunt serena, having been mistaken about that book, was mistaken, too, about charles darwin. neither now nor later did she in any wise love the feel of wrong-doing. forbidden fruit did not appeal to her merely because it was forbidden. but if there was no inner forbidding, if she truly doubted the justice or authority or abstract rightness of the restraining hand, she was capable of attaining the fruit whether forbidden or no. there was always the check of great native kindliness. if what she wanted to do was going--no matter how senselessly--to trouble or hurt other people's feelings, on the whole she wouldn't do it. in the case of this june day and the "descent of man" the library was empty. she only wanted to look at the pictures and to run over the reading enough to see what it was about--then she would put it back on the top shelf. she was not by nature indirect or secretive. she preferred to go straightforwardly, to act in the open. but if the wall of not-agreed-in objection stood too high and thick before her, she was capable of stealing forth in the dusk and seeking a way around it. coiled now in the cool hollow of the sofa, half in and half out of the shaft of sunshine, she began to read. the broad band of gold-dust shifted place. miss serena, arrived at the last ten minutes of her hour and a half at the piano, began to play "pearls and roses." out in the brick kitchen old miss dropped a tablespoonful of raspberry jam into a saucer, let it cool, tasted, and pronounced it done. the negro boy and mimy between them lifted the copper kettle from the stove. upstairs in gilead balm's best room the bishop folded and slipped into an addressed envelope the last letter he was going to write that morning. out under the cedars mrs. legrand came to a dull stretch in her novel. she yawned, closed the book, and leaned back against the pillows in the hammock. mrs. legrand was fair and forty, but only pleasantly plump. she had a creamy skin, moderately large, hazel eyes, moderately far apart, a small, straight nose, a yielding mouth, and a chin that indubitably would presently be double. she was a widow and an orphan. married at nineteen, her husband, the stars of a brigadier-general upon his grey collar, had within the year fallen upon some one of the blood-soaked battle-grounds of the state. her father, the important bearer of an old, important name, had served the confederacy well in a high civil capacity. when the long horror of the war was over, and the longer, miserable torture of the reconstruction was passing, and a comparative ease and pale dawn of prosperity rose over the state, mrs. legrand looked about her from the remnant of an old plantation on the edge of a tidewater town. the house was dilapidated, but large. the grounds had old neglect for gardener, but they, too, were large, and only needed good-care-at-last for complete rehabilitation. mrs. legrand had a kind of smooth, continuous, low-pressure energy, but no money. "a girls' school," she murmured to herself. when she wrote, here and there over the state, it was at once seen by her correspondents that this was just the thing for the daughter of a public man and the widow of a gallant officer. it was both ladylike and possible.... that was some years ago. mrs. legrand's school for young ladies was now an established fact. the house was repaired, the grounds were trim, there was a corps of six teachers, with prospects of expansion, there were day pupils and boarding pupils. mrs legrand saw in her mind's eye long wing-like extensions to the main house where more boarding pupils might be accommodated.... she was successful, and success agreed with her. the coat grew sleek, the cream rose to the top, every angle disappeared; she was warmly optimistic, and smooth, indolent good company. in the summer-time she left eglantine and from late june to september shared her time between the springs and the country homes of kindred, family connections, or girlhood friends. she nearly always came for a fortnight or more to gilead balm. now, leaning back in the hammock, the novel shut, her eyes closed, she was going pleasantly over to herself the additions and improvements to be carried out at eglantine. from this her mind slipped to her correspondence with a french teacher who promised well, and thence to certain letters received that week from patrons with daughters. one of these, from a state farther south, spoke in highest praise of mrs. legrand's guardianship of the young female mind, of the safe and elegant paths into which she guided it, and of her gift generally for preserving dew and bloom and ignorance of evil in her interesting charges. every one likes praise and no one is so churlish as to refuse a proffered bouquet or to doubt the judgment of the donor. mrs. legrand experienced from head to foot a soft and amiable glow. for ten minutes longer she lay in an atmosphere of balm, then she opened her eyes, drew her watch from her white-ribbon belt, and glancing at it surmised that by now the bishop might have finished his letters. upon this thought she rose, and paced across the bright june grass to the house. "pearls and roses" floated from the parlour. her hand on the doorknob, mrs. legrand paused irresolutely for a moment, then lightly took it away and crossed the hall to the library. a minute later the bishop, portly and fine, letters in his hand, came down the stairs, and turned toward this room. the mail-bag always hung, he remembered, by the library escritoire. though he was a large man, he moved with great lightness; he was at once ponderous and easy. miss serena at the piano could hardly have heard him pass the door, so something occult, perhaps, made her ignore the _da capo_ over the bar of "pearls and roses" which she had now reached. she struck a final chord, rose, closed the piano, and left the parlour. chapter iv the convict "my dear bishop!" exclaimed mrs. legrand; "won't you come here and talk to this little girl?" "to hagar?" answered the bishop. "what is the trouble with hagar? have you broken your doll, poor dear?" he came easily across to the horsehair sofa, a good man, by definition, as ever was. "what's grieving you, little girl?" "i think that it is hagar who may come to grieve others," said mrs. legrand. "i do not suppose it is my business to interfere,--as i should interfere were she in my charge at eglantine,--but i cannot but see in my daily task how difficult it is to eradicate from a youthful mind the stain that has been left by an improper book--" "an improper book! what are you doing, hagar, with an improper book?" the bishop put out his hand and took it. he looked at the title and at the author's name beneath, turned over a dozen pages, closed the book, and put it from him on the cold, bare mahogany table. "it was not for this that i christened you," he said. miss serena joined the group. "serena," appealed mrs. legrand, "_do_ you think hagar ought to be allowed to contaminate her mind by a book like that?" miss serena looked. "that child!--she's been reading darwin!" a slow colour came into her cheeks. the book was shocking, but the truly shocking thing was how absolutely hagar had disobeyed. miss serena's soul was soft as wax, pliant as a reed to the authorities her world ranged before her. by an inevitable reaction stiffness showed in the few cases where she herself held the orb of authority. to be disobeyed was very grievous to her. where it was only negligence in regard to some command of her own,--direction to a servant, commands in her sunday-school class,--she had often to put up with it, though always with a swelling sense of injury. but when things combined, when disobedience to serena ashendyne was also disobedience to the constituted authorities, miss serena became adamant. now she looked at hagar with a little gasp, and then, seeing through the open door the elder mrs. ashendyne entering from the kitchen, she called to her. "mother, come here a moment!"... "if she had said that she was sorry," pronounced the bishop, "you might forgive her, i think, this time. but if she is going to harden her heart like that, you had best let her see that all sin, in whatever degree, brings suffering. and i should suit, i think, the punishment to the offence. hagar told me only yesterday that she had rather read a book than gather cherries or play with dolls, or go visiting, or anything. i think i should forbid her to open any book at all for a week." behind gilead balm, beyond the orchard and a strip of meadow, sprang a ridge of earth, something more than a hill, something less than a low mountain. it was safe, dry, warm, and sandy, too cut-over and traversed to be popular with snakes, too within a stone's throw of the overseer's house and the overseer's dogs to be subject to tramps or squirrel-hunting boys, just wooded enough and furrowed with shallow ravines to make it to children a romantic, sprite-inhabited region. when children came to gilead balm, as sometimes, in the slow, continuous procession through the houses of a people who traditionally kept "open house," they did come, hagar and they always played freely and alone on the home-ward-facing side of the ridge. when the overseer's grandchildren, too, came to visit him, they and hagar played here, and sometimes mary magazine, isham and car'line's ten-year-old at the ferry, was allowed to spend the day, and she and hagar played together on the ridge. hagar was very fond of mary magazine. one day, having completed her circle of flower dolls before her companion's was done, she leaned back against the apple tree beneath which the two were seated and thoughtfully regarded the other's down-bent brown face and "wrapped" hair. "mary magazine, you couldn't have been named 'mary magazine.' you were named mary magdalene." "no'm," said mary magazine, a pink morning-glory in one hand and a blue one in the other. "no'm. i'm named mary magazine. my mammy done named me for de lady what took her cologne bottle somebody give her christmas, an' poured it on her han' an' rubbed jesus' feet." when mary magazine didn't come to gilead balm and no children were staying in the house, and the overseer's grandchildren were at their home on the other side of the county, hagar might--provided always she let some one know where she was going--hagar might play alone on the ridge. to-day, having asked the colonel if she might, she was playing there alone. "playing" was the accepted word. they always talked of her as "playing," and she herself repeated the word. "may i go play awhile on the ridge?" "i reckon so, gipsy. wear your sunbonnet and don't get into any mischief." at the overseer's house she stopped to talk with mrs. green, picking pease in the garden. "mahnin', hagar," said mrs. green. "how's yo' ma this mahnin'?" "i think she's better, mrs. green. she laughed a little this morning. grandmother let me stay a whole half-hour, and mother talked about _her_ grandmother, and about picking up shells on the beach, and about a little boat that she used to go out to sea in. she said that all last night she felt that boat beneath her. she laughed and said it felt like going home.--only"--hagar looked at mrs. green with large, wistful eyes--"only home's really gilead balm." "of course it is," said mrs. green cheerfully. she sat down on an overturned bucket between the green rows of pease, and pushed back her sunbonnet from her kind, old wrinkled face. "i remember when yo' ma came here jest as well. she was jest the loveliest thing!--but of course all her own people were a good long way off, and she was a seafarer herself, and she couldn't somehow get used to the hills. i've heard her say they jest shut her in like a prison.... but then, after a while, you came, an' i reckon, though she says things sometimes, wherever you are she feels to be home. when it comes to being a woman, the good lord has to get in com-pensation somewhere, or i don't reckon none of us could stand it.--i'm glad she's better." "_i'm_ glad," said hagar. "can i help you pick the pease, mrs. green?" "thank you, child, but i've about picked the mess. you goin' to play on the ridge? i wish thomasine and maggie and corker were here to play with you." "i wish they were," said hagar. her eyes filled. "it's a very lonesome day. yesterday was lonesome and to-morrow's going to be lonesome--" "haven't you got a good book? i never see such a child for books." two tears came out of hagar's eyes. "i was reading a book aunt serena told me not to read.--and now i'm not to read _anything_ for a whole week." "sho!" exclaimed mrs. green. "what did you do that for? don't you know that little girls ought to mind?" hagar sighed. "yes, i suppose they ought.... i wish i had now.... it's so lonesome not to read when your mother's sick and grandmother won't let me go into the room only just a little while morning and evening." "haven't you got any pretty patchwork nor nothin'?" hagar standing among the blush roses, looked at her with sombre eyes. "mrs. green, i hate to sew." "oh!" exclaimed mrs. green. "that's an awful thing to say!" she sat on the overturned bucket, between the pale-green, shiny-podded peavines, her friendly old face, knobbed and wrinkled like a japanese carving, gleaming from between the faded blue slats of her sunbonnet, and she regarded the child before her with real concern. "i wonder now," she said, "if you're goin' to grow up a rebel? look-a-here, honey, there ain't a mite of ease and comfort on that road." "that's what the yankees called us all," said hagar. 'rebels.'" "ah, i don't mean 'rebel' that-er-way," said mrs. green. "there's lonelier and deeper ways of rebellin'. you don't get killed with an army cheerin' you, and newspapers goin' into black, and a state full of people, that were 'rebels' too, keepin' your memory green,--what happens, happens just to you, by yourself without any company, and no wreaths of flowers and farewell speeches. they just open the door and put you out." "out where?" "out by yourself. out of this earth's favour. and, though we mayn't think it," said mrs. green, "this earth's favour is our sunshine. it's right hard to go where there isn't any sunshine.... i don't know why i'm talking like this to you--but you're a strange child and always were, and i reckon you come by it honest!" she rose from among the peavines. "well, i've been baking apple turnovers, and they ain't bad to picnic on! suppose you take a couple up on the ridge with you." there grew, on the very top of the ridge, a cucumber tree that hagar loved. underneath was a little fine, sparse grass and enough pennyroyal to make the place aromatic when the sunshine drew out all its essence, as was the case to-day. over the light soil, between the sprigs of pennyroyal, went a line of ants carrying grains of some pale, amber-clear substance. hagar watched them to their hill. when, one by one, they had entered, a second line of foragers emerged and went off to the right through the grass. in a little time these, too, reappeared, each carrying before her a tiny bead of the amber stuff. hagar watched, elbows on ground and chin on hands. she had a feeling that they were people, and she tried giving them names, but they were so bewilderingly alike that in a moment she could not tell which was "brownie" and which "pixie" and which "slim." she turned upon her back and lying in the grass and pennyroyal saw above her only blue sky and blue sky. she stared into it. "if the angels were sailing like the birds up there and looking down--and looking down--we people might seem all alike to them--all alike and not doing things that were very different--all alike.... only there are our clothes. pink ones and blue ones and white ones and black ones and plaid ones and striped ones--" she stared at the blue until she seemed to see step after step of blue, a great ladder leading up, and then she turned on her side and gazed at gilead balm and, a mile away, the canal and the shining river. she could see many windows, but not her mother's window. she had to imagine that. lonesomeness and ennui, that had gone away for a bit in the interest of watching the ants, returned full force. she stood up and cast about for something to break the spell. the apple turnovers wrapped in a turkey-red, fringed napkin, rested in a small willow basket upon the grass. hagar was not hungry, but she considered that she might as well eat a turnover, and then that she might as well have a party and ask a dozen flower dolls. her twelve years were as a moving plateau--one side a misty looming landscape of the mind, older and higher than her age would forecast; on the other, green, hollow, daisy-starred meadows of sheer childhood. her attention passed from side to side, and now it settled in the meadows. she considered the grass beneath the cucumber tree for a dining-room, and then she grew aware that she was thirsty, and so came to the conclusion that she would descend the back side of the ridge to the spring and have the party there. crossing the hand's breadth of level ground she began to climb down the long shady slope toward a stream that trickled through a bit of wood and a thicket, and a small, ice-cold spring in a ferny hollow. the sun-bathed landscape, river and canal and fields and red-brick gilead balm with its cedars, and the garden and orchard, and the overseer's house sank from view. there was only the broad-leaved cucumber tree against the deep blue sky. the trunk of the cucumber tree disappeared, and then the greater branches, and then the lesser branches toward the top, and then the bushy green top itself. when hagar and the other children played on the ridge, they followed her lead and called this side "the far country." to them--or perhaps only to hagar--it had a clime, an atmosphere quite different from the homeward-facing side. when she came to the spring at the foot of the ridge she was very thirsty. she knelt on a great sunken rock, and, taking off her sunbonnet, leaned forward between the fern and mint, made a cup of her hands and drank the sparkling water. when she had had all she wished, she settled back and regarded the green, flowering thicket. it came close to the spring, filling the space between the water and the wood, and it was a wild, luxuriant tangle. hagar's fancy began to play with it. now it was a fairy wood for thumbelina--now titania and oberon danced there in the moonlight--now her mind gave it height and hugeness, and it was the wood around the sleeping beauty. the light-winged minutes went by and then she remembered the apple turnovers.... here was the slab of rock for the table. she spread the turkey-red napkin for cloth, and she laid blackberry leaves for plates, and put the apple turnovers grandly in the middle. then she moved about the hollow and gathered her guests. wild rose, ox-eye daisy, black-eyed susan, elder, white clover, and columbine--quite a good party.... she set each with due ceremony on the flat rock, before a blackberry-leaf plate, and then she took her own place facing the thicket, and after a polite little pause, folded her hands and closed her eyes. "we will say," she said, "a silent grace." when she opened her eyes, she opened them full upon other eyes--haggard, wolfishly hungry eyes, looking at her from out the thicket, behind them a body striped like a wasp.... "i didn't mean to scare you," said the boy, "but if you ever went most of two days and a night without anything to eat, you'd know how it felt." "i never did," said hagar. "but i can imagine it. i wish i had asked mrs. green for _five_ apple turnovers." as she spoke, she pushed the red fringed napkin with the second turnover toward him. "eat that one, too. i truly don't want any, and the flowers are never hungry." he bit into the second turnover. "it seems mean to eat up your tea-party, but i'm 'most dead, and that's the truth--" hagar, sitting on the great stone with her hands folded in her lap and her sunbonnet back on her shoulders, watched her suddenly acquired guest. he would not come clear out of the thicket; the tangled growth held him all but head and shoulders. "i believe i've seen you before," she said at last. "about two weeks ago grandfather and aunt serena and i were on the packet-boat. weren't you at the lock up the river? the boat went down and down until you were standing 'way up, just against the sky. i am almost sure it was you." he reddened. "yes, it was me." then, dropping the arm that held the yet uneaten bit of turnover, he broke out. "i didn't run away while i was a trusty! i wouldn't have done it! one of the men lied about me and said dirty words about my people, and i jumped on him and knocked his head against a stone until he didn't come to for half an hour! then they did things to me, and did what they called degrading me. 'no more trustying for you!' said the boss. so i run away--three days ago." he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "it seems more like three years. i reckon they've got the dogs out." "what have they got the dogs out for?" "why, to hunt me. i--i--" his voice sunk. terror came back, and will-breaking fear, a chill nausea and swooning of the soul. he groaned and half rose from the thicket. "i was lying here till night, but i reckon i'd better be going--" his eyes fell upon his body and he sank back. "o god! i reckon in hell we'll wear these clothes." hagar stared at him, faint reflecting lines of anxiety and unhappiness on her brow, quiverings about her lips. "ought you to have run away? was it right to run away?" the colour flooded her face. it was always hard for her to tell of her errors, but she felt that she and the boy were in somewhat the same case, and that she ought to do it. "i did something my aunt had told me not to do. it was reading a book that she said was wicked. i can't see yet that it was wicked. it was very interesting. but the bishop said that he didn't christen me for that, and that it was a sin. and now, for a whole week, grandmother says that i'm not to read any book at all--which is very hard. what i mean is," said hagar, "though i don't feel yet that there was anything wicked in that book (i didn't read much of it), i feel perfectly certain that i ought to obey grandmother. the bible tells you so, and i believe in the bible." her brow puckered again. "at least, i believe that i believe in the bible. and if there wasn't anybody in the house, and the most interesting books were lying around, i wouldn't--at least i think i wouldn't--touch one till the week is over." she tried earnestly to explain her position. "i mean that if i really did wrong--and i reckon i'll have to say that i oughtn't to have disobeyed aunt serena, though the bible doesn't say anything about aunts--i'll take the hard things that come after. of course"--she ended politely--"your folks may have been mistaken, and you may not have done anything wrong at all--" the boy bloomed at her. "i'll tell you what i did. i live 'way out in the mountains, the other end of nowhere. well, christmas there was a dance in the cove, and i went, but nancy horn, that had promised to go with me, broke her word and went with dave windless. there was a lot of apple jack around, and i took more'n i usually take. and then, when we were dancing the reel, somebody--and i'll swear still it was dave, though he swore in the court-room it wasn't--dave windless put out his foot and tripped me up! well, nancy, she laughed.... i don't remember anything clear after that, and i thought that the man who was shooting up the room was some other person, though i did think it was funny the pistol was in my hand.... anyhow, dave got a ball through his hip, and old daddy jake willy, that i was awful fond of and wouldn't have hurt not for a still of my own and the best horse on the mountain, he got his bow arm broken, and one of the women was frightened into fits, and next week when her baby was born and had a harelip she said i'd done it.... anyhow the sheriff came and took me--it was about dawn, 'way up on the mountain-side, and i still thought it was another man going away toward catamount gap and the next county where there wasn't any nancy horn--i thought so clear till i fired at the sheriff and broke his elbow and the deputy came up behind and twisted the pistol away, and somebody else threw a gourd of water from the spring over me ... and i come to and found it had been me all the time.... that's what i did, and i got four years." "four years?" said hagar. "four years in--in jail?" "in the penitentiary," said the boy. "it's a worse word than jail.... i know what's right and wrong. liquor's wrong, and the judge said carrying concealed weapons was wrong, and i reckon it is, though there isn't much concealment when everybody knows you're wearing them.... yes, liquor's wrong, and quarrels might go off just with some words and using your fists if powder and shot weren't right under your hand, tempting you. yes, drinking's wrong and quarreling's wrong, and after i come to my senses it didn't need no preacher like those that come round sundays to tell me that. but i tell you what's the whole floor space of hell wronger than most of the things men do and that's the place the lawyers and the judges and the juries send men to!" "do you mean that they oughtn't to--to do anything to you? you _did_ do wrong." "no, i don't mean that," said the boy. "i've got good sense. if i didn't see it at first, old daddy jake willy came to the county jail three or four times, and he made me see it. the judge and the lawyer couldn't ha' made me see it, but _he_ did. and at last i was willing to go." his face worked. "the day before i was to go i was in that cell i'd stayed in then two months and i looked right out into the sunshine. you could see old rocky knob between two bars, and bear's den between two, and lonely river running down into the valley between the other two, and the sun shining over everything--shining just like it's shining to-day. well, i stood there, looking out, and made a good resolution. i was going to take what was coming to me because i deserved it, having broken the peace and lamed men and hurt a woman, and broken daddy jake's arm and fired at the sheriff. i hadn't meant to do all that, but still i had done it. so i said, 'i'll take it. and i won't give any trouble. and i'll keep the rules. if it's a place to make men better in, i'll come out a better man. i'll work just as hard as any man, and if there's books to study i'll study, and i'll keep the rules and try to help other people, and when i come out, i'll be young still and a better man.'" he rose to his full height in the thicket, the upper half of his striped body showing like a swimmer's above the matted green. he sent out his young arms in a wide gesture at once mocking and despairing, but whether addressed to earth or heaven was not apparent. "you see, i didn't know any more about that place than a baby unborn!" with that he dropped like a stone back into the thicket and lay dumb and close, with agonized eyes. around the base of the ridge out of the wood came the dogs; behind them three men with guns. ...one of the men was a jolly, fatherly kind of person. he tried to explain to hagar that they weren't really going to hurt the convict at all--she saw for herself that the dogs hadn't hurt him, not a mite! the handcuffs didn't hurt him either--they were loose and comfortable. no; they weren't going to do anything to him, they were just going to take him back.--he hadn't hurt her, had he? hadn't said anything disagreeable to her or done anything but eat up her tea-party?--then that was all right, and the fatherly person would go himself with her to the house and tell the colonel about it. of course he knew the colonel, everybody knew the colonel! and "stop crying, little lady! that boy ain't worth it." the colonel's dictum was that the country was getting so damned unsettled that hagar must not again be let to play on the ridge alone. old miss, who had had that morning a somewhat longish talk with dr. bude, stated that she would tell mary green to send for thomasine and maggie and corker. "dr. bude thinks the child broods too much, and it may be better to have healthy diversion for her in case--" "in case--!" exclaimed miss serena. "does he really think, mother, that it's serious?" "i don't think he knows," answered her mother. "i don't think it is, myself. but maria was never like anybody else--" "dear maria!" said mrs. legrand. "she should have made such a brilliant, lovely woman! if only there was a little more compliance, more feminine sweetness, more--if i may say so--unselfishness--" "where," asked the bishop, "is medway?" mrs. ashendyne's needles clicked. "my son was in spain, the last we heard: studying the painter murillo." chapter v maria thomasine and maggie and corker arrived and filled the overseer's house with noise. they were a blatantly healthful, boisterous set, only thomasine showing gleams of quiet. they wanted at once to play on the ridge, but now hagar wouldn't play on the ridge. she said she didn't like it any more. as she spoke, her thin shoulders drew together, and her eyes also, and two vertical lines appeared between these. "what you shakin' for?" asked corker. "got a chill?" so they played down by the branch where the willows grew, or in the old, disused tobacco-house, or in the orchard, or about a haystack on a hillside. corker wanted always to play robbers or going to sea. maggie liked to jump from the haystack or to swing, swing, swing, holding to the long, pendant green withes of the weeping willow, or to climb the apple trees. thomasine liked to make dams across the streamlet below the tobacco-house. she liked to shape wet clay, and she saved every pebble or bit of bright china, or broken blue or green glass with which to decorate a small grotto they were making. she also liked to play ring-around-a-rosy, and to hunt for four-leaved clovers. hagar liked to play going to sea, but she did not care for robbers. she liked to swing from the willows and to climb a particular apple tree which she loved, but she did not want to jump from the haystack, nor to climb all trees. she liked almost everything that thomasine liked, but she was not so terribly fond of ring-around-a-rosy. in her own likings she found herself somewhat lonely. none of the three, though thomasine more than the others, cared much for a book. they would rather have a sugar-cake any day. when it came to lying on the hillside without speaking and watching the clouds and the tree-tops, they did not care for that at all. however, when they were tired, and everything else failed, they did like hagar to tell them a story. "aladdin" they liked--sitting in the shadow of the haystack, their chins on their hands, thomasine's eyes still unconsciously alert for four-leaved clovers, corker with a june apple, trying to determine whether he would bite into it now or wait until aladdin's mother had uncovered the jewels before the sultan. they liked "aladdin" and "queen gulnare and prince beder" and "snow white and rose red." and then came the day that they went after raspberries. that morning hagar, turning the doorknob of her mother's room, found the door softly opened from within and phoebe on the threshold. phoebe came out, closing the door gently behind her, beckoned to hagar, and the two crossed the hall to the deep window. "i wouldn't go in this mahnin' ef i were you, honey," said phoebe. "miss maria done hab a bad night. she couldn't sleep an' her heart mos' give out. oh, hit's all right now, an' she's been lyin' still an' peaceful since de dawn come up. but we wants her to sleep an' we don' want her to talk. an' old miss thinks an' phoebe thinks too, honey, dat you'd better not go in this mahnin'. nex' time old miss 'll let you stay twice as long to make up for it." hagar looked at her large-eyed, "is my mother going to die, aunt phoebe?" but old phoebe put her arms around her and the wrinkles came out all over her brown face as they did when she laughed. phoebe was a good woman, wise and old and tender and a strong liar. "law, no, chile--what put dat notion in yo' po' little haid? no, indeedy! we gwine pull miss maria through, jes' as easy! dr. bude he say he gwine do hit, and what dr. bude say goes for sho! phoebe done see him raise de mos' dead. law, no, don' you worry 'bout miss maria! an' de nex' time you goes in de room, you kin stay jes' ez long ez you like. you kin sit by her er whole hour an' won't nobody say you nay." downstairs captain bob was sitting on the sunny step of the sunny back porch, getting a thorn out of luna's paw. "hi, gipsy," he said, when hagar came and stood by him; "what's the matter with breakfast this morning?" "i don't know," said hagar. "i haven't seen grandmother to-day. uncle bob--" "well, chicken?" "they'd tell you, wouldn't they, if my mother was going to die?" captain bob, having relieved luna of the thorn, gave his attention fully to his great-niece. he was slow and kindly and unexacting and incurious and unimaginative, and the unusual never occurred to him before it happened. "maria going to die? that's damned nonsense, partridge! haven't heard a breath of it--isn't anything to hear. nobody dies at gilead balm--hasn't been a death here since the war. besides, medway's away.--mustn't get notions in your head--makes you unhappy, and things go on just the same as ever." he pulled her down on the step beside him. "look at luna, now! she ain't notionate--are you, luna? luna and i are going over the hills this morning to find old miss's guineas for her. don't you want to go along?" "i don't believe i do, thank you, uncle bob." mrs. legrand came out upon the porch, fresh and charming in a figured dimity with a blue ribbon. "mrs. ashendyne and serena are talking to dr. bude, and as you men must be famished, captain bob, i am going to ring for breakfast and pour out your coffee for you--" in the hall hagar appealed to her. "mrs. legrand, can't i go into grandmother's room and hear what dr. bude says about my mother?" but mrs. legrand smiled and shook her head and laid hands on her. "no, indeed, dear child! your mother's all right. you come with me, and have your breakfast." the bishop appearing at the stair foot, she turned to greet him. hagar, slipping from her touch, stole down the hall to old miss's chamber and tried the door. it gave and let her in. old miss was seated in the big chair, dr. bude and the colonel were standing on either side of the hearth, and miss serena was between them and the door. "hagar!" exclaimed miss serena. "don't come in now, dear. grandmother and i will be out to breakfast in a moment." but hagar had the courage of unhappiness and groping and fear for the most loved. she fled straight to dr. bude. "dr. bude--oh, dr. bude--is my mother going to die?" "no, bude," said the colonel from the other side of the hearth. dr. bude, an able country doctor, loved and honoured, devoted and fatherly and wise, made a "tchk!" with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. old miss, leaving the big chair, came and took hagar and drew her back with her into the deep chintz hollows. no one might doubt that old miss loved her granddaughter. now her clasp was as stately as ever, but her voice was quite gentle, though of course authoritative--else it could not have belonged to old miss. "your mother had a bad night, dear, and so, to make her quiet and comfortable, we sent early for dr. bude. she is going to sleep now, and to-morrow you shall go in and see her. but you can only go if you are a good, obedient child. yes, i am telling you the truth. i think maria will get well. i have never thought anything else.--now, run away and get your breakfast, and to-day you and thomasine and maggie and corker shall go raspberrying." dr. bude spoke from the braided rug. "no one knows, hagar, what's going to happen in this old world, do they? but nature has a way of taking care of people quite regardless and without waiting to consult the doctors. i've watched nature right closely, and i never give up anything. your mother's right ill, my dear, but so have a lot of other people been right ill and gotten well. you go pick your raspberries, and maybe to-morrow you can see her--" "can't i see her to-night?" "well, maybe--maybe--" said the doctor. the raspberry patches were almost two miles away, past a number of shaggy hills and dales. a wood road led that way, and hagar and thomasine and maggie and corker, with jinnie, a coloured woman, to take care of them, felt the damp leaf mould under their feet. a breeze, coming through oak and pine, tossed their hair and fluttered the girls' skirts and the broad collar of corker's voluminous shirt. the sky was bright blue, with two or three large clouds like sailing vessels with all sail on. a cat-bird sang to split its throat. they saw a black snake, and a rabbit showed a white tip of tail, and a lightning-blasted pine with a large empty bird-nest in the topmost crotch, ineffably lonely and deserted against the deep sky, engaged their attention. they had various adventures. each of the children carried a tin bucket for berries, and jinnie carried a white-oak split basket with dinner in it--sandwiches and rusks and a jar with milk and snowball cakes. they were going to stay all day. that was what usually they loved. it was so adventurous. corker strode along whistling. maggie whistled, too, as well as a boy, though he looked disdain at her and said, "huh! girls can't whistle!" "dar's a piece of poetry i done heard," said jinnie,-- "'er whistlin' woman an' er crowin' hen, dey ain' gwine come ter no good end.'" thomasine hummed as she walked. she had filled her bucket with various matters as she went along, and now she was engaged in fashioning out of the green burrs of the burdock a basket with an elaborate handle. "don't you want some burrs?" she asked hagar, walking beside her. thomasine was always considerate and would give away almost anything she had. hagar took the burrs and began also to make a basket. she was being good. and, indeed, as the moments passed, the heavy, painful feeling about her heart went away. the doctor had said and grandmother had said, and uncle bob and phoebe and every one.... the raspberries. she instantly visualized one of the blue willow saucers filled with raspberries, carried in by herself to her mother, at supper-time. yarrow was in bloom and black-eyed susans and the tall white jerusalem candles. coming back she would gather a big bouquet for the grey jar on her mother's table. she grew light-hearted. a bronze butterfly fluttered before her, the heavy odour of the pine filled her nostrils, the sky was so blue, the air so sweet--there was a pearly cloud like a castle and another like a little boat--a little boat. off went her fancy, lizard-quick, feather-light. "swing low, sweet chariot--" sang jinnie as she walked. the raspberry patches were in sunny hollows. there was a span-wide stream, running pure over a gravel bed, and a grazed-over hillside, green and short-piled as velvet, and deep woods closing in, shutting out. summer sunshine bathed every grass blade and berry leaf, summer winds cooled the air, bees and grasshoppers and birds, squirrels in the woods, rippling water, wind in the leaves made summer sounds. it was a happy day. sometimes hagar, thomasine, maggie, corker, and jinnie picked purply-red berries from the same bush; sometimes they scattered and combined in twos and threes. sometimes each established a corner and picked in an elfin solitude. sometimes they conversed or bubbled over with laughter, sometimes they kept a serious silence. it was a matter of rivalry as to whose bucket should first be filled. hagar strayed off at last to an angle of an old rail fence. the berries, as she found, were very fine here. she called the news to the others, but they said they had fine bushes, too, and so she picked on with a world of her own about her. the june-bugs droned and droned, her fingers moved slower and slower. at last she stopped picking, and, lying down on a sunken rock by the fence, fell to dreaming. her dreams were already shot with thought, and she was apt, when she seemed most idle, to be silently, inwardly growing. now she was thinking about heaven and about god. she was a great committer of poetry to memory, and now, while she lay filtering sand through her hands as through an hourglass, she said over a stanza hard to learn, which yet she had learned some days ago. "trailing clouds of glory do we come from god, who is our home--" when she had repeated it dreamily, in an inward whisper, the problem of why, in that case, she was so far from home engaged her attention. the "here" and the "there--" god away, away off on a throne with angels, and hagar ashendyne, in a blue sunbonnet here by a virginia rail fence, with raspberry stain on her hands. _home_ was where you lived. god was everywhere; then, was god right here, too? but hagar ashendyne couldn't see the throne and the gold steps and floor and the angels. she could make a picture of them, just as she could of solomon's throne, or pharaoh's throne, or queen victoria's throne, but the picture didn't stir anything at her heart. she wasn't homesick for the court. she was homesick to be a good woman when she grew up, and to learn all the time and to know beautiful things, but she wasn't homesick for heaven where god lived. then was she wicked? hagar wondered and wondered. the yellow sand dropped from between her palms.... god in the sand, god in me, god here and now.... then god also is trying to grow more god.... hagar drew a great sigh, and for the moment gave it up. before her on the grey rail was a slender, burnished insect, all gold-and-green armour. around the lock of the fence came, like a gold-and-green moving stiletto, a lizard which took and devoured the gold-and-green insect.... god in the lizard, god in the insect, god devouring god, making himself feed himself, growing so.... the sun suddenly left the grass and the raspberry bushes. a cloud had hidden it. other cloud masses, here pearly white, here somewhat dark, were boiling up from the horizon. jinnie called the children together. "what we gwine do? look like er storm. reckon we better light out fer home!" protests arose. "ho!" cried corker, "it ain't going to be a storm. i haven't got my bucket more'n half full and we haven't had a picnic neither! let's stay!" "let's stay," echoed maggie. "who's afraid of a little bit of storm anyhow?" "it's lots better for it to catch us here in the open," argued thomasine. "they're all tall trees in the wood. but _i_ think the clouds are getting smaller--there's the sun again!" the sunshine fell, strong and golden. "we's gwine stay den," said jinnie. "but ef hit rains an' you all gets wet an' teks cold, i's gwine tell old miss i jus' couldn't mek you come erway!--dar's de old cow-house at de end of de field. i reckon we kin refugee dar ef de worst comes to de worst." while they were eating the snowball cakes, a large cloud came up and determinedly covered the sun. by the time they had eaten the last crumb, lightnings were playing. "dar now, i done tol' you!" cried jinnie. "i never see such children anyhow! old miss an' mrs. green jus' ought-ter whip you all! now you gwine git soppin' wet an' maybe de lightning'll strike you, too!" "no, it won't!" cried corker. "the cow-house's my castle, an' we've been robbing a freight train an' the constable an' old captain towney and the army are after us--i'm going to get to the cow-house first!" maggie scrambled to her feet. "no, you ain't! i'm going to--" the cow-house was dark and somewhat dirty, but they found a tolerable square yard or two of earthen floor and they all sat close together for warmth--the air having grown quite cold--and for company, a thunderstorm, after all, being a thing that made even train robbers and castled barons feel rather small and helpless. for an hour lightnings flashed and thunders rolled and the rain fell in leaden lines. then the lightnings grew less frequent and vivid, and the thunder travelled farther away, but the rain still fell. "oh, it's so stupid and dark in here!" said corker. "let's tell stories. hagar, you tell a story, and jinnie, you tell a story!" hagar told about the snow queen and kay and gerda, and they liked that very well. all the cow-house was dark as the little robber girl's hut in the night-time when all were asleep save gerda and the little robber girl and the reindeer. when they came to the reindeer, corker said he heard him moving behind them in a corner, and maggie said she heard him, too, and jinnie called out, "whoa, dere, mr. reindeer! you des er stay still till we's ready fer you!"--and they all drew closer together with a shudder of delight. the clouds were breaking--the lines of rain were silver instead of leaden. even the cow-house was lighter inside. there was no reindeer, after all; there were only brown logs and trampled earth and mud-daubers' nests and a big spider's web. "now, jinnie," said corker, "you tell a ghost story." thomasine objected. "i don't like ghost stories. hagar doesn't either." "i don't mind them much," said hagar. "i don't have to believe them." but jinnie chose to become indignant. "you jes' hab to believe dem. dey're true! my lan'! goin' ter church an' readin' de bible an' den doubtin' erbout ghosts! i'se gwine tell you er story you's got ter believe, 'cause hit's done happen! hit's gwine ter scare you, too! dey tell me hit scare a young girl down in de hollow inter fits. hit's gwine ter mek yo' flesh crawl. sayin' ghos' stories ain't true, when everybody knows dey's true!" the piece of ancient african imagination, traveller of ten thousand years through heated forests, was fearsome enough. "ugh!" said the children and shivered and stared.--it took the sun, indeed, to drive the creeping, mistlike thoughts away. going home through the rain-soaked woodland, hagar began to gather flowers. her bucket of berries on her arm, she stepped aside for this bloom and that, gathering with long stems, making a sheaf of blossoms. "what you doin' dat for?" queried jinnie. "dey's all wet. you'll jes' ruin dat gingham dress!" but hagar kept on plucking black-eyed susans, and cardinal flowers, and purple clover and lady's-lace. they came, in the afternoon glow, in sight of gilead balm. they came closer until the house was large, standing between its dark, funereal cedars, with a rosy cloud behind. "all the blinds are closed as though we'd gone away!" said hagar. "i never saw it that way before." mrs. green was at the lower gate, waiting for them. her old, kind, wrinkled face was pale between the slats of her sunbonnet, but her eyelids were reddened as though she had been weeping. "yes, yes, children, i'm glad you got a lot of berries!--corker and maggie and thomasine, you go with jinnie. mind me and go.--hagar, child, you and me are goin' to come on behind.... you and me are goin' to sit here a bit on the summer-house step.... the colonel said i was the best one after all to do it, and i'm going to do it, but i'd rather take a killing! ... yes, sit right here, with my arm about you. hagar, child, i've got something to tell you, honey." hagar looked at her with large, dark eyes. "mrs. green, why are all the shutters closed?" chapter vi eglantine no one could be so cross-grained as to deny that eglantine was a sweet place. it lay sweetly on just the right, softly swelling hill. the old grey-stucco main house had a sweet porch, with wistaria growing sweetly over it; the long, added grey-stucco wings had pink and white roses growing sweetly on trellises between the windows. there were silver maples and heavily blooming locust trees and three fine magnolias. there were thickets of weigelia and spiræa and forsythia, and winding walks, and an arbour, and the whole twenty acres or so was enclosed by a thorny, osage-orange hedge, almost, though not quite so high as the hedge around the sleeping beauty's palace. it was a sweet place. everyone said so--parents and guardians, the town that neighboured eglantine, tourists that drove by, visitors to the commencement exercises--everybody! the girls themselves said so. it was praised of all--almost all. the place was sweet. m. morel, the french teacher, who was always improving his english, and so on the hunt for synonyms, once said in company that it was saccharine. miss carlisle, who taught ancient and modern history and, in the interstices, astronomy and a blue-penciled physiology, gently corrected him. "oh, m. morel! we never use that word in this sense! if you wish to vary the term you might use 'charming,' or 'refined,' or 'elegant.' besides"--she gazed across the lawn--"it isn't so sweet, i always think, in november as it is in april or may." "the sweetest time, i think," said miss bedford, who taught mathematics, geography, and latin, "is when the lilac is in bloom." "and when the robins nest again," sighed a pensive, widowed mrs. lane, who taught the little girls. "it is 'refined' always," said m. morel. "november or april, what is ze difference? it has ze atmosphere. it is sugary." "here," remarked miss gage, who taught philosophy--"here is mrs. legrand." all rose to greet the mistress of eglantine as she came out from the hall upon the broad porch. mrs. legrand's graciously ample form was wrapped in black cashmere and black lace. her face was unwrinkled, but her hair had rapidly whitened. it was piled upon her head after an agreeable fashion and crowned by a graceful small cap of lace. she was ample and creamy and refinedly despotic. with her came her god-daughter, sylvie maine. it was early november, and the sycamores were yet bronze, the maples aflame. it was late friday afternoon, and the occasion the arrival and entertainment overnight of an english writer of note, a woman visiting america with a book in mind. mrs. legrand said that she had thought she heard the carriage wheels. mr. pollock, the music-master, said, no; it was the wind down the avenue. mrs. legrand, pleasantly, just condescending enough and not too condescending, glanced from one to the other of the group. "m. morel and mr. pollock and you, miss carlisle and miss bedford, will, i hope, take supper with our guest and me? sylvie, here, will keep her usual place. i can't do without sylvie. she spoils me and i spoil her! and we will have besides, i think, the girl that has stood highest this month in her classes. who will it be, miss gage?" "hagar ashendyne, mrs. legrand." mrs. legrand had a humorous smile. "then, sylvie, see that hagar's dress is all right and try to get her to do her hair differently. i like eglantine girls to look their birth and place." "dear cousin olivia," said sylvie, who was extremely pretty, "for all her plainness, hagar's got distinction." but mrs. legrand shrugged her shoulders. she couldn't see it. a little wind arising, all the place became a whirl of coloured leaves. and now the carriage wheels were surely heard. half an hour later sylvie went up to hagar's room. it was what was called the "tower room"--small and high up--too small for anything but a single bed and one inmate. it wasn't a popular room with the eglantine girls--a room without a roommate was bad enough, and then, when it was upon another floor, quite away from every one--! language failed. but hagar ashendyne liked it, and it had been hers for three years. she had been at eglantine for three years, going home to gilead balm each summer. she was eighteen--old for her age, and young for her age. sylvie found her curled in the window-seat, and spoke twice before she made her hear. "hagar! come back to earth!" hagar unfolded her long limbs and pushed her hair away from her eyes. "i was travelling," she said. "i was crossing the desert of sahara with a caravan." "you are," remarked sylvie, "too funny for words!--you and i are to take supper with 'roger michael'!" a red came into hagar's cheek. "are we? did mrs. legrand say so?" "yes--" hagar lit the lamp. "'roger michael'--'roger michael'--sylvie, wouldn't you rather use your own name if you wrote?" "oh, i don't know!" answered sylvie vaguely. "what dress are you going to wear?" "i haven't any but the green." "then wear your deep lace collar with it. cousin olivia wants you to look as nice as possible. don't you want me to do your hair?" hagar placed the lamp upon the wooden slab of a small, old-time dressing-table. that done, she stood and looked at herself with a curious, wistful puckering of the lips. "sylvie, prinking and fixing up doesn't suit me." "don't you like people to like you?" "yes, i do. i like it so much it must be a sin. only not very many people do.... and i don't think prinking helps." "yes, it does. if you look pretty, how can people help liking you? it's three fourths the battle." hagar fell to considering it. "is it?... but then we don't all think the same thing pretty or ugly." the red showed again like wine beneath her smooth, dark skin, "sylvie, i'd _like_ to be beautiful. i'd like to be as beautiful as beatrix esmond. i'd like to be as beautiful as helen of troy. but everybody at eglantine thinks i am ugly, and i suppose i am." she looked wistfully at sylvie. now in the back of sylvie's head there was certainly the thought that hagar ought to have said, "i'd like to be as beautiful as you, sylvie." but sylvie had a sweet temper and she was not unmagnanimous. "i shouldn't call you ugly," she said judicially. "you aren't pretty, and i don't believe any one would ever call you so, but you aren't at all disagreeably plain. you've got something that makes people ask who you are. i wouldn't worry." "oh, i wasn't worrying!" said hagar. "i was only _preferring_.--i'll wear the lace collar." she took it out of a black japanned box, and with it the topaz brooch that had been her mother's. the visitor from england found the large, square eglantine parlour an interesting room. the pier-glasses, framed in sallow gilt, the many-prismed chandelier, the old velvet carpet strewn with large soft roses, the claw-foot furniture, the two or three portraits of powdered colonial gentlemen, the bits of old china, the framed letters bearing signatures that seemed to float to her from out her old united states history--all came to her like a vague fragrance from some unusual old garden. and then, curiously superimposed upon all this, appeared memorials of four catastrophic years. soldiers and statesmen of the confederacy had found no time in which to have their portraits painted. but mrs. legrand had much of family piety and, in addition, daguerreotypes and _cartes de visite_ of the dead and gone. with her first glow of prosperity she had a local artist paint her father from a daguerreotype. stalwart, with a high roman face, he looked forth in black broadcloth with a roll of parchment in his hand. the next year she had had her husband painted in his grey brigadier's uniform. her two brothers followed, and then a famous kinsman--all dead and gone, all slain in battle. the portraits were not masterpieces, but there they were, in the pathos of the grey, underneath each a little gilt plate. "killed at sharpsburg."--"killed leading a charge in the wilderness."--"killed at cold harbour." upon the wall, against the pale, century-old paper, hung crossed swords and cavalry pistols, and there were framed commissions and battle orders, and an empty shell propped open the wide white-panelled door. the english visitor found it all strange and interesting. it was as though a fragrance of dried rose-leaves contended with a whiff of gunpowder. the small dining-room into which presently she was carried had fascinating prints--"pocahontas baptized," and "pocahontas married," and a group of women with children and several negroes gathered about an open grave, one woman standing out, reading the burial service.--roger michael was so interested that she would have liked not to talk at all, just to sit and look at the prints and mark the negro servants passing about the table. but mrs. legrand's agreeable voice was asking about the health of the queen--she bestirred herself to be an acceptable guest. the small dining-room was separated only by an archway from the large dining-room, and into the latter, in orderly files, came the eglantine pupils, wound about to their several tables and seated themselves with demureness. m. morel was speaking of the friendship of france and england. roger michael, while she appeared to listen, studied these american girls, these southern girls. she found many of them pretty, even lovely,--not, emphatically, with the english beauty of skin, not with the colour of new england girls, among whom, recently, she had been,--not with the stronger frame that was coming in with this generation of admission to out-of-door exercise, the certain boyish alertness and poise that more and more she was seeing exhibited,--but pretty or lovely, with delicacy and a certain languor, a dim sweetness of expression, and, precious trove in america! voices that pleased. she noted exceptions to type, small, swarthy girls and large overgrown ones, girls that were manifestly robust, girls that were alert, girls that were daring, girls that were timid or stupid, or simply anæmic, girls that approached the english type and girls that were at the very antipodes--but the general impression was of farther south than she had as yet gone in america, of more grace and slowness, manner and sweetness. their clothes interested her; they were so much more "dressed" than they would have been in england. evidently, in deference to the smaller room, there was to-night an added control of speech; there sounded no more than a pleasant hum, a soft, indistinguishable murmur of young voices. "they are so excited over the prospect of your speaking to them after supper," said mrs. legrand, her hand upon the coffee urn.--"cream and sugar?" "they do not seem excited," thought roger michael.--"sugar, thank you; no cream. of what shall i talk to them? in what are they especially interested?" "in your charming books, i should say," answered mrs. legrand. "in how you write them, and in the authors you must know. and then your sweet english life--stratford and canterbury and devonshire--" "we have been reading 'lorna doone' aloud this month," said miss carlisle. "and the girls very cleverly arranged a little play.... sylvie here played lorna beautifully." roger michael smiled across at hagar, two or three places down, on the other side of the table. "i should like to have seen it," she said in her good, deep english voice. "oh," said hagar, "i'm not sylvie. i played lizzie." "this is my little cousin and god-daughter, sylvie maine," said mrs. legrand. "and this is hagar ashendyne, the granddaughter of an old friend and connection of my family." "_hagar ashendyne_," said roger michael. "i remember meeting once in the south of france a southerner--a mr. medway ashendyne." "indeed?" exclaimed mrs. legrand. "then you have met hagar's father. medway ashendyne! he is a great traveller--we do not see as much of him as we should like to see, do we, hagar?" "i have not seen him," said hagar, "since i was a little girl." her voice, though low, was strange and vibrant. "what's here?" thought roger michael, but what she said was only, "he was a very pleasant gentleman, very handsome, very cultivated. my friends and i were thrown with him during a day at carcassonne. a month afterwards we met him at aigues-mortes. he was sketching--quite wonderfully." mrs. legrand inwardly deplored medway ashendyne's daughter's lack of _savoir-faire_. "to give herself away like that! just the kind of thing her mother used to do!" aloud she said, "medway's a great wanderer, but one of these days he will come home and settle down and we'll all be happy together. i remember him as a young man--a perfectly fascinating young man.--dinah, bring more waffles!--yes, if you will tell our girls something of your charming english life. we are all so interested--" miss carlisle's voice came in, a sweet treble like a canary's. "the princess of wales keeps her beauty, does she not?" the study hall was a long, red room, well enough lighted, with a dais holding desk and chairs. roger michael, seated in one of these, watched, while her hostess made a little speech of introduction, the bright parterre of young faces. sitting so, she excercised a discrimination that had not been possible in the dining-room. of the faces before her each was different, after all, from the other. there were keen faces as well as languorous ones; brows that promised as well as those that did not; behind the prevailing "sweet" expression, something sometimes that showed as by heat lightning, something that had depth. "here as elsewhere," thought roger michael. "the same life!" mrs. legrand was closing, was turning toward her. she rose, bowed toward the mistress of eglantine, then, standing square, with her good, english figure and her sensibly shod, english feet, she began to talk to these girls. she did not, however, speak to them as, even after she rose, she meant to speak. she did not talk letters in england, nor english landscape. she spoke quite differently. she spoke of industrial and social unrest, of conditions among the toilers of the world. "i am what is called a fabian," she said, and went on as though that explained. she spoke of certain movements in thought, of breakings-away toward larger horizons. she spoke of various heresies, political, social, and other. "of course i don't call them heresies; i call them 'the enlarging vision.'" she gave instances, incidents; she spoke of the dawn coming over the mountains, and of the trumpet call of "the coming time." she said that the dying nineteenth century heard the stronger voice of the twentieth century, and that it was a voice with a great promise. she spoke of women, of the rapidly changing status of women, of what machinery had done for women, of what education had done. she spoke of the great needs of women, of their learning to organize, of the need for unity among women. she used the words "false position" thrice. "woman's immemorially false position."--"society has so falsely placed her."--"until what is false is done away with."--she said that women were beginning to see. she said that the next quarter-century would witness a revolution. "you young people before me will see it; some of you will take part in it. i congratulate you on living when you will live." she talked for nearly an hour, and just as she was closing it came to her, with a certain effect of startling, that much of the time she had been speaking to just one countenance there. she was speaking directly to the girl called hagar ashendyne, sitting halfway down the hall. when she took her seat there followed a deep little moment of silence broken at last by applause. roger michael marked the girl in green. she didn't applaud; she sat looking very far away. mrs. legrand was saying something smoothly perfunctory, beflowered with personal compliments; the girls all stood; the eglantine hostess and guest, with the teachers who had been at table, passed from the platform, and turned, after a space of hallway, into the rose-carpeted big parlour. miss carlisle and miss bedford brought up the rear. "didn't you think," murmured the latter, "that that was a very curious speech? now and then i felt so uneasy.--it was as though in a moment she was going to say something indelicate! dear mrs. legrand ought to have told her how careful we are with our girls." the wind rose that night and swept around the tower room, and then, between eleven and twelve, died away and left a calm that by contrast was achingly still. hagar was not yet asleep. she lay straight and still in the narrow bed, her arms behind her head. she was rarely in a hurry to go to sleep. this hour and a half was her dreaming-awake time, her time for romance building, her time for floating here and there, as in a witch of atlas boat in her own no-woman's land. she had in the stalls of her mind half a dozen vague and floating romances, silver and tenuous as mist; one night she drove one afield, another night another. all took place in a kind of other space, in countries that were not on any map. she brought imagined physical features into a strange juxtaposition. when the himalayas haunted her she ranged them, snow-clad, by a west indian sea. Ætna and chimborazo rose over against each other, and a favourite haunt was a palm-fringed, flower-starred lawn reached only through crashing leagues of icebergs. she took over localities that other minds had made; when she wished to she pushed aside a curtain of vine and entered the forest of arden; she knew how the moonlight fell in the wood outside athens; she entered the pilotless boat and drove toward the sunset gate of the domain of arnheim. usually speaking, people out of books made the population of these places, and here, too, there were strange juxtapositions. she looped and folded time like a ribbon. mark antony and robin hood were contemporaries; pericles and philip sidney; ruth and naomi came up abreast, with joan of arc, and all three with grace darling; the round table and the girondins were acquainted. all manner of historic and fictive folk wandered in the glades of her imagination, any kind of rendezvous was possible. much went on in that inner world--doubts and dreams and dim hypotheses, romance run wild, fata morganas, castles in spain, passion for dead shapes, worship of heroes, strange, dumb stirrings toward self-immolation, dreams of martyrdom, mind drenched now with this poem, now with that, dream life, dream adventures, dream princes, religions, world cataclysms, passionings over a colour, a tone, a line of verse--much utter spring and burgeoning. eighteen years--a fluid unimprisoned mind--and no confidante but herself; of how recapitulatory were these hours, of how youth of all the ages surged, pulsed, vibrated through her slender frame, she had, of course, no adequate notion. she would simply have said that she couldn't sleep, and that she liked to tell herself stories. as she lay here now, she was not thinking of roger michael's talk, though she had thought of it for the first twenty minutes after she had put out the lamp. it had been very interesting, and it had stirred her while it was in the saying, but the grappling hook had not finally held; she was not ready for it. she had let it slip from her mind in favour of the rose and purple and deep violin humming of one of her romances. she had lain for an hour in a great wood, like a wood in xanadu, beneath trees that touched the sky, and like an elfin stream had gone by knights and ladies.... the great clock down in the hall struck twelve. she turned her slender body, and the bed being pushed against the window, laid her outstretched hands upon the window-sill, and looked up, between the spectral sycamore boughs, to where sirius blazed. dream wood and dream shapes took flight. she lay with parted lips, her mind quiet, her soul awake. minutes passed; a cloud drove behind the sycamore branches and hid the star. first blankness came and then again unrest. she sat up in bed, pushing her two heavy braids of hair back over her shoulders. the small clock upon the mantel ticked and ticked. the little room looked cold in the watery moonlight. hagar was not dreaming or imagining now; she was thinking back. she sat very still for five minutes, tears slowly gathering in her eyes. at last she turned and lay face down upon the bed, her outstretched hands against the wooden frame. her tears wet the sleeve of her gown. "_carcassonne--aigues-mortes. carcassonne--aigues-mortes_...." chapter vii mr. laydon the winter was so open, so mild and warm, that a few pale roses clung to their stems through half of december. christmas proved a green christmas; neither snow nor ice, but soft, indian summer weather. eglantine always gave two weeks' holiday at christmas. it was a great place for holidays. right and left went the girls. those whose own homes were too far away went with roommates or bosom friends to theirs; hardly a pupil was left to mope in the rooms that grew so still. most of the teachers went away. the scattering was general. but hagar remained at eglantine. gilead balm was a good long way off. she had gone home last christmas and the christmas before, but this year--she hardly knew how--she had missed it. in the most recently received of his rare letters her grandfather had explicitly stated that, though he was prepared to pay for her schooling and to support her until she married, she must, on her side, get along with as little money as possible. it was criminal that he had so little nowadays, but such was the melancholy fact. the whole world was going to the dogs. he sometimes felt a cold doubt as to whether he could hold gilead balm. he wished to die there, at any rate. hagar had been very unhappy over that letter, and it set her to wondering more strongly than ever about money, and to longing to make it. in her return letters he suggested that she stay at eglantine this christmas, and so save travelling expenses. and in order that gilead balm might not feel that she would be too dreadfully disappointed, she said that it was very pleasant at eglantine, and that several of the girls were going to stay, and that she would be quite happy and wouldn't mind it much, though of course she wanted to see them all at gilead balm. the plan was of her suggesting, but she had not realized that they might fall in with it. when her grandmother answered at length, explaining losses that the colonel had sustained, and agreeing that this year it might be best for her to stay at eglantine, she tried not to feel desperately hurt and despondent. she loved gilead balm, loved it as much as her mother had hated it. old miss's letter had shown her own disappointment, but--"you are getting to be a woman and must consider the family. ashendyne and coltsworth women, i am glad to say, have always known their duty to the family and have lived up to it." the last half of the letter had a good deal to say of ralph coltsworth who was at the university. hagar was here at eglantine, and it was two days before christmas, and most of the girls were gone. sylvie was gone. the teacher whom she liked best--miss gage--was gone. mrs. legrand, who liked holidays, too, was going. mrs. lane and miss bedford and the housekeeper were not going, and they and the servants would look after eglantine. besides these there would be left the books in the book-room, and hagar would have leave to be out of doors, in the winding walks and beneath the trees, alone and whenever she pleased. the weather was dreamy still; everywhere a warm amethyst haze. this morning had come a box from gilead balm. her grandmother had filled it with good things to eat and the colonel sent his love and a small gold-piece. there was a pretty belt from captain bob and a hand-painted plate and a soft pink wool, shell-pattern, crocheted "fascinator" from miss serena. mrs. green sent a hemstitched handkerchief, and the servants sent a christmas card. through the box were scattered little sprays from the gilead balm cedars, and there was a bunch of white and red and button chrysanthemums. hagar, sitting on the hearth-rug, unpacked everything; then went off into a brown study, the chrysanthemums in her lap. later in the morning she arranged upon the hand-painted plate some pieces of home-made candy, several slices of fruitcake, three or four lady apples, and a number of old miss's exquisitely thin and crisp wafers, and with it in her hand went downstairs to mrs. legrand's room, knocked at the door, and was bidden to enter. mrs. legrand half-raised herself from a flowery couch near the fire, put the novel that she was reading behind her pillow, and stretched out her hand. "ah, hagar!--goodies from gilead balm? how nice! thank you, my dear!" she took a piece of cocoanut candy, then waved the hand-painted plate to the round table. "put it there, dear child! now sit down for a minute and keep me company." hagar took the straight chair on the other side of the hearth. the bright, leaping flame was between the two. it made a kind of softer daylight, and full in the heart of it showed mrs. legrand's handsome, not yet elderly countenance, the ripe fullness of her bust, covered by a figured silk dressing-sacque, and her smooth, well-shaped, carefully tended hands. hagar conceived that it was her duty to think well and highly of mrs. legrand, who was such an old friend of the family, and who, she knew, out of these same friendly considerations, was keeping her at eglantine on the easiest of terms. yes, it was certainly her duty to love and admire mrs. legrand. that she did not do so caused her qualms of conscience. many of the girls raved about mrs. legrand, and so did miss carlisle and miss bedford. hagar supposed with a sigh that there was something wrong with her own heart. to-day, as she sat in the straight chair, her hands folded in her lap, she experienced a resurgence of an old childhood dislike. she saw again the gilead balm library, and the pool of sunlight on the floor and the "descent of man," and heard again mrs. legrand telling the bishop that she--hagar--was reading an improper book. time between then and now simply took itself away like a painted drop-scene. six years rolled themselves up as with a spring, and that hour seamlessly adjoined this hour. "i'm afraid," said mrs. legrand, "that you'll be a little lonely, dear child, but it won't be for long. time flies so!" "i don't exactly get lonely," said hagar gravely. "you are going down the river, aren't you?" "yes, for ten days. my dear friends at idlewood won't hear of my not coming. they were my dear husband's dearest cousins. mrs. lane and miss bedford, together with mrs. brown, will take, i am sure, the best of care of things here." "yes, of course. we'll get on beautifully," said hagar. "mr. laydon is not going away either. his mother is ill and he will not leave her. he says that if we like to listen, he will come over in the evenings and read aloud to us." mr. laydon was teacher of belles-lettres at eglantine, a well-looking young gentleman, with a good voice, and apparently a sincere devotion to the best literature. eglantine and mr. laydon alike believed in the future of mr. laydon. it was understood that his acceptance of a position here was of the nature of a makeshift, a mere pot-boiler on his road to high places. he and his mother were domiciled with a cousin from whose doorstep you might toss a pebble into the eglantine grounds. in the past few years the neighbouring town had begun to grow; it had thrown out a street which all but touched the osage-orange hedge. mrs. legrand made a slight motion with her hand on which was her wedding-ring, with an old pearl ring for guard. "i shall tell mrs. lane not to let him do that too often. i have a great esteem for mr. laydon, but eglantine cannot be too careful. no one with girls in their charge can be too careful!--what is the gilead balm news?" "the letter was from grandmother. she is well, and so is grandfather. they have had a great deal of company. uncle bob has had rheumatism, but he goes hunting just the same. the hawk nest coltsworths are coming for christmas--all except ralph. he is going home with a classmate. grandmother says he is the handsomest man at the university, and that if i hear tales of his wildness i am not to believe them. she says all men are a little wild at first. aunt serena is learning how to illuminate texts. mrs. green has gone to see her daughter, who has something the matter with her spine. thomasine's uncle in new york is going to have her visit him, and grandmother thinks he means to get thomasine a place in a store. grandmother says no girl ought to work in a store, but thomasine's people are very poor, and i don't see what she can do. she's got to live. corker has a place, but he isn't doing very well. car'line and isham have put a porch to their cabin, and mary magazine has gotten religion." "girls of thomasine's station," said mrs. legrand, "are beginning more and more, i'm sorry to see, to leave home to work for pay. it's spreading, too; it's not confined to girls of her class. only yesterday i heard that a bright, pretty girl that i used to know at the white had gone to philadelphia to study to be a nurse, and there's nellie wynne trying to be a journalist! a journalist! there isn't the least excuse for either of those cases. one of those girls has a brother and the other a father quite able to support them." "but if there really isn't any one?" said hagar wistfully. "and if you feel that you are costing a lot--" her dreams at night were beginning to be shot with a vague but insistent "if i could write--if i could paint or teach--if i could earn money--" "there is almost always some one," answered mrs. legrand. "and if a girl knows how to make the best of herself, there inevitably arrives her own establishment and the right man to take care of her. if"--she shrugged--"if she doesn't know how to make the best of herself, she might as well go work in a store. no one would especially object. that is, they would not object except that when that kind of thing creeps up higher in the scale of society, and girls who can perfectly well be supported at home go out and work for pay, it makes an unfortunate kind of precedent and reacts and reflects upon those who do know how to make the best of themselves." hagar spoke diffidently. "but a lot of women had to work after the war. mrs. lane and general ----'s daughters, and you yourself--" "that is quite different," said mrs. legrand. "gentlewomen in reduced circumstances may have to battle alone with the world, but they do not like it, and it is only hard fate that has put them in that position. it's an unnatural one, and they feel it as such. what i am talking of is that nowadays you see women--young women--actually choosing to stand alone, actually declining support, and--er--refusing generally to make the best of themselves. it's part of the degeneracy of the times that you begin to see women--women of breeding--in all kinds of public places, working for their living. it's positively shocking! it opens the gate to all kinds of things." "wrong things?" "ideas, notions. roger michael's ideas, for instance,--which i must say are extremely wrong-headed. i regretted that i had asked her here. she was hardly feminine." mrs. legrand stretched herself, rubbed her plump, firm arms, from which the figured silk had fallen back, and rose from the couch. "i hope that eglantine girls will always think of these things as ladies should. and now, my dear, will you tell mrs. lane that i want to see her?" mrs. legrand went away from eglantine for ten days. of the women teachers living in the house, all went but mrs. lane and miss bedford. all the girls went but three, and they were, first, hagar ashendyne; second, a pale thin girl from the far south, a martyr to sick headaches; and third, francie smythe, a girl apparently without many home people. francie was sweetly dull, with small eyes and a perpetual smile. how quiet seemed the great house with its many rooms! they closed the large dining-room and used the small room where roger michael had supped. they shut the classrooms and the study-hall and the book-room, and sat in the evenings in the bowery, flowery parlour. here, the very first evening, and the second, came mr. laydon with browning in one pocket and tennyson in the other. mrs. lane was knitting an afghan of a complicated pattern. her lips moved softly, continuously, counting. mr. laydon, making an eloquent pause midway of "tithonous" caught this _one--two--three--four_--and had a fleeting expression of pain. mrs. lane saw the depth to which she had sunk in his esteem and flushed over her delicate, pensive face. for the remainder of the hour she sat with her knitting in her lap. but really the afghan must be finished, and so, the second evening, she placed her chair so as to face not the reader but a shadowy corner, and so knit and counted in peace. miss bedford neither knit nor counted; she said that she adored poetry and sighed rapturously where something seemed to be indicated. she also adored conversation and argumentation as to this or that nice point. what did mr. laydon think browning really meant in "childe roland," and was porphyria's lover really mad? was amy really to blame in "locksley hall"? miss bedford made play with her rather fine eyes and teased the fringe of the table-cover. the pale girl from the far south--lily was her name--sat by the fire and now rubbed her forehead with a menthol pencil and now stroked tipsy parson, mrs. legrand's big black cat. francie smythe had a muslin apron full of coloured silks and was embroidering a centre-piece--yellow roses with leaves and thorns. francie was a great embroiderer. hagar sat upon a low stool by the hearth, over against lily, close to the slowly burning logs. she was a fire-worshipper. the flames were better to her than jewels, and the glowing alleys and caverns below were treasure caves and temples. she sat listening in the rosy light, her chin in her hands. she thought that mr. laydon read very well--very well, indeed. "'where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles, miles and miles, on the solitary pastures--'" midway of the poem she turned a little so that she could see the reader. he sat in the circle of lamplight, a presentable man, well-formed, dark-eyed, and enthusiastic; fairly presentable within, too, very fairly clean, a good son, filled with not unhonourable ambitions; good, average, human stuff with an individual touch of impressionability and a strong desire to be liked, as he expressed it, "for himself"; young still, with the momentum and emanation of youth. the lamp had a rose and amber shade. it threw a softened, coloured, dreamy light. everything within its range was subtly altered and enriched. "'and i knew--while thus the quiet-coloured eve smiles to leave to their folding, all our many tinkling fleece in such peace, and the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey melt away--'" hagar sat in her corner, upon the low stool, in the firelight, as motionless as though she were in a trance. her eyes, large, of a marvellous hazel, beneath straight, well-pencilled brows of deepest brown, were fixed steadily upon the man reading. slowly, tentatively, something rich and delicate seemed to rise within her, something that clung to soul and body, something strange, sweet and painful, something that, spreading and deepening with great swiftness, suffused her being and made her heart at once ecstatic and sorrowful. she blushed deeply, felt the crimsoning, and wished to drop her head upon her arms and be alone in a balmy darkness. it was as though she were in a strange dream, or in one of her long romances come real. "'in one year they sent a million fighters forth, south and north,-- and they built their gods a brazen pillar high as the sky-- ... ... love is best.'" laydon put the book down upon the table. while he read, one of the maids, zinia, had brought a note to miss bedford, and that lady had gone away to answer it. mrs. lane knitted on, her lips moving, her back to the table and the hearth. francie smythe was sorting silks. "that was a lovely piece," she said unemotionally, and went on dividing orange from lemon. the girl with the menthol pencil was more appreciative. "once, when i was a little girl i went with my father and mother to rome. we went out on the campagna. i remember now how it was all green and flat and wide as the sea and still, and there were great arches running away--away--and a mist that they said was fever." her voice sank. she sighed and rubbed her forehead with the menthol. her eyes closed. edgar laydon rose and came into the circle of firelight. he was moved by his own reading, shaken with the impulse and rhythm of the poem. he stood by the mantel and faced hagar. she was one of his pupils, she recited well; of the essays, the "compositions," which were produced under his direction, hers were the best; he had told her more than once that her work was good; in short, he was kindly disposed toward her. to this instant that was all; he was scrupulously correct in his attitude toward the young ladies whom he taught. he had for his work a kind of unnecessary scorn; he felt that he ought to be teaching men, or at the very least should hold a chair in some actual college for women. eglantine was nothing but a young ladies' seminary. he felt quite an enormous gulf between himself and those around him, and, as a weakness will sometimes quaintly do, this feeling kept him steady. until this moment he was as indifferent to hagar ashendyne, as to any one of the fifty whom he taught, and he was indifferent to them all. he had a picture in his mind of the woman whom some day he meant to find and woo, but she wasn't in the least like any one at eglantine. now, in an instant, came a change. hagar's eyes, very quiet and limpid, were upon him. perhaps, deep down, far distant from her conscious self, she willed and exercised an ancient power of her sex and charmed him to her; perhaps--in his lifted mood, the great, sensuous swing of the verse still with him, the written cry of passion faintly drumming within his veins--he would have suddenly linked that diffused emotion to whatever presence, young and far from unpleasing, might have risen at this moment to confront him. however that may be, laydon's eyes and those of hagar met. each gaze held the other for a breathless moment, then the lids fell, the heart beat violently, a colour surged over the face and receded, leaving each face pale. a log, burned through, parted, striking the hearth with a sound like the click of a closing trap. mrs. lane, having come to an easy part in the pattern, turned her face to the rest of the room. "aren't we going to have some more poetry? read us some more, mr. laydon." the girl with the menthol pencil spoke dreamily. "isn't there another piece about the campagna? i can see it plain--green like the sea and arches and tombs and a mist hanging over it, and a road going on--a road going on--a road going on." chapter viii hagar and laydon this is what they did. the next day was soft as balm. to hagar, sitting in the sun on the step of the west porch, came the sound of steps over the fallen leaves of what was called at eglantine the syringa alley--sycamore boughs above and syringa bushes thickly planted and grown tall, making winding walls for a winding path. the red surged over hagar, her eyes, dark-ringed, half-closed. laydon, emerging from the alley, came straight toward her, over a space of gravel and wind-brought leaves. it was mid-morning, the place open and sunny, to be viewed from more windows than one, with the servants, moreover, going to and fro on their morning business, apt to pass this gable end. aunt dorinda, for instance, the old, turbaned cook, passed, but she saw nothing but one of the teachers stopping to say, "merry christmas!" to miss hagar. all the servants liked miss hagar. what laydon said was not "merry christmas!" but, "hagar, hagar! that was love came to us last night! i have not slept. i have been like a madman all night! i did not know there was such a force in the world." "i did not sleep either," answered hagar. "i did not sleep at all." "every one can see us here. let us walk toward the gate, through the alley." she rose from the step and went with him. well in the shelter of the syringa, hidden from the house, he stopped, and laid his hands lightly upon her shoulders, then, as she did not resist, drew her to him. they kissed, they clung together in a long embrace, they uttered love's immemorial words, smothering each with each, then they fell apart; and hagar first buried her face in her hands, then, uncovering it, broke into tremulous laughter, laughter that had a sobbing note. "what will they say at gilead balm--oh, what will they say at gilead balm?" "say!" answered laydon. "they'll say that they wish your happiness! hagar, how old are you?" "i'm nearly eighteen." "and old for your years. and i--i am twenty-eight, and young for my years." laydon laughed, too. he was giddy with happiness. "gilead balm! what a strange name for a place--and you've lived there always--" "always." they were moving now down the alley toward a gate that gave upon the highroad. near by lay an open field seized upon, at christmas, by a mob of small boys with squibs and torpedoes and cannon crackers. they had a bonfire, and the wood smoke drifted across, together with the odour of burning powder. the boys were shouting like liliputian soldiery, and the squibs and giant crackers shook the air as with a continuous elfin bombardment. the nearest church was ringing its bells. laydon and hagar came to the gate--not the main but a lesser entrance to eglantine. no one was in view; hand in hand they leaned against the wooden palings. before them stretched the road, an old, country pike going on and on between cedar and locust and thorn until it dropped into the violet distance. "i wish we were out upon it," said hagar; "i wish we were out upon it, going on and on through the world, travelling like gipsies!" "you look like a gipsy," he said. "have you got gipsy blood in you?" "no.... yes. just to go on and on. the open road--and a clear fire at night--and to see all things--" "hagar--why did they call you hagar?" "i don't know. my mother named me." "hagar, we've got to think a little.... it took us so by surprise.... we had best, i think, just quietly say nothing to anybody for a while.... don't you think so?" "i had not thought about it, but i will," said hagar. she gazed down the road, her brows knit. the christmas cannonading went on, a continuous miniature tearing and shaking of the air, with a dwarf shouting and laughing, and small coalescing clouds of powder smoke. the road ran, a quiet, sunny streak, past this small bedlam, into the still distance. "i won't tell any one at eglantine," she said at last, "until mrs. legrand comes back. she will be back in a week. but i'll write to grandmother to-night." laydon measured the gate with his hand. "i had rather not tell my mother at once. she is very delicate and nervous, and perhaps she has grown a little selfish in her love for me. besides, she had set her heart on--" he threw that matter aside, it being a young and attractive kinswoman with money. "i had rather not tell her just now. then, as to mrs. legrand.... of course, i suppose, as i am a teacher here, and you are a pupil ... but there, too, had we not best delay a little? it will make a confusion--things will be said--my position will become an embarrassing one. and you, too, hagar,--it won't be pleasant for you either. isn't it better just to keep our own concerns to ourselves for a while? and your people up the river--why not _not_ tell them until summer-time? then, when you go home,--and when i have finished my engagement here, for i don't propose to come back to eglantine next year,--then you can tell them, and so much better than you could write it! i could follow you to gilead balm--we could tell them together. then we could discuss matters and our future intelligently--and that is impossible at the moment. let us just quietly keep our happiness to ourselves for a while! why should the world pry into it?" he seized her hands and pressed his face against them. "let us be happy and silent." she looked at him with her candid eyes. "no, we shouldn't be happy that way. i'll write to grandmother to-night." they gazed at each other, the gate between them. the strong enchantment held, but a momentary perplexity crossed it, and the never long-laid dust of pain was stirred. "i am not asking anything wrong," said laydon, a hurt note in his voice. "i only see certain embarrassments--difficulties that may arise. but, darling, darling! it shall be just as you please! 'i'd crowns resign to call you mine'--and so i reckon i can face mother and mrs. legrand and colonel ashendyne!" a flush came into his cheek. "i've been so foolish, too, as to--as to pay a little attention to miss bedford. but she is too sensible a woman to think that i meant anything seriously--" "did you?" "not in the least," said laydon truthfully. "a man gets lonely, and he craves affection and understanding, and he's in a muddle before he knows it. there isn't anything else there, and i never said a word of _love_ to her. darling, darling! i never loved any one until last night by the fire, and you looked up at me with those wonderful eyes, and i looked down, and our eyes met and held, and it was like a fine flame all over--and now i'm yours till death--and i'll run any gauntlet you tell me to run! if you write to your people to-night, so will i. i'll write to colonel ashendyne." they left the gate and again pursued the syringa alley. the sound of the christmas bombardment drifted away. when they reached the shadow of the great bushes, he kissed her again. all the air was blue and hazy and the church bells were ringing, ringing. "i haven't any money," said laydon. "mother has a very little, but i've never been able, somehow, to lay by. i'll begin now, though, and then, as i told you, i expect next year to have a much better situation. dr. ---- at ---- thinks he may get me in there. it would be delightful--a real field at last, the best of surroundings and a tolerable salary. if i were fortunate there, we could marry very soon, darling, darling! but as it is--it is wretched that eglantine pays so little, and that there is so little recognition here of ability--no career--no opportunity! but just you wait and see--you one bright spot here!" hagar gazed at the winding path, strewn with bronze leaves, and at the syringa bushes, later to be laden with fragrant bloom, and at the great white sycamore boughs against the pallid blue, and at the roof and chimneys of eglantine, now apparent behind the fretwork of trees. the inner eye saw the house within, the three-years-familiar rooms, her "tower room"--and all the human life, the girls, the teachers, the servants. bright drops came to her eyes. "i've been unhappy here, too, sometimes. but i couldn't stay three years in a place and not love something about it." "that is because you are a woman," said the lover. "with a man it is different. if a place isn't right, it isn't right.--if i had but five thousand dollars! then we might marry in a month's time. as it is, we'll have to wait and wait and wait--" "i am going to work, too," said hagar. "i am going to try somehow to make money." he laughed. "you dear gipsy! you just keep your beautiful, large eyes, and those dusky warm waves of hair, and your long slim fingers, and the way you hold yourself, and let 'trying to earn money' go hang! that's my part. too many women are trying to earn money, anyhow--competing with us.--you've got just to be your beautiful self, and keep on loving me." he drew a long breath. "jove! i can see you now, in a parlour that's our own at ----, receiving guests--famous guests, maybe, after a while; people who will come distances to see me! for i don't mean to remain unknown. i know i've got ability." before they left the alley they settled that both should write that night to gilead balm. laydon found the idea distasteful enough; older and more worldly-wise than the other, he knew that there would probably ensue a tempest, and he was constitutionally averse to tempests. he was well enough in family, but no great things; he had a good education, but so had others; he could give a good character--already he was running over in mind a list of clergymen, educators, prominent citizens, and confederate veterans to whom he could refer colonel ashendyne. he had some doubt, however, as to whether comparative spotlessness of character would have with colonel ashendyne the predominant and overweening value that it should have. money--he had no means; position--he had as yet an uncertain foothold in the world, and no powerful relatives to push him. unbounded confidence he had in himself, but the point was to create that confidence in hagar's people. of course, they would say that she was too young, and that he had taken advantage. his skirts were clear there; both had truthfully been taken prisoners, fallen into an ambuscade of ancient instinct; there hadn't been the slightest premeditation. but how to convey that fact to the old bourbon up the river? laydon had once been introduced to colonel ashendyne upon one of the latter's rare visits to the neighbouring city and to eglantine. he remembered stingingly the colonel's calm and gentlemanly willingness immediately to forget the existence of a teacher of belles-lettres in a young ladies' school. the letter to gilead balm. he didn't want to write it, but he was going to--oh! he was going to.... women were curiously selfish about some things.... mrs. legrand, too; he thought that he would write about it to mrs. legrand. he could imagine what she would say, and he didn't want to hear it. he was in love, and he was going to do the honourable thing, of course; he had no idea otherwise. but he certainly entertained the wish that hagar could see how entirely honourable, as well as discreet, would be silence for a while. hagar never thought of it in terms of "honour." she had no adequate idea of his reluctance. it might be said that she knew already the arching of mrs. legrand's brows and the lightning and thunder that might issue from gilead balm. grandfather and grandmother, aunt serena and uncle bob looked upon her as nothing but a child. she wasn't a child; she was eighteen. she felt no need to vindicate herself, nor to apologize. she was moving through what was still almost pure bliss, moving with a dreamlike tolerance of difficulties. what did it matter, all those things? they were so little. the air was wine and velvet, colours were at once soft and clear, sound was golden. in the general transfiguration the man by her side appeared much like a demigod. her wings were fairly caught and held by the honey. it was natural for her to act straightforwardly, and when she must propose that she act so still, it was simply a putting forward, an unveiling of the mass of her nature. she showed herself thus and so, and then went on in her happy dream. had he been able to make her realize his great magnanimity in giving up his point of view to hers, perhaps she might have striven for magnanimity, too, and acquiesced in a temporary secrecy, perhaps not--on the whole, perhaps not. had she deeply felt the secrecy to be necessary, had they paced the earth in another time and amid actual dangers, wild beasts could not have torn from her a relation of their case. but laydon thought that she was thinking in terms of "honour." pure women were naturally up in arms at the suggestion of secrecy. their delicate minds had at once a vision of deception, desertion, all kinds of horrors. he acknowledged that men had given them reason for the vision; they could not be blamed if they saw it even when an entirely honourable and devoted man was at their feet. he smiled at what he supposed hagar thought; his warm sense of natural supremacy became rich and deep; he felt like an eastern king unfolding a generous and noble nature to some suppliant who had reason to doubt those qualities in eastern kings at large--he experienced a sumptuous, oriental, ahasuerus-and-esther feeling. poor little girl! if she had any absurd fear like that--he began to be eager to get to the letter to colonel ashendyne. he could see his own strong black handwriting on a large sheet of bond paper. _my dear colonel ashendyne:--you will doubtless be surprised at the nature and contents of this letter, but i beg of you to_-- the syringa alley ended, and the west wing of the house, beyond which stretched the offices, opened upon them. zinia, the mulatto maid, and old daniel, the gardener, watched them from a doorway. "my lord!" said zinia. "dey's walkin' right far apart, but i knows a co'tin' air when i sees it! miss sarah better come back here!" daniel frowned. he had been born on the eglantine place and the majesty and honour and glory of eglantine were his. "shet yo' mouf, gal! don't no co'tin' occur at eglantine. hit's christmas an' everybody looks good an' shinin' lak de angels. dey two jes' been listenin' to de 'lumination an' talkin' jography an' greek!" as the two stepped upon the west porch, the door opened and miss bedford came out--miss bedford in a very pretty red hood and a connemara cloak. miss bedford had a sharp look. "where did you two find each other?" she asked; then, without waiting for an answer, "hagar! mrs. lane has been looking for you. she wants you to help her do up parcels for her mission children. i've been tying up things until i am tired, and now i am going to walk down the avenue for a breath of air. hurry in, dear; she needs you.--oh, mr. laydon! there's a passage in 'the ring and the book' that i've been wanting to ask you to explain--" hagar went in and tied up parcels in coloured tissue paper. the day went by as in a dream. there was a christmas dinner, with holly on the table, and little red candles, and in the afternoon she went with mrs. lane to a christmas tree for poor children in the sunday-school room of a neighbouring church. the tree blazed with an unearthly splendour, the star in the top seemed effulgent, the "ohs!" and "ahs!" and laughter of the circling children, fell into a rhythm like sweet, low, distant thunder. that night she wrote both to her grandmother and her grandfather. when she had made an end of doing so, she kneeled upon the braided rug before the fire in her tower room, loosed her dark hair, shook it around her, and sat as in a tent, her arms clasping her knees, her head bowed upon them. "_carcassonne--aigues-mortes. carcassonne--aigues-mortes._ i can't send a letter to father, for i don't know where to address it. mother--mother--mother! i can't send a letter to you either...." chapter ix romeo and juliet that week a noted actress played juliet several evenings in succession at the theatre in the neighbouring town. the ladies left adrift at eglantine read in the morning paper a glowing report of the performance. miss bedford said she was going; she never missed an opportunity to see "romeo and juliet." mr. laydon, walking in at that moment--they were all in the small book-room--caught the statement. "why shouldn't you all go? i have seen her play it once, but i'd like to see it again." he laughed. "i feel reckless and i'm going to get up a theatre-party! mrs. lane, won't you go?" mrs. lane shook her head. "my theatre days are over," she said in her gentle, plaintive voice. "thank you just the same, mr. laydon. but the others might like to go." "miss bedford--" "we ought," said miss bedford, "by rights to have mrs. lane to chaperon us, but it's christmas, isn't it?--and everybody's a little mad! thank you, mr. laydon." laydon looked at francie. "miss smythe, won't you come, too?" he had made a rapid calculation. yes, it would cost only so much,--they would go in of course on the street car,--and in order to ask one he would have to ask all. yes, francie would go, though she was sorry that it was shakespeare, and just caught herself in time from saying so. "it will be lovely," she said, instead, unemotionally. miss bedford supplied the lacking enthusiasm. "it will be the treat of the winter! oh, the balcony scene, and where she drinks the sleeping-draught, and the tomb--" she moved nearer laydon as she spoke and managed to convey to him, _sotto voce_, "you mustn't be extravagant, you generous man! don't think that you have to ask these girls just because they are in the room." but she was too late; laydon was already asking. "miss goldwell, won't you come, too, to see 'romeo and juliet'?" if she didn't have a headache, miss goldwell would be glad to,--"thank you, mr. laydon." "miss ashendyne, won't you?" "yes, thank you." "i will go at once," said laydon, "and get the tickets." in the end, lily goldwell went, and francie smythe did not. francie developed a sore throat that put mrs. lane in terror of tonsillitis. nothing must go wrong--nobody must get ill while dear mrs. legrand was away!--it would be madness for francie to go out. where "what mrs. legrand might think" came into it, mrs. lane was adamant. francie sullenly stayed at home. lily, for a marvel, didn't have a headache, and she said she would take her menthol pencil, in case the music should bring on one. the four walked down the avenue, beneath the whispering trees. there was no moon, but the stars shone bright, and it was not cold. mr. laydon and miss bedford went a little in front, and lily and hagar followed. they passed through the big gate and, walking down the road a little way, came to where the road became a street, and, at ten minutes' interval, a street-car jingled up, reversed, and jingled back to town again. on the street-car miss bedford and mr. laydon were again together, and lily and hagar. between the two pairs stretched a row of men, several with the evening newspaper. it was too warm in the car, and lily, murmuring something, took out her menthol pencil. hagar studied the score of occupants, and the row of advertisements, and the dark night without the windows. the man next her had a newspaper, and now he began to talk to an older man beside him. "the country's doing pretty well, seems to me." the other grunted. "isn't anything doing pretty well. i'm getting to be a populist." "oh, go away! are you going to the world's fair?" "no. there's going to be the biggest panic yet in this country about one year from now." "oh, cheer up! you've been living on homestead." "if i have, it's poor living." across the aisle a woman was talking about the famine in russia. "we are going to try to get up a bazaar and make a little money to send to get food with. tolstoy--" the horse-car jingled, jingled through the night. all the windows were down; it grew hot and close and crowded. the black night without pressed alongside, peered through the clouded glass. within were a muddy glare and swaying and the mingled breath of people. lily sighed. "don't you ever wish for just a clear nothing? no pain, no feeling, no people, no light, no sound, no anything?" the street-car turned a corner and swayed and jingled into a lighted, business street, where were christmas windows and upon the pavement a christmas throng. a drug store--a wine and liquor store--a grocery--a clothing store--a wine and liquor store--a drug store; amber and crimson, green and blue, broken and restless arrived the lights through the filmy glass. laughter and voices of the crowd came with a distant humming, through which clanged the street-car bell. the car stopped for passengers, then creaked on again. a workman entered, stood for a couple of minutes, touching hagar's skirt, then, a man opposite rising and leaving the car, sank into the vacant place. hagar's eyes swept him dreamily; then, she knew not why, she fell to observing him with a puzzled, stealthy gaze. he was certainly young, and yet he did not look so. the lower part of his face was covered by a short soft, dark beard; he had a battered slouch hat pulled down low; the eyes beneath were sombre and the face lined. there was a dinner pail at his feet. he, too, had an evening paper; hagar saw the headlines of the piece he was reading: "homestead"; and underneath, "strong hand of the law." outside, topaz and ruby and emerald drifted by the windows of a wine and liquor store. she knit her brows. some current in the shoreless sea of mind had been started, but she could not trace its beginning nor where it led. another minute and the car stopped before the theatre. within, laydon manoeuvred, and the end was that if he had miss bedford upon his right, yet he had hagar upon his left. the orchestra had not yet begun; the house was dim, people entering, those seated having to stand up to let the others pass. once, when this happened, he leaned toward her until their shoulders touched, until his breath was upon her cheek. he dared so much as to whisper, "if only we were here, just you and i, together!" every one was seated now, and she looked at the people with their festal, christmas air. there was a girl in a box who was like sylvie, and nearer yet a grey-haired gentleman with a certain vague resemblance to her grandfather. her thought flashed across the dark country, up the winding, amber-hued river to gilead balm. they would have had her letter yesterday. the shimmer and murmur of the filled theatre were all about her, but so was gilead balm--she tried to hear what they would be saying there to-night. the music began, and in a moment she was in a colourful dream. the curtain went up, and here was the hot, sunshiny street of verona and all the heady wine of youth and love. when the curtain fell and the lights brightened, miss bedford, after frantically applauding, claimed laydon for her own. she had raptures to impart, criticisms to exchange, knowledge to imbibe. minutes passed ere, during a momentary lapse into her programme, laydon could bend toward the lady on his left. did she like it? what did she think of juliet?--what did she think of romeo?--was it not well-staged? hagar did not know whether it were well staged or not. she was eighteen years old; she had been very seldom to the theatre; she was moving through a dreamy paradise. she wanted just to sit still and bring it all back before the inner eye. despite the fact that he was her lover, she was not sorry when laydon must turn to the lady on his right. when lily spoke to her, she said, "don't let's talk. let's sit still and see it all again." lily agreed. she was no chatterbox herself. the music played; the lights in the house were lowered; up, slowly, gently, went the curtain; here was the orchard of the capulets. the great concave of the theatre was dim. laydon's hand sought hagar's, found it in the semi-darkness, held it throughout the act. she acquiesced; and yet--and yet--she did not wish him to fondle her hand, nor yet, as once or twice he did, to whisper to her. she wished to listen, listen. she was in verona, not here. the act closed. the lights went up, laydon softly withdrew his hand. he applauded loudly, all the house applauded. hagar hated the clapping, not experienced enough to know how breath-of-life it was to the people behind the curtain. already the curtain was rising for juliet to come forth and bow, and then for juliet to bring forth romeo, and both to bow. had she known, she would have applauded, too; she was a kindly child. the curtain was down now, the house rustling. all around was talking; people seemed never to wish to be quiet. laydon was talking, too, answering miss bedford's artful-artless queries, embarking on a commentary upon act and actors. he talked with a conscious brilliance as became a professor of belles-lettres, more especially for hagar's delight, but aware also that the people directly in front and behind were listening. was hagar delighted? very slowly and insidiously, like a slender serpent stealing into some happy valley, there came into her heart a distaste for commentaries. as the valley might be ignorant of the serpent, so neither did she know what was the matter; she was only not so mystically happy as she had been before. the orchestra came back, there was a murmur of expectation, laydon ceased to discourse of bandello, and of dante's reference to montague and capulet. lily, on the other side of hagar, complained of the heat and the music. "i like stringed instruments, but those great brass horns make the back of my head hurt so." hagar touched her cold, little hand. "poor lily! i wish you didn't feel badly all the time! i wish you liked the horns." the curtain rose, the play rolled on. mercutio was slain,--mercutio and tybalt,--romeo was banished. the scene changed, and here was the great window of juliet's room--the rope ladder--the envious east. "_night's candles are burned out and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops; i must be gone and live, or stay and die_--" hagar sat, bent forward, her eyes dark and wide, the wine-red in her cheeks. when the curtain went down she did not move; laydon, under cover of the loud applause, spoke to her twice before she attended. her eyes came back from a long way off, her mind turned with difficulty. "yes? what is it?" laydon was easily aggrieved. "you are thinking more of this wretched play," he whispered, "than you are of me!" on rolled the swift events, gorgeous and swift as shadows. the curtain fell, the curtain rose. the potion was drunk--the wailing was made--balthasar rode to warn romeo. there came the last act: the poison--county paris--the tomb-- "_here will i set up my everlasting rest_--" it was over.... she helped lily with her red evening cloak, she found miss bedford's striped silk bag that laydon could not find; they all passed out of the house of enchantments. here was the night, and the night wind, and broken lights and carriages, and a clamour of voices, and at last the clanging street-car with a great freight of talking people. she wanted to sit still and dream it over--and fortunately laydon was again occupied with miss bedford. "you liked it, didn't you?" asked lily. "i think that you like things that you imagine better than you like things that you do." hagar looked at her with eyes that were yet wide and fixed. "i don't know. if you could be and do all that you can imagine--but you can't--you can't--" she smiled and rubbed her hand across her eyes-- "and it's a tragedy." when they left the street-car and walked toward the eglantine gates, it was drawing toward midnight. laydon and hagar now moved side by side through the darkness. lily--who said that her head had ached very little, thank you!--exchanged comments on the play with miss bedford. laydon held the gate open; then, closing it, fell a few feet behind with hagar. "you enjoyed it?" "oh--" he was again in love. "the plays we'll see together, darling, darling! 'two souls with but a single thought--'" "there is no need to walk so fast," said miss bedford. "oh, mr. laydon, a briar has caught my skirt--will you--? oh, thank you!" the house showed before them. "the parlour windows are lighted," said lily. "mrs. lane must have company." mrs. lane did have company. she herself opened the front door to them. mrs. lane's eyes were red, and she looked frightened. "wait," she said, and got between the little group and the parlour door. "lily, you had best go straight upstairs, my dear! miss bedford, will you please wait here with me just a minute? mr. laydon, mrs. legrand says will you come into the parlour? hagar, you are to go, too. your grandfather is here." colonel ashendyne stood between the table and the fire. mrs. legrand was seated upon the sofa, which meant that she sat in state. mrs. lane, who came presently stealing in again, sat back from the centre in a meek, small chair, and at intervals wiped her eyes. the culprits stood. colonel argall ashendyne never lacked words with which to express his meaning--words that bit. now his well-cut lips opened, and out there came like a scimitar his part of the ensuing conversation. "hagar, your letter was read yesterday evening. i immediately telegraphed to mrs. legrand at idlewood, and she obligingly took this morning's boat. i myself came down on the afternoon train, and got here two hours ago. now, sir--" he turned on laydon--"what have you got to say for yourself?" "i--i--" began laydon. he drew a breath and his spine stiffened. "i have to say, sir, that i love your granddaughter, and that i have asked her to marry me." mrs. legrand, while the colonel's hawk eye dwelt witheringly, spoke from the sofa. "i have no words, mr. laydon, in which to express my disapproval of your action, or my disappointment in one whom i had supposed a gentleman. in my absence you have chosen to abuse my confidence and to do a most dishonourable and ungentlemanly thing--a thing which, were it known, might easily bring disrepute upon eglantine. you will understand, of course, that it terminates your connection with this school--" "mrs. legrand," said laydon, "i have done nothing dishonourable." "you have taken advantage of my absence, sir, to make love to one of my pupils--" "to an inexperienced child, sir," said the colonel;--"too young to know better or to tell pinchbeck when she sees it! you should be caned." "colonel ashendyne, if you were a younger man--" "bah!" said the colonel. "i am younger now and more real than you!--hagar!" "yes, grandfather." "come here!" hagar came. the colonel laid his hands upon her shoulders, a little roughly, but not too roughly. the two looked each other in the eyes. he was tall and she but of medium height, she was young and he was her elder, he was ancestor and she descendant, he was her supporter and she his dependant, he was grandfather and she was grandchild. gilead balm had always inculcated reverence for dominant kin and family authority. it had been gilead balm's grievance, long ago, against her mother that she recognized that so poorly.... but hagar had always seemed to recognize it. "gipsy," said the colonel now, "i am not going to be hard upon you. it's the nature of the young to be foolish, and a young girl may be pardoned anything short of the irrecoverable. all that i want you to do is to see that you have been very foolish and to say as much to this--this gentleman. simply turn round and say to him 'mr.--' what's his name?--layton?" "i wrote to you day before yesterday, colonel ashendyne," said laydon. "you saw my name there--" "i never got your letter, sir! i got hers.--hagar! say after me to this gentleman, 'sir, i was mistaken in my sentiment toward you, and i here and now release you from any fancied engagement between us.'--say it!" as he spoke, he wheeled her so that she faced laydon. she stood, a scarlet in her cheeks, her eyes dark, deep, and angry. "hagar!" cried laydon, maddened, too, "are you going to say that?" "no," answered hagar. "no, i am not going to say it! i have done nothing wrong nor underhand, and neither have you! mrs. legrand knew that you were coming here, in the evening, to read to us. why shouldn't you come? well, one evening you were reading and i was listening, and i was not thinking of you and you were not thinking of me. and then, suddenly, something--love--came into this room and took us prisoner. we did not ask him here, we did not know anything.... but when it happened we knew it, and next morning, out in the open air, we told each other about it. nothing could have kept us from doing that, and nothing had a right to keep us from it! nothing!--and that very night i wrote to you, grandfather--and he wrote.... if i am mistaken i am mistaken, but i will find it out for myself!" she twisted herself in the colonel's grasp until she faced him. "you say that you are real--well, i am real too! i am as real as you are!" the colonel's fine, bony hands closed upon her shoulders until she caught her breath with the pain. the water rushed to her eyes, but she kept it from over-brimming. "don't cry!" said a voice within her. "whatever you do, don't cry!" it was like her mother's voice, and she answered instantly. colonel ashendyne, his lips white beneath his grey mustache, shook her violently, so violently that, pushed from her footing, she stumbled and sank to her knee. laydon came up with clenched fists and the colour gone from his face. "let her go, damn you!--" mrs. lane uttered a faint cry and mrs. legrand rose from the sofa. chapter x gilead balm the march winds shook the rusty cedars and tossed the pink peach branches, and carried a fleet of clouds swiftly overhead through the blue aërial sea. they rattled the windows of gilead balm and bent the chimney smoke aslant like streamers. the winds were rough but not cold. now and again they sank into the sunniest of calms, little periods of stillness, small doldrums punctuating the stormiest sentences. then with a whistle, shriller and shriller, they mounted again, tremendously exhilarated, sweeping earth and sky. on the ridge back of gilead balm the buds of the cucumber tree were swelling, the grass beneath was growing green, the ants were out in the sunshine. up in the branches a bluebird was exploring building-sites. hagar came wandering over the ridge. the wind wrapped her old brown dress about her limbs and blew her dark hair into locks and tendrils. luna followed her, but luna in no frolicsome mood. luna was old, old, and to-day dispirited because captain bob had gone to a meeting of democrats in the neighbouring town and had left her behind. depression was writ in every line of luna's body, and an old, experienced weariness and disillusionment in the eye with which she looked askance at a brand-new white butterfly on a brand-new dandelion. hagar stood with her back to the cucumber tree and surveyed the scene. the hills, scurried over by the shadows of the driven clouds, the river--the river winding down to the sea, and the ditch where used to be the canal; and away, away, the white plume of a passenger train. she was mad for travel, for wandering, for the open road; all the world sung to her as with a thousand tongues in the books she read. pictures, cathedrals, statues, cities, snow on mountains, the ocean, deserts, torrid lands, france, spain, italy, england--oh, to go, to go! she would have liked to fling herself on the blowing wind and go with it over land and sea. she looked with hot, sombre eyes at gilead balm. it was the home she had always known and she loved it; it was home,--yes, it was home; but it was not so pleasant at home just now. march--and the colonel had withdrawn her from eglantine, ordered her home, the first of january! january, february, a part of march--and her grandfather still eaten with a cold anger every time he looked at her, and her grandmother, outraged at her suddenly manifested likeness to maria and maria's "ways," almost as bad! aunt serena gave her no sympathy; aunt serena had become almost violent on the subject. if you were going to rebel and disobey, aunt serena told her, if you were going to be forward and almost fast, and rebel and disobey, you needn't look for any sympathy from her! colonel ashendyne had been explicit enough back in january. "when you send about his business that second-rate person you've chosen to entangle yourself with, then and not till then will you be 'gipsy' again to me!" hagar put out her arms to the wind. "i want to go away! i want to go away! i'm tired of it all--tired of living here--" the wind blew past her with its long cry; then it suddenly sank, and there came almost a half-hour of bright calm, warm stillness, astral gold. hagar sat down between the roots of the cucumber tree and took her head within her arms. by degrees, in the sunshine, emotion subsided; she began to think and dream. her mind sent the shuttle far and fast, it touched here and touched there, and in the course of its weaving it touched eglantine, touched and quit and touched again. laydon was still at eglantine. he had been a very satisfactory professor of belles-lettres; mrs. legrand really did not know where, in mid-season, to find such another. he had behaved wretchedly, but the mischief was done, and there was--on consideration--no need to tell the world about it, no especial need, indeed, of proclaiming it at eglantine or to eglantine patrons at large. he was not--mrs. legrand did him that justice--he was not at all a "fast" man or likely to give further trouble upon this line. and he was a good teacher, a good talker, in demand for lectures on cultural subjects before local literary societies, popular and pleasing, a creditable figure among the eglantine faculty. much of this matter was probably hagar's fault. she had made eyes at him, little fool! when the colonel declared his determination,--with no reflections on eglantine, my dear friend!--to bring to an end his granddaughter's formal education, and to take her back to gilead balm where this infatuation would soon disappear,--mrs. legrand saw daylight. she had an interview with colonel ashendyne. he was profoundly contemptuous of what mr. laydon did for a living or where he did it, of whom he taught or what he taught, so long as there was distance between him and an ashendyne. "you know--you know, my dear friend, that i have always had in mind ralph coltsworth!" she had an interview--concert pitch--with laydon. she had a smooth, quiet talk with her teachers. she mentioned casually, to one after another of the girls, that mrs. ashendyne at gilead balm was not as young as she had been, nor as strong, and that colonel ashendyne thought that hagar should be at home with her grandmother. she, mrs. legrand, regretted it, but every girl's duty to her family was paramount. they would miss hagar sadly,--she was a dear girl and a clever girl,--but it seemed right that she should go. hagar went and laydon stayed, and without a word from any principal in the affair, every girl at eglantine knew that mr. laydon had kissed hagar, and that hagar had said that she would love him forever, and that colonel ashendyne was very angry, and was probably keeping hagar on bread and water at that instant, and that it was all very romantic.... and then at eglantine examinations came on, and dreams of easter holiday, and after that of commencement, and mr. laydon taught with an entire correctness and an impassive attitude toward all young ladies; and miss bedford, who had been very bitter at first and had said things, grew amiable again and reopened her browning. the ripple smoothed out as all things smoothed out at eglantine. the place resumed its pristine "sweetness." it was believed among the girls that mr. laydon and hagar "corresponded," but it was not certainly known. mr. laydon wrapped himself in dignity as in a mantle. as for hagar, she had always been rather far away. up on the ridge to-day, hagar's mind dwelt somewhat on eglantine, but not overmuch. it was not precisely eglantine that she was missing. was she missing laydon? certainly, at this period, she would have answered that she was--though, to be perfectly truthful, she might have added, "but i do not think of that all the time--not nearly all the time." she was unhappy, and on occasions her fancy brooded over that night in the eglantine parlour when he read of love, and the flames became jewelled and alive, and she saw the turret on the plain, "by the caper overrooted, by the gourd overscored," and suddenly a warmth and light wrapped them both. the warmth and light certainly still dwelt over that scene and that moment. to a lesser extent it abided over and around the next morning, the west porch, the syringa alley. very strangely, as she was dimly aware, it stretched only thinly over the following days, over even the night of "romeo and juliet." there was there a mixed and wavering light, changing, for the hour that immediately followed,--the hour when she faced her grandfather, and he spoke with knives as he was able to do, when he laid his hands upon her and said untrue and unjust things to laydon,--into an angry glow. that hour was bright and hot like a ruby. how much was love, and how much outraged pride and a burning sense of wrong, she was not skilled to know, nor how much was actual chivalric defence of her partner in iniquity.... the parting interview, when she and laydon, having stood upon their rights, obtained a strange half-hour in the eglantine parlour--strange and stiff, with "of course, if i love you, i'll be faithful," repeated on her part some five times, with, on his part, byronic fervour, volcanic utterances. had he not gone over them to himself afterwards, in his homely, cheerfully commonplace room in the brown cottage outside the eglantine grounds? they had been fine; from the point of view of belles-lettres they could not have been bettered. he felt a glow as he recognized that fact, followed by a mental shot at the great seat of learning where he wished to be. "by george! that's the place i'm fitted for! the man they've got isn't in the same class--".... the parting interview--to the girl on the ridge a cloud seemed to hang over that, a cloud that was here and there rose-flushed, but just as often fading into grey. hagar drove her thoughts back to the first evening and the jewelled fire; that was a clear, fair memory, innocent, rich and sincere. the others had, so strangely, a certain pain and dulness. she had a sturdy power of reaction against the melancholy and the painful, and as to-day she could not, somehow, fix her mind unswervingly upon the one clear hour, and the others perplexed and hurt, her mind at last turned with decision from any contemplation whatsoever of the round of events which lay behind her presence here, in march, upon the ridge behind gilead balm. rising, she left the cucumber tree and walked along the crest of the ridge. the wind was not blowing now, the sunshine was very golden, the little leaves were springing. she crossed the ribbon-like plateau to its northern edge, and stood, looking down that slope. it was somewhat heavily wooded, and in shadow. it fell steeply to a handsbreadth of sward, a purling streamlet, sunken boulders, a wide thicket and a wood beyond. hagar, leaning against a young beech, gazed down the shadowed stillness. her eyebrows lifted at their inner ends, lines came into her forehead, wistful markings about her lips. sometimes when she knew that she was quite alone she spoke aloud to her self. she did this now. "i haven't been here since that day it happened.... six years.... i wonder if he ran away again, or if he stayed there to the end. i wonder where he is now. six years...." the wind rose and blew fiercely, rattling in the thicket and bending every tree; then it sank again. hagar leaned against the trunk of the beech and thought and thought. as a child she had been speculative, everywhere and all the time; with youth had come dreams and imaginations, pushing the older intense querying aside. now of a sudden a leaf was turned. she dreamed and imagined still, but the thinker within her rose a step, gained a foot on the infinite, mounting stair. hagar began to brood upon the state of the world. "black and white stripes like a zebra.... how petty to clothe a man--a boy he was then--like that, mark him and brand him, until through life he sees himself striped black and white like a zebra--on his dying bed, maybe, sees himself like that! vindictive. and the world sees him, too, like that, grotesque and mean and awful, and it cannot cleanse his image in its mind. it is foolish." the wind roared again up and down the ridge. hagar shivered and began to move toward the warmer side; then halted, turned, and came back to the beech. "i'll not go away until the sun comes from under that cloud and the wind drops. it's like leaving him alone in the thicket down there, in the cold and shadow." she waited until the sun came out and the wind dropped, then took her hand from the beech tree and went away. leaving the ridge, she came to the overseer's house, hesitated a moment, then went and knocked at the kitchen door. "come in!" called mrs. green, who was sitting by the kitchen table, in the patch of sunlight before the window, sewing together strips of bright cloth and winding them into balls for a rag carpet. "you, hagar? come right in! well, march is surely going out like a lion!" "it's so windy that the clouds are running like sheep," said hagar. she took a small, split-bottom rocking-chair, drew it near mrs. green, and began to wind carpet rags. "red and blue and grey--it's going to be a beautiful carpet! have you heard from thomasine?" mrs. green rose and took a letter from behind the clock. "read it. she's been to a theatre and the eden musée and brooklyn bridge, and she's going to visit the statue of liberty." hagar read five pages of lined notepaper, all covered with thomasine's pretty, precise writing. "she's having a good time.... i wish i were there, too. i've never seen new york." "never mind! you will one day," said mrs. green. "yes, thomasine's having a good time. jim was born generous." "is she really going to work if he can get her a place?" "yes, child, she is. times seems to me to be gettin' harder right along instead of easier. girls have got to go out in the world and work nowadays, just the same as boys. i don't know as it will hurt them; anyway, they've got to do it. food an' clothes don't ask which sect you belong to." "thomasine ought to have gone to school. girls can go to college now, and thomasine and i both ought to have gone to college." "landsake!" said mrs. green. "ain't you been to college for going on three years?" but hagar shook her head. "no. eglantine wasn't exactly a college. i ought to have gone to a different kind of place. thomasine likes books, too." "yes, she likes them, but she don't like them nothing like as much as you do. but thomasine's a good child and mighty refined. i hope jim'll take pains to get her a place where they are nice people. he means all right, but there! men don't never quite understand." "i wish i could earn money," said hagar. "i wish i could." mrs. green regarded her over her spectacles. "a lot of women have wished that, child. a lot of women have wished it, and then again a lot of women haven't wished it. some would rather do for themselves an' for others an' some would rather be did for, and that's the world. i've noticed it in men, too." "it's in my head all the time. i think mother put it there--" "yes, i know," said mrs. green. "a lot of us have felt that way. but it ain't so easy for women to make money. there's more ways they can't than they can. it's what they call 'sentiment' fights them. sentiment don't mind their being industrious, but it draws the line at their getting money for it. it says it ought to be a free gift. it don't grudge--at least it don't grudge much--a little egg and butter money, but anything more--lord!" she sewed together two strips of blue flannel. "no, it ain't easy. and a woman kind of gets discouraged. she's put her ambition to sleep so often that now with most of them it seems asleep for keeps. them that's industrious don't expect to rise or anything to come of it, and them that's lazy gets lazier. it's a funny world--for women.--there's a lot of brown strips in the basket there." "i'm going to tell you what i've done," said hagar, winding a red ball. "i've written a fairy story--but i don't suppose it will be taken." "i always knew you could write," said mrs. green. "a fairy story! what's it about?" "about fairies and a boy and a girl, and a lovely land they found by going neither north nor south nor east nor west, and what they did there. it seemed to me right good," said hagar wistfully; "but i sent it off a month ago, and i've never heard a word about it." "where did you send it? i never did know," said mrs. green, "how what people writes gets printed and bound. it don't do it just of itself." hagar leaned forward in her rocking-chair. her cheeks were carmine and her eyes soft and bright. "the 'young people's home magazine' offered three prizes for the three best stories--stories that it could publish. and i thought, 'why not i as well as another?'--and so i wrote a fairy story and sent it. the first prize is two hundred dollars, and the second prize is one hundred dollars, and the third is fifty dollars.--if i could get even the third prize, i would be happy." "i should think you would!" exclaimed mrs. green. "fifty dollars! i don't know as i ever saw fifty dollars all in one lump--exceptin' war money. when are you going to hear?" "i don't know. i'm afraid i won't ever hear. i'm afraid it wasn't good enough--not even good enough for them to write to me and say it wouldn't do and tell me why." "well, i wouldn't give up hope," said mrs. green. "it's my motto to carry hope right spang through the grave." she rose, fed the fire, and filled the tea-kettle, then returned to her rag carpet. "you're lookin' a little thin, child. don't let them worry you up at the house." "i'm not," answered hagar sombrely. the light went out of her eyes. she stitched slowly, drawing her thread through with deliberation. mrs. green again looked over her spectacles. "they're mighty fine folk, the ashendynes," she said at last. "they've got old blood and pride for a dozen, and the settest heads! ain't nothin' daunts them, neither satan nor the lord. they're goin' to run their own race.--you're more like your mother, but i wouldn't say you didn't have something of your grandfather in you at times. you've got a dash of coltsworth, too." "haven't i anything of my father at all?" mrs. green, leaning forward into the sunlight, threaded her needle. "i wouldn't be bitter about my father, if i were you. people can be born without a sense of obligation and responsibility just as they can be born without other senses. i suppose it's there somewhere, only, so many other things are atop, it ain't hardly ever stirred. your father's right rich in other things." "he's so poor he couldn't either truly love my mother or truly let her go.--but i didn't mean to talk about him," said hagar. she laid the ball she had been winding in the basket with the other balls and stood up, stretching her young arms above her head. "listen to the wind! i wish it would blow me away, neither north nor south nor east nor west!" "yes, you are like your mother," said mrs. green. "have you got to go? then will you take your grandmother's big knitting-needles back to her for me? and don't you want a winesap?--there's a basket of them behind the door." chapter xi the letters miss serena was playing "silvery waves." hagar, kneeling on the hearth-rug, warmed her hands at the fire and studied the illuminated text over the mantel. "silvery waves" came to an end, and miss serena opened the green music-book at "santa anna's march." "has isham gone for the mail?" asked hagar. "yes. he went an hour ago.--you're hoping, i suppose, for a letter from that dreadful man?" "you know as well as i do," said hagar, "that i gave my word and he gave his to write only once a month. and he isn't a dreadful man. he's just like everybody else." "ha!" said miss serena, and brought her hands down upon the opening chord. hagar, her elbows on her knees, hid her eyes in her hands. within her consciousness juliet was speaking as she had spoken that night upon the stage--spoken in the book--spoken in immortal life, youth, love. not so, she knew with a suddenness and clangour as of a falling city, not so could juliet have spoken! "like everybody else"--was laydon, then, truly, like everybody else?--a horror of weakness and fickleness came over her. was there something direfully wrong with her nature, or was it possible for people simply to be mistaken in such a matter? her head grew tired; she was so unhappy that she wished to creep away and weep and weep.... miss serena, having marched with santa anna, turned a dozen pages and began "the mocking bird. with variations." old miss's step was heard in the hall, very firm and authoritative. in a moment she entered the room, portly, not perceptibly aged, her hair, beneath her cap, hardly more than powdered with grey, still wearing black stuff gowns and white aprons and heelless low shoes over white stockings. hagar rose from the rug and pushed the big chair toward the fire. old miss dropped into it--no, not "dropped"--lowered herself with dignity. "has isham brought the mail?" "no, not yet." "i dreamed last night that there was a letter from medway. serena!" "yes, mother?" "the next text you paint i want you to do one for me. _honour thy father and mother that thy days may be long_--" miss serena turned on the piano-stool. "i'll do it right away, mother. it would be lovely in blue and gold.... you can't say that i haven't honoured father and mother." old miss had drawn out her knitting and now her needles clicked. "no one honours them as they used to be honoured. no one obeys them as they used to obey. to-day children think that they are wiser than their fathers. they set up to use their own judgment until it's a scandal.... it's true you've been better than most, serena. taking you year in and year out, you've obeyed the commandment. it's more than many daughters and grand-daughters that i know have done." her needles clicked again. "yes, serena, you haven't given us much trouble. you were easy to make mind from the beginning." she gave the due praise, but her tone was not without acerbity. it might almost have seemed that such forthright ductility and keeping of the commandment as had been miss serena's had its side of annoyance and satiety. hagar spoke from the window where she stood, her forehead pressed against the glass. "i see isham down the road, by the half-mile cedar." old miss turned the heel of the colonel's sock she was knitting. "things that from the newspaper and my personal observation happen now in the world could not possibly have occurred when i was young. people defying their betters, women deserting their natural sphere, atheists denying hell and saying that the world wasn't made in six days, young girls talking about independence and their own lives--their own lives! ha!" miss serena began to play "the sea in the shell." "we all know how hagar came by her disposition, but i must say it is an unfortunate one! when i was her age, no money could have made me act as she has done." "no money could have made me, either," spoke hagar at the window. "money has nothing to do with it!" said old miss. "at least as far as hagar is concerned, nothing! but fitness, propriety, meekness, and modesty, consultation with those to whom she owes duty, and bowing to what they say--all those have something to do with it! but what could you expect? it was bound to come out some day. from a bush with thorns will come a bush with thorns." "here is isham," said hagar. "if you've said enough for to-day, grandmother, shall i get the mail?" she brought the bag to her grandmother. when the colonel was at home, no one else opened the small leather pouch and distributed its contents; when he was away old miss performed the ceremony. to-day he had mounted selim and ridden to the meeting in the neighbouring town. mrs. ashendyne opened the bag and sorted the mail. there was no great amount of it, but--"i said so! i dreamed it. my dreams often come true. there it is!" "it" was a square letter, quite thick, addressed in a rather striking hand and bearing a foreign stamp and postmark. it was addressed to the colonel, and mrs. ashendyne never opened the colonel's letters--not even when they were from medway. they were not from him very often. the last, and that thin between the fingers, had been in september. this one was so much thicker than that one! old miss gazed at it with greedy eyes. miss serena, too, leaving the piano-stool, came to her mother's side and fingered the letter. "he must have had a lot to write about. from paris.... i used to want to go to paris so much!" "put it on the mantelpiece," said old miss. "it can't be long before the colonel's home." even when it was on the mantel-shelf she still sat looking at it with devouring eyes. "i dreamed it was coming--and there it is!" the remainder of the mail waited under her wrinkled hand. miss serena grew mildly impatient. "what else is there, mother? i'm looking for a letter about those embroidery silks. there it is now, i think!" she drew from her mother's lap an envelope with a printed return address in the upper left-hand corner. "no, it isn't it. 'young people's home magazine.' some advertisement or other--people pay a lot to tell people about things they don't want! _miss hagar ashendyne._ here, hagar! it evidently doesn't know that you are grown up--or think you are! there's my letter, mother,--under the 'dispatch.'" hagar went away with the communication from the "young people's home magazine" in her hand. she went upstairs to her own room. it had been her mother's room. she slept in the four-poster bed on which maria had died, and she curled herself with a book in the corner of the flowered chintz sofa as maria had done before her. she curled herself here to-day, though with the letter, not with a book. the letter lay upon her knees. she looked at it with a fixed countenance, hardly breathing. she had thought herself out of a deal of the conventional and materialized religious ideas of her world--not out of religion but out of conventional religion. she did not often pray now for rewards or benefits, or hiatuses in the common law, or for a salvation external to her own being. but at this moment the past reasserted itself. her lips moved. "o god, let it have been taken! o god, let it have been taken! let me have won the fifty dollars! let me have won the third prize. o god, let it have been taken!" at last, her courage at the sticking-point, she opened the envelope, and unfolded the letter within. the typewritten words swam before her eyes, the "dear madam," the page or two that followed, the "with congratulations, we are faithfully yours." there was an enclosure--a cheque. she touched it with trembling fingers. it said: "pay to miss hagar ashendyne the sum of two hundred dollars." an hour later, the dinner-bell sounding, she went downstairs. the colonel and captain bob were yet at the meeting of democrats. there was to be a public dinner; they would not be home before dusk. the three women ate alone, dilsey waiting. old miss was preoccupied; the letter on the parlour mantelpiece filled her mind. "from paris. in september he was at a place called dinard." miss serena had her mind upon a panel--calla lilies and mignonette--which she was painting for the rectory parlour. as for hagar, she did not talk much, nowadays, at gilead balm. if she were more silent than usual to-day, it passed without notice. only once old miss remarked upon her appearance. "hagar, you've got a dazed look about the eyes. are you feeling badly?" "no, grandmother." "you're not to get ill, child. i shall make a bottle of tansy bitters to-morrow morning. we've trouble enough in this family without your losing colour and getting circles round your eyes." that was love and kindness from old miss. the water came into hagar's eyes. she felt a desire to tell her grandmother and aunt serena about the letter, but in another moment it was gone. her whole inner life was by now secret from them, and this seemed of the inner life. presently, of course, she would deliberately tell them all; she had thought it out and determined that it would be after supper, before uncle bob went to bed and grandfather told her to get the chess-table. it seemed so wonderful a thing to her; she was so awed by it that she could not help the feeling that it would be wonderful to them, too. in the afternoon she put a cape around her, left the home hill and went down the lane, skirted a ploughed field, and, crossing the river road, came immediately to the fringe of sycamores and willows upon the river bank. it was warmer and stiller than it had been in the morning, for the voice of the wind there sounded now the voice of the river; the many boughs above were still against the sky. she made for a great sycamore that she had known from childhood; it had a vast protuberant curving root in whose embrace you could sit as in an armchair. she sat there now and looked at the river that went so swiftly by. it was swollen with the spring rains; it made a deep noise, going by to the distant sea. to hagar its voice to-day was at once solemn and jubilant, strong and stirred from depth to surface. she had with her the letter; how many times she had read it she could not have told. she could have said it by heart, but still she wanted to read it, to touch it, to become aware of meaning under meaning.... she could write, she could tell stories, she could write books.... she could earn money. it was one of the moments of her life: the moment when she knew of her mother's death--the moment when she changed gilead balm for eglantine--the moment by the fire, christmas eve--this moment. she was but eighteen; the right-angled turns in her road of this life had not been many; this was one and a main one. suddenly, to herself, her life achieved purpose, direction. it was as though a rudderless boat had been suddenly mended, or a bewildered helmsman had seen the pole star. she sat in the embrace of the sycamore, her feet lightly resting on the spring earth, her shoulders just touching the pale bark of the tree, her arms folded, her eyes level; poised, recollected as a young brahman, conscious of an expanded space, a deeper time. how long she sat there she did not know; the sun slipped lower, touched her knees with gold. she sighed at last, raised her hands and turned her body. what, perhaps, had roused her was the sound of a horse's hoofs upon the river road. at any rate, she now marked a black horse coming in the distance, down the road, by the speckled sycamores. it came on with a gay sound upon the wind-dried earth, and in its rider she presently recognized her cousin, ralph coltsworth. "what are you doing here?" she asked when he reined in the black horse beside her. "why aren't you at the university with blackstone under your arm?" he dismounted, fastened his horse, and came across to the sycamore root. "it's big enough for two, isn't it?" he asked, and sat down facing her. "you mentioned the university? the university, bless its old heart! doesn't appreciate me." "ralph! have you been expelled?" "suspended." hands behind head, he regarded first the blue sky behind the interlaced bare branches, then the tall and great gnarled trunk, then the brown-clad figure of his cousin, enthroned before him. "the suspense," he said, "is exquisite." "what did you do?" he grimaced. "i don't remember. why talk about it? it wasn't much. cakes and ale--_joie de vivre_--chimes at midnight--same old song." he laughed. "i gather that you've been rusticated, too." hagar winced. "don't!... let's laugh about other things. you'll break your family's hearts at hawk nest." "old miss said in a letter which mother showed me that you were breaking hers. what kind of a fellow is he, hagar?--like me?" hagar looked at him gravely. "not in the least. how long are you going to stay at hawk nest?" "oh, a month! i'm coming to see you every other day." "are you?" "i am. if i could draw i'd like to draw you just as you look now--half marquise, half dryad--sitting before your own front door!" "well, you can't draw," said hagar. "and it's getting cold, and the dryad is going home." "all right," said ralph. "i'm going, too. i've come to spend the night." leading his horse, he walked beside her. in the green lane, a wintry sunset glory over every slope and distant wood, the house between its black cedars rising before them, he halted a moment. "i haven't seen you since august when i rode over to tell gilead balm good-bye. you've changed. you've 'done growed.'" "that may be. i've grown to-day." "since i came?" "no. before you came. for the first time i suppose in your life, grandmother is going to be sorry to see you. she worships you." "she was sorry to see you, too, wasn't she? it's rather nice to be companions out of favour." "oh!" cried hagar. "you are and always were the most provoking twister of the truth! i want to say to you that i do not consider that ours are similar cases! and now, if you please, that is the last word i am going to say to you on such a matter." "all right!" said ralph. "i was curious, of course. but i acknowledge your right to shut me up." they passed through the home gate,--where a boy took his horse,--and went up the hill together. dilsey was lighting the lamps. as they entered the hall miss serena came out of the library--miss serena looking curiously agitated. "dilsey, hasn't miss hagar come in yet?... oh, hagar! i've been searching the place for you--why, ralph! where on earth did you come from? has the university burned down? have you got a holiday?" the library door was ajar. the colonel's voice made itself heard from within. "serena! is that hagar? tell her to come here." the three entered the room together. there was a slight clamour of surprise and greeting from its occupants for ralph, but it died down in the face, as it were, of things of greater importance. "what's the matter?" he asked, bringing up at last by captain bob in the background. "a letter from medway," answered the other. "_shh!_" the evenings falling cold, there was a fire upon the hearth. the reading-lamp was lit; all the room was in a glow that caressed the stiff portraits, the old mahogany and horsehair furniture, the bookcases and the books within. in the smaller of the two great chairs by the hearth sat old miss, preternaturally straight, her hands folded on the black silk apron which she donned in the evening, her still comely face and head rising from the narrow, very fine embroidered collar fastened by an oval brooch in which, in a complicated pattern, was wrought the hair of dead coltsworths and hardens. her face wore a look at once softened and fixed. across from her, in the big chair by the leaf-table, sat colonel ashendyne, a little greyer, a little more hawklike of nose, a little sparer in frame as the years went by, but emphatically not a person to whom could be applied the term "old." there breathed from him still an insolent, determined prime, a timelessness, a pictorial quality as of some gallery masterpiece. with the greyish-amber of his yet plentiful hair, his mustache and imperial, the racer set of his head, his well-shaped jaw and long nervous hands, his fine, long, spare figure and his eye in which a certain bladelike keenness and cynicism warred with native sensuousness, he stayed in the memory like such a canvas. his mood always showed through him, though somewhat cloudily like light through a venetian glass. that it was a mixed and curious mood to-night, hagar felt the moment she was in the room. she did not always like her grandfather, but she usually understood him. she saw the letter that had rested on the mantelpiece, the letter from paris, in his hand, and at once there came over her a curious foreboding, she did not know whether of good or evil. "sit down," said the colonel. "i have something to read to you." for two months and more he had not looked at her without anger in his eyes. to-night the cloud seemed at least partly to have gone by. there was even in the colonel's tone a touch of blandness, of enjoyment of the situation. she sat down, wondering, her eyes upon the letter. on occasion, when she searched her heart through, she found but a shrivelled love for her father. except that he had had half-share in giving her life, she really did not know what she had to love him for. now, however, what power of growth there was in the winter-wrapped root broke the soil. she began to tremble. "what is the matter? is father ill? is he coming home?" "not immediately," said the colonel. "no, he is not ill. he appears to be in his usual health and to exhibit his usual good spirits. your grandmother and i were fortunate in having a son of a disposition so happy that he left all clouds and difficulties, including his own, to other people. at the proper moment he has always been able to find a burden-bearer. no, medway is well, and apparently happy. he has remarried." "remarried!..." it was the colonel's intention to read her the letter--indeed, it carried an inclosure for her--as he had already read it, twice, with varying comment, to the others assembled. but he chose to make first, his own introduction. "you've heard of the cat that always falls on its feet? well, that's your father, gipsy!"--even in the whirl of the moment hagar could not but note that he called her "gipsy."--"that's medway! here's a careless, ungrateful, disobedient son, utterly reckless of his obligations. is he hanged or struck by lightning? not he! he goes happily along--master lucky-dog! he makes a disastrous marriage with a penniless remnant of a broken-down family on some lost coast or other and brings her home, and presently there's a child. does he undertake to support them, stay by his bargain, however poor a one? not he! he's got a tiny income in his own right, left him by his maternal grandfather--just enough, with care, for one! off he goes with that in his pocket and a wealthy friend and, from that day to this, we haven't laid eyes on prince fortunatus! well, what happens? does he come to eating husks with the swine and so at last slink back! not he! he enjoys life; he's free and footloose; he's put his burden on other folk's backs! death comes along and unmakes his marriage. his doting mother and his weak father apparently are prepared to charge themselves with the maintenance of his child. why should he trouble? he doesn't--not in the least! he's got just enough in his own right to let him wander, _en garçon_, over creation. if he took the least care of another he couldn't wander, and he likes to wander. ah, i understand medway, from hair to heel!--what comes of it all? we used to believe in nemesis, but that, like other beliefs, is going by the board. isn't he going to suffer? not at all! he remains the cat that falls, every time, upon its feet.--this, gipsy, is the letter." _my dear father and mother:--as well as i can remember, i was staying at dinard when i last wrote you. i was there because of the presence in that charming place of a lady whose acquaintance i had made, the previous year, at aix-les-bains. from dinard i followed her, in november, to nice, and from nice to italy. i spent a portion of february as her guest in her villa near sorrento, and there matters were brought to a conclusion. i proposed marriage and she accepted. we were married a week ago in rome, in the english church, before a large company, the american minister giving her away. there were matters to be arranged with her banker and lawyer in paris, and so, despite the fact that march is a detestable month in this city, we immediately came on here. later we shall be in brittany, and we talk of norway for the summer._ _the lady whom i have married was the widow of ---- ----, the noted financier and railroad magnate. she is something under my own age, accomplished, attractive, handsome, and possessed of a boundless good nature and a benevolent heart. we understand each other's nature and expect to be happy together. i need hardly tell you that being who she is, she has extreme wealth. if you read the papers--i do not--you may perhaps recall that ----'s will left his millions to her absolutely without condition. there were no children. to close this matter:--she has been generous to a degree in insisting that certain settlements be made--it leaves me with a personal financial independence and assurance of which, of course, i never dreamed.... i have often regretted that i have been able to do so little for you, or for the upkeep of dear old gilead balm. this, in the future, may be rectified. i understand that you have had to raise money upon the place, and i wish you would let me know the amount._ the colonel's eyes darted cold fire. he let the sheet fall for the moment and turned upon hagar, sitting motionless on the ottoman by the fire. "damn your father's impertinence, gipsy!" he said. old miss spoke in a soft and gentle voice. "why do you call it that, colonel? medway always had a better heart than he's ever been given credit for. why shouldn't he help now that he can do so? it's greatly to his credit that he should write that way." "sarah," said the colonel, "you are a soft-hearted--mother!" captain bob spoke from beyond the table. captain bob did not often speak, nor often with especial weight, but he had been pondering this matter for three quarters of an hour, and he had a certain kind of common sense. "i think sarah's right. medway's a curiosity to me, but i've always held that he was born that way. you are, you know; you're born so or you aren't born so. he's pretty consistent. there never was a time when i wouldn't have said that he would come to the fore just as soon as he didn't have to deny himself. now the time's come, and here he is. i think sarah's right. forgive and forget! if he wants to pay his debts--and god knows he owes you and sarah a lot--i'd let him. and as to gipsy there--better late than never! read her what he says." "i am going to," said the colonel sardonically. he read the page that remained, then laid the letter on the table, put his hands behind his head and regarded his granddaughter. "the benevolent parent arrived at last upon the scene--a kindly disposed stepmother with millions--and that teacher of surface culture to young ladies at eglantine! among the three you ought to be quite ideally provided for! i hope medway will like the teacher." old miss came, unexpectedly, to her granddaughter's aid. "don't worry her, colonel! i haven't thought her looking well to-day. give her her letter, and let her go and think it out quietly by herself.--if you like, child, phoebe shall bring you your supper." hagar did like--oh, would like that, thank you, grandmother, very much! she took the letter--it was addressed to her in a woman's hand--which her father had enclosed and which her grandfather now held out to her, and went away, feeling somewhat blindly for the door, leaving the others staring after her. upstairs she lit her lamp and placed it on maria's table, by maria's couch. then, curled there, against the chintz-covered pillows,--they were in a pattern of tulips and roses,--she read the very kind letter which her stepmother had written. chapter xii a meeting the new springs had been so christened about a hundred years before, when a restless pioneer family had moved westward and upward from the old springs, thirty miles away, at the foot of the great forest-clad range. the new springs had been a deer-lick, and apparently, from the number of arrowheads forever being unearthed, a known region to the indians. now the indians were gone, and the deer fast, fast withdrawing. occasionally buck or doe was shot, but for the most part they were phantoms of the past. so with the bear who used to come down to the corncribs in the lonely clearings. bear mountain still rose dark blue, like a wall, and the stark cliff called bear's den caught the first ray of the sun, but the bears themselves were seldom seen. they also were phantoms of the past. but the fish stayed in the mountain streams. there were many streams and many fish,--bright, speckled mountain trout, darting and flashing among pools and cascades, now seen in the sunlight, now lurking by fern-crowned rocks, in the shadow of the dark hemlock spruce. the region was fisherman's paradise. it was almost an all-day's climb from the nearest railway station to the new springs. you took the stage in the first freshness of the morning; you went gaily along for a few miles through a fair grazing country; then the stage began to climb, and it climbed and climbed until you wondered where and when the thing was going to stop. every now and then driver and passengers got down and walked. here it was shady, with wonderful banks of rhododendron, with ferns and overhanging trees, and here it was sunny and hot, with the wood scrub or burned, and the only interesting growth huckleberries and huckleberries and huckleberries, dwarf under the blazing sun, with butterflies flitting over them. up here you had wonderful views; you saw a sea of mountains, tremendous, motionless waves; the orb as it had wrinkled when man and beast and herb were not. at last, somewhere on the long crest, having been told that you must bring luncheon with you and having provided yourself at the railway station with cold bread and fruit and hard-boiled eggs, you had luncheon. it was eaten near a bubbling spring with a water-trough at which the horses were drinking, and eaten with the most tremendous appetite. by now you were convinced that the air up here was blowing through a champagne bottle. luncheon over and the horses rested, on went the stage. quite in the mid-afternoon you began to go down the mountain. somewhat later, in a turn by a buckwheat field waving white in the summer wind, the driver would point with his whip--"right down there--there's the new springs! be there in an hour now." it might be "right down there," but still the new springs was pretty high in the world, away, away above sea level. you always slept at the new springs under blankets, you nearly always had a fire in the evening; even the heat of the midday sun in the dog days was only a dry, delightful warmth. hardly anywhere did the stars shine so brightly, the air was so rare and fine. the new springs boasted no imposing dwellings. there was a hotel, of faint, old, red brick, with a pillared verandah, and there were half a dozen one-story frame cottages, each with a small porch and growing over it its individual vine. honeysuckle clambered over one, and hops over another, and a scarlet bean over a third, and so on. there was an ice-cold sulphur spring where the bubbles were always rising, and around it was built a rustic pavilion. also there existed a much-out-of-repair bowling-alley. "yes, there's the new springs," said the driver, pointing with his whip. "but, lord! it stopped being new a long time ago." there were hardly any passengers to-day; only three in fact: two women and a man. all three were young enough to accomplish with enjoyment a great deal of walking up the long mountain. they had laughed and talked together, though of very nothings as became just-met folk. the birds and the bees and butterflies, the flowers, the air, and the view had been the chief subjects of comment. now, back in the stage for the descent, they held in their hands flowers and ferns and branches covered with ripe huckleberries which they detached from the stems, lifted to their lips and ate. the two women were friends, coming, so they now explained to their fellow-traveller, from a distance to this little out-of-the-way place. the brother of one, it seemed, was a great fisherman and came often. he was not here this year; he was travelling in palestine; but he had advised his sister, who was a little broken down and wanted a quiet place to work in, to come here. she said, jubilantly, that if the air was always going to be like this she was glad she had come. it had seemed funny, at first, to think of coming south for the summer--though her friend was half-southern and didn't mind. "i'm wondering," said the fellow-traveller, with an effect of gallantry, "what in the world the work can be! the very latest thing, i suppose, in fancy-work--or perhaps you do pastels?" elizabeth eden looked at him with her very candid grey eyes. "i'm doing a book of statistics--women and children in industry." "and i," said the other, marie caton, "i teach english to immigrant girls. we are both settlement workers." laydon prided himself on his ability quickly to shift sail. "oh!" he said; "a settlement! that's an idea that hasn't got down to us yet. we are rather lazy, i suppose.--i was reading, though, an excellent article upon settlements in one of the current magazines only the other day. ladies, especially, seem to be going in for that kind of work;--of course, it is, when you think of it, only an extension of their historic function as 'loaf-giver.' charity and woman--they're almost synonymous." "that's a magnificent compliment--or meant to be!" said marie caton. her eyes were dancing. "i wonder what you'd say if i said that charity--charity in your sense--is one of woman's worst weaknesses? thank god settlements, bad as they are, aren't charity!" "look at the view, marie," said elizabeth. "and, oh! feel that wind! isn't it divine?" "winds blow from all four points at oncet up here," said the driver. "ain't many people at the new springs this summer. fish don't bite, or everybody's gone to the world's fair, or something or other! ain't more'n forty people, countin' children." "what kind of people are they? do the women fish, too?" "no, ma'am, not much. it's the husbands and brothers and fathers does the fishing mostly--though there's mrs. josslyn. _she_ fishes. the others just sit around in rocking-chairs, i reckon, and crochet. them that has children looks after them, and them that hasn't listens to them that has. then it's a fine air for the health; fine air and fine water. a lot of tired people come. then there's others get into the habit of meeting friends here. being on the border, as it were, it's convenient for more states than one. colonel ashendyne, for instance,--he comes because general argyle and judge black and he made a pact in the war that if they lived through they'd spend a month together every two years until they died. they've kept it faithful, and because judge black's a great fisherman, and general argyle likes the juleps they make here, and colonel ashendyne knew the place when he was a boy, they pitched on the new springs. when they're here together, they're the three kings.--git up thar, dandy!--this year the colonel's got his daughter and granddaughter with him." laydon nodded, looking animated and handsome. "i know the ashendynes. indeed--but that is neither here nor there. the ashendynes," he explained for the benefit of the two foreigners, "are one of our oldest families, with connections everywhere; not wealthy,--we have very little wealth, you know,--but old, very widespread and honoured. a number of them in the past were really famous. it might be said of the ashendynes as it was said of an english family--'all the sons were brave and all the daughters virtuous.'" "you seem," said marie caton, "to have a profound acquaintance with the best literature." laydon disclaimed it with a modest shake of the head. "oh, only so-so! however, literature is my profession. i have a chair of belles-lettres." "that is interesting," said elizabeth in her friendly voice. "is it your vacation? are you a fisherman, too?" "oh, i fish a little on occasion! but i am not what you call a great fisherman. and i was never at the new springs before." he gave a half-boyish, embarrassed laugh. "to tell the truth, i am one of those persons who've come because another person happens to be here--" "oh!" said marie caton, "i see!" she began presently to hum beneath her breath-- "gin a body meet a body, comin' through the rye--" "oh, what a rough piece of road!" "it ain't often mended," said the driver. "they say times is changing,--there was a fellow through here last summer said they was changing so rapid they made you dizzy,--but there ain't much change gotten round to bear mountain. i remember that identical rut there when i was just a little shaver.--look out, now, on that side, and you'll see the new springs again! we ain't more'n a mile an' a half away now. the ladies often walk up here to see the sunset." "there's one coming up the road now," said marie caton, "in a green gingham and a shady hat." "that," said the driver, "'ll be miss hagar--colonel ashendyne's granddaughter. she and me's great friends. come by here 'most any evenin' and you'll find her sittin' on the big rock there, lookin' away to kingdom come." "stop a minute," spoke laydon, "and let me out here. i know miss ashendyne. i'll wait here to meet her and walk back to the springs with her." he lifted his hat to his fellow-travellers and the stage went on without him. "a nice, clean-looking man," said elizabeth who was inveterate at finding good; "not very original, but then who is?" "i can't answer it," said marie promptly. "now we'll see the girl! she's coming up straight and light, like a right mountain climber." the stage met and passed hagar, she and the driver exchanging "good-evenings!" the stage lumbered on down the slope. "i liked her looks," said marie. "now, they're meeting--" "don't look back." "all right, i won't. i'd like such consideration myself.--betsy, betsy! you are going to get strong enough at the new springs to throw every statistic between canada and mexico!" back beside the big rock at the bend of the road, hagar and laydon met. "there isn't any one to see!" he exclaimed, and would have taken her in his arms. she evaded his grasp, putting out her hand and a light staff which she carried. "no, mr. laydon! wait--wait--" stepping backward to the rock by the wayside she sat down upon it, behind her all the waves of the endless mountains. "i only got your letter yesterday. it had been delayed. if i had had it in time, i should have written to you not to come." "i told you in it," smiled laydon, "that i was not afraid of your grandfather. he can't eat me. the new springs is as much mine to come to as it is his. i had just three days before i go to ---- to see about that opening there. the idea came to me that if i could really see him and talk to him, he might become reconciled. and then, dear little girl! i wanted to see you! i couldn't resist--" as he spoke he moved toward her again. she shook her head and put out again the hand with the staff. "no. that is over.... i came up here to meet you because i wanted to find out--to know--to be certain, at once--" "to find out--to know--to be certain of what?" he smiled. "that i am just the same?--that i love you still?" "to be certain," said hagar, "that i was mistaken.... i have got my certainty." "i wish," said laydon, after a pause, "that i knew what you were driving at. there was something in your last month's letter, and for the matter of that in the month before, that struck cold. have i offended you in any way, hagar?" "you have not been to blame," said hagar. "i don't think either of us was to blame. i think it was an honest mistake. i think we took a passing lightning flash for the sun in heaven.... mr. laydon, that evening in the parlour at eglantine and the morning after, when we walked to the gate, and the road was sunny and lonely and the bells were ringing, oh, then i am sure i loved you--" she drew her hand across brow and eyes. "or, if not you, i loved--love! but after that, oh, steadily after that, it lessened--" "'lessened'!--you mean that you are not in love with me as you were?" "i am not in love with you at all. i was in love with you, or.... i was in love. i am not now." she struck her staff against the rock. "i almost hope i'll never be in love again!" across from a cleared hillside, steep and grassy, came a tinkling of sheep-bells. the sun hung low in the west and the trees cast shadows across the road. a vireo was singing in a walnut tree, a chipmunk ran along a bit of old rail fence. a zephyr brought an odour dank and rich, from the aged forest that hung above. "i think," said laydon, "that you are treating me very badly." "am i? i am sorry.... you mustn't think that i haven't been wretched over all this. but it would be treating you badly, indeed, if i were such a coward as to let it go on." she looked at him oddly. "will you be--are you much hurt?" "i--i--" said laydon. "i do not think you quite conceive what you are saying, nor what such a cool pronunciamento must mean to a man! hurt? yes, i am hurt. my pride--my confidence in you--my assurance that i had your heart and that you had put your life in my keeping--the love that i truly felt for you--" "'felt.'--you loved me, loving you. oh," said hagar, "i feel so old--so old!" "i loved you sincerely. i imperilled my position for you--to a certain extent, all my prospects in life. i had delightful visions of the day when we should be finally together--the home you would make--the love and protection i should give you--" "you are honest," said hagar, "and i like honesty. if i have done you any wrong at all, if i have made life any harder for you, if i have destroyed any ideals, if i have done you the least harm, i very heartily beg your pardon." laydon drew from his pocket a small box and opened it. "i had brought you that--" hagar took it in her hand and looked at it. "it is lovely!" she said. "a diamond and a sapphire! and it isn't going to be wasted. you keep it. sooner or later you'll surely need it. you couldn't have bought a prettier one." she looked up with a soft, bright, almost maternal face. "you don't know how much happier i am having faced it, and said it, and had it over with! and you--i don't believe you are so unhappy! now are you--now are you?" "you have put me in an absurd position. what am i to say--" "to people? nothing--or what you please. i will tell grandfather myself, to-night--and aunt serena. i shall tell them that you have behaved extremely well, and that it was all my fault. or no! i shall tell them that we both found out that we had been mistaken, for i think that that is the truth. and that we have had an explanation, and are now and for always just well-wishers and common friends and nothing more. i am going to try--i think that now maybe i can do it--to get grandfather to treat you properly. there is nobody else here whose business it is, or who knows anything about it--and you have only three days anyway. there are some pleasant people, and you'll meet them. it isn't going to be awkward, indeed, it isn't--" "by george!" said laydon, "if you aren't the coolest.... of course, if this is the way you feel, it may be wisest not to link my life with--naturally a man wants entire love, admiration, and confidence--" "just so," said hagar. "and you'll find some one to feel all that. and now let's walk to the new springs." chapter xiii the new springs laydon's three days spun themselves out to five with a fine smoothness. colonel ashendyne's tone was balm itself to what it might have been. miss serena was willing to discuss with him "in memoriam" and the novels of miss broughton, and ralph coltsworth who was also at the new springs walked with him over the place. laydon was keen enough to see that hagar had appealed to her family, and that ashendyne breeding had rallied to her support. he was at once provoked and soothed; now conscious only of the injury to his healthy self-love, and now of a vague relief that, young as he still was, and with that wonderful future all to make, he really was not tied down. his very vanity would not agree but that the woman with whom he had thought himself in love must be of a superior type and an undeniable charm, but the same vanity conceded gently that to err was mortal, and that there were as good fish in the sea as ever came out of it, and that he certainly had not been fatally smitten--on the whole, she, poor little thing! had probably suffered the most of the two. charming as she was, the glamour for him, he conceded, was gone. _he had come off pretty well, after all._ when the five days were up, he felt positive regret at having to go, and his good-bye to all the ashendynes was cordial. he had already written to mrs. legrand, and, of course, to his mother. he went; the stage took him up the mountain.... "for all i could see--and i watched pretty closely--there didn't anything come of it," remarked marie caton. "on the whole, i am rather glad. now you can't hear the rumble of the stage any longer. he's gone out of the picture.--betsy, stop writing and look at the robin and the chipmunk--" they had the tiniest cottage to themselves--elizabeth's brother being an old-timer here, and his letter to the proprietor procuring them great consideration. there were but two rooms in the cottage. roof and porch, it was sunk in traveller's-joy, and in front sprang a vast walnut tree, and beyond the walnut a span-wide stream purled between mint over a slaty bed. from the porch you looked southward over mountains and mountains, and every evening antares looked redly back at you. now it was morning, and wrens and robins and cat-birds all were singing. elizabeth looked up from the table where she was working. "if i watch chipmunks all morning, i'll never get these textile figures done.--mrs. josslyn said at breakfast that it wasn't a good day for fishing, and that she might wander by." "she's coming now. i see her in the distance. i like molly josslyn." "so do i.--we haven't been here a week and yet we talk as though we had known these people always!" "well, the fact that quite a number knew your brother made for there being no ice to break. and it would be so absurd not to know one another at the new springs! as absurd as if a shipload of people cast on a desert island--here she is. come in, mrs. josslyn!" "thank you, i don't want a chair," said molly josslyn. "you don't mind if i sit on the edge of the porch and dangle my feet, do you? nor if i take off my hat and roll up my sleeves so that i can feel the air on my arms?" "not a bit. take the hairpins out of your hair and let it fly." "i wish that i could cut it off!" said molly viciously. "i will some day! pretty nearly a whole three-quarters of an hour out of every twenty-four gone in brushing and combing and doing up hair! you have to do it in the morning and the middle of the day and the evening. a twentieth part of your whole waking existence!... oh, me!" "what a sigh!" "i've been in rocking-chair-and-gossip land over on the big porch. i've heard everybody--in a petticoat--who wasn't there hanged, drawn, and quartered. of course, i knew they were eager to get at me, and so i was obliging and came away." marie caton laughed. "miss eden here is an optimist of the first water. if you ask her she'll tell you that women are growing beyond that sort of thing--that they don't sting one another half as much as they used to!" "no, i don't think they do," said mrs. josslyn. "i think that's getting apparent nowadays. speaking for myself, fresh air and out of doors and swinging off by one's self seem to make a body more or less charitable. but some of us have got the habit yet. gnat or wasp or hornet or snake, on they go!" she laughed. "over on the porch it wasn't anything but a little cloud of gnats. they weren't really stinging--just getting between your eyes and the blue sky." "but it is growing better--it is, it is!" said elizabeth. "i wouldn't give up that belief for anything." "no, don't!" said molly josslyn. "i like women and like to think well of them." a strong, rosy blonde, she stood up and stretched her arms above her head. "i wish there were a pool somewhere, deep enough to swim in! i'd like to cross the hellespont this morning--swim it and swim back.--christopher is coming to-morrow." "christopher?" "my husband--christopher josslyn. they don't," said mrs. josslyn, "make them any nicer than christopher! christopher was my born mate." and went away with a beamy look, over the grass. marie spoke thoughtfully. "yesterday i heard one of the gnats singing. it sang, 'yes, rather handsome, but don't you find her dreadfully unfeminine?'" "oh, 'feminine'!" said elizabeth, and went on adding figures. marie caton took a book from the generous number ranged around a jar of black-eyed susans on the rustic table in the middle of the porch, but "the chipmunks and the robins get so in the way," she presently dreamily murmured, and then, "you had just as well put up your work. here's judge black and general argyle!" judge black was sixty-two, rather lean than stout, rather short than tall, clean-shaven, with a good-looking countenance below grizzled, close-clipped hair, with a bald spot at the top like a monk's tonsure. general argyle was a much larger and taller man, big-framed, wide-girthed, with a well-set head framed about with shaggy white hair. his countenance was rubicund, his voice mellow. he was sixty-seven, in some respects very old, and in others quite young. usually, at the new springs, colonel ashendyne marched in company, but this morning--"ashendyne's got some family conference or other on hand. it's a day off for fishing, and nobody seems to have a mind for whist or poker, and the papers haven't come. argyle and i are floating around like two lost corks or the babes in the wood--" "so i said," said general argyle richly, "let's stroll over there and say good-morning to tom eden's sister and her attractive friend.--no, no; no chairs! we'll sit here on the steps. as soon as ashendyne appears, we're going after young coltsworth and have a turn in the bowling-alley. must exercise!--that's what i'm always telling black here--" "as if i didn't exercise," said judge black, "more in a day than he does in a week.--what a pretty little porch you've got! books, flowers, needlework--" the general surveyed it, too. "it _is_ pretty. woman's touch--woman's touch!" "that isn't needlework in the basket," said marie demurely. "it's apples. will you have one?" "no, thanks, mistress eve--or yes, on second thoughts, i will! what are you reading?--'the doll's house.' ibsen!" "yes." "i do not know," said the judge, "what young ladies are coming to! i have never had time, nor, i may say, inclination, to read ibsen myself, but of course i know the kind of thing he's responsible for. and, frankly, i should not permit my daughter to read that book!" "oh," said marie, "i don't think myself it is a book for a child!" "she's not a child. she's twenty-six. i should dissuade my wife, too, from reading it." "then your wife," answered marie, "would miss an illuminating piece of literature." elizabeth came in with her serene voice. "don't you think, judge black, that we all acquire a habit of judging a writer, whom we haven't yet had time to study for ourselves, too much in terms of some review or other, or of the mere unthinking, current talk? i think we all do it. i believe when you read ibsen you will feel differently about him." "not i!" said the judge. "i have seen extracts enough. i tell you, miss eden, the age is reading too much of such decadent stuff--" "oh, 'decadent'!" "and it is read, amazingly, by women. i would rather see my wife or daughter with the old dramatists at their worst in their hands than with stuff like that--! overturning all our concepts, criticizing supremacies--i beg your pardon, miss caton, but if you knew how women, nowadays, amaze me--" "stop hectoring, black," said the general mellowly. "she's not in the dock. just so that women stay women, they can fill their heads with what stuff they will--" "exactly!" said judge black. "do you see them staying women?" "women of the past," said elizabeth. "that is woman,--the women of the past. there isn't any other. the eternal feminine--" "i think you are limiting the eternal and denying the universe power to evolve," said elizabeth. "why not eternally the man of the past? why not 'there isn't any other'? why not 'the eternal masculine'? why do you change and grow from age to age?" "i'm not so sure that they do," said marie _sotto voce_. "yes, they do! they grow and become freer always; though i think," said elizabeth painfully, "that they lag in the way they look at women.--well, if you grow, being one half, do you suppose that we are not going to grow, being the other half? and if you think that the principle of growth is not in us, still i shouldn't worry! if we can't grow, we won't grow, and you needn't fash yourselves. on the other hand, if we can, we will--and that is all there is about it. and it wouldn't do you the least harm to read ibsen--nor to get another definition of 'decadent.'" she leaned forward in her chair. "do you see that strip of blanched grass there?--or rather it was blanched yesterday when that board over there was lying upon it and had lain, i don't know how long!--blanched and bent and sicklied over. now look! it is getting colour and standing straight--only beginning, but it is beginning--beginning to be on terms with the sun! well, that grass is woman to-day! the heavy board is being lifted, and that's the change and all the change--and you find it 'pernicious'!" glowing-cheeked, she ceased speaking. judge black's colour, too, had heightened. "my dear miss eden, how did all this begin? i'm the last person in the world to deny to woman a proper freedom. i only ask that it shan't go beyond a certain point--that it shan't threaten the unsettling of a certain divine _status quo_--" "i doubt if a divine _status quo_ is ever unsettled, judge black," said elizabeth. "but there--but there!" she smiled, and she had a very sweet, sunny smile. "i didn't in the least mean to quarrel! tom will have told you that i sometimes use my tongue, and that's the ancient woman, still, isn't it? you see i care for women--being one--a good deal." "let us," said marie caton, "talk about fishing." general argyle chuckled. "black doesn't think you know anything about fishing. he has to acknowledge that mrs. josslyn does--but then he thinks that she's a charming _lusus naturæ_. i like to hear you give it to black. pay him back. he's always giving it to me!" "that's right!" said black. "pitch into me! cover me with obloquy! poor homeless, friendless sailor with the pole star mysteriously shifted from its place--" ... "the homeless, friendless sailor stayed a long time, even with the pole star shifted," remarked marie, forty minutes later. "i certainly didn't mean to be rude," murmured elizabeth, her eyes upon the disappearing guests, now well on their way to the bowling-alley. "they mean you never to resent a thing which they would at once recognize for an impertinence if one of themselves said it to another--" "oh, i shouldn't dub you rude," said the other. "and if he found you uncomfortable for a minute, you made up for it afterwards! you were charming enough, just as charming as if the pole star had never shifted. he went off still in mind the eastern king." "ah," said elizabeth, "that is where all of us are weak. we say the truth, and then we bring in 'charm' and sandpaper it away again! it's going to take another generation, marie!" "another?" said marie. "a dozen, more like!--now i suppose i can read 'the doll's house' in peace.--no, by all that's fated in this place, here comes another guest!" this was ralph coltsworth, but he made no long tarrying; he was as transient as a butterfly. "have you ladies seen hagar ashendyne? i want her to go to walk with me, and i can't find her anywhere." "no, we haven't," said marie. "judge black and general argyle are looking for you to play tenpins." ralph smiled back at her. "let them look! it will do the old codgers good. do you like this place?" "yes, very much. don't you?" "oh, i like it so-so!" said ralph. "it's a good enough lotus land, but there's a lack somehow of wild, exciting adventure. i've been trying to read on the hotel porch. what do you think they're talking about over there? fringed doilies!" "what do you like to do and to talk about?" "live things." he laughed, tossed an apple into the air and caught it again. "i want first to make fifty millions, and then i want to spend fifty millions!" "what an admirable american you are!" "am i not? and i vary it with just wanting to be a cowboy with a six-shooter on a western plain--" he tossed the apple into the air again and, watching it, missed the glimpse of hagar which the other two received. she appeared around the corner of a neighbouring cottage, her face directed toward the traveller's-joy porch, saw coltsworth, wheeled and withdrew. he caught the apple, and after gazing meditatively for a moment in the direction of the tenpin-alley, sighed, and said that he supposed after all he might as well go help the general demolish the army of the potomac. "that's what he calls the pins when they're set up. he takes the biggest bowl and sends it thundering. i believe he thinks for the moment it is a ball from one of his old twenty-pounders. he sees fire and smells smoke. sometimes he demolishes the army of the potomac and sometimes he doesn't; but he never gets discouraged. the next cannon ball will surely do the work!" when he was gone, and had been gone twenty minutes or more, hagar reappeared. she came swiftly across the grass, mounted the porch steps, and stood, with a little deprecating shake of her head for the offered chair, by elizabeth's work-table. "i am not going to stay, thank you! miss eden, somebody told me last night that you had written and published books--" "only text and reference books--compilations," said elizabeth. "i only do that kind of unoriginal work." "yes, but a book is a book," said hagar. "what i wondered was if you wouldn't be good enough to tell me some things. no one in all my connection writes--i don't know any one to go to. i only want to know plain things--a, b, c's of how to manage--" "about a manuscript, you mean?" "yes. i don't know anything. i've read all kinds of useless things and so little useful! for instance," said hagar, "is it wrong to write on both sides of the paper?" chapter xiv new york in august--the ashendynes being back at gilead balm--the "young people's home magazine" published hagar's fairy story. gilead balm was impressed, but not greatly impressed. it had the aristocratic tradition as to writers; no ashendyne had ever needed to be one. there had been editor ashendynes, in the old fiery, early, and mid-century times, but editorship came out naturally from the political stream, and the political, with law, planting, and soldiery, had been the ashendyne stream. the ashendyne mind harked back to early georgian, even to stuart times; when you said "writer" it saw something grub streetish. in addition, hagar's was, of course, only a child's story. the two hundred dollars shrank in impressiveness from being known of after and not before medway ashendyne's letter. but to the eyes of her grandmother and her aunt serena the two hundred dollars was the impressive, the only really impressive, thing. her grandmother advised that it be put in bank. miss serena said that, when she was hagar's age, she had had a watch and chain for more than two years. "what would you like to do with it, gipsy?" asked captain bob. the colour came into hagar's cheeks. "with one half i want to get my two winter dresses and my coat and hat, and with the other half i want to get books." "books!" exclaimed the ashendynes--the colonel was not present. "why, aren't there books enough here?" "they are not the kind of books i need." "nonsense!" said old miss. "get your winter clothes if you wish,--though i am sure that medway means now to send the colonel money for you,--but save the rest. it will come in useful some day. some day, child, you'll be thinking about your marriage clothes." "luna and i came over the hill just now with ralph coltsworth," remarked captain bob cheerfully, apropos of nothing. "he says he's studying hard--means to catch up at the university and be a credit to the family." miss serena was talented in taking offence at small things. she had evolved the watch-and-chain idea and she thought it should have received more consideration. in addition she had the kind of memory that always holds the wrong things. "books! i suppose you mean a kind of books that we certainly don't have many of here!--french novels and darwin and the kind of books those two northern women were reading this summer! even when you were a child--don't you remember, mother?--you had a perfect talent for getting your hands on debasing literature! i supposed you had outgrown it. i'm sure mrs. legrand never encouraged it. a hundred dollars worth of books!--and i suppose you are to choose them! well, if i were father, i'd look over the list first." "aunt serena," said hagar, with a spanish gravity and courtesy, "there are times when i understand the most violent crimes.... yes; i know you don't know what i mean." that was in august. september passed and part of october, and then, late in that month, hagar went to new york. medway ashendyne and his wife were travelling in the east. next year or the year after, they might, medway wrote, be in america. in the meantime, hagar must have advantages. he had not the least idea, he wrote his father, what kind of a person she was. her letters were formal, toneless and colourless to a degree. he hoped she had not inherited--but whatever she had inherited, she was, of course, his daughter, and he must take care of her, being now in a position properly to do so. his wife suggested, for the moment, a winter in new york, properly chaperoned. the money would be forthcoming (there followed a memorandum of a handsome sum placed in bank to the colonel's credit). he could, he knew, leave it to his father and mother to see that she _was_ properly chaperoned. his wife had thought of making certain suggestions, but upon talking it over together, they had come to the conclusion that, at the moment, at least, it would be wisest not to interfere with the gilead balm order and way of life. it was admirably suited, he judged, for a young girl's bringing up--much better than the modern american way of doing things. only in france--or the orient--was the _jeune fille_ really preserved. the colonel wrote to mrs. legrand. mrs. legrand returned one of her long, fluent letters. first of all, congratulations that hagar had come to her senses about mr. laydon, then--"now as to new york--" sylvie was going to new york too,--going to have singing lessons, for she had a very sweet voice, and every one agreed that it would be a mistake not to give it the best training. the problem of how to manage for sylvie had received the following solution, and mrs. legrand proffered it as a possible way to manage for hagar also. there was powhatan maine's family in new york--powhatan himself and bessie and their widowed daughter, mrs. bolt, with her two children. they lived well, "in our quiet, homelike, southern fashion, of course." powhatan was a solid lawyer in a solid firm. sylvie had paid them a visit once before, but of course this year it was a question of her being in new york for months and months. now, ordinarily, the maines would not have heard of such a thing, but this disastrous year, with everybody failing, powhatan had lost heavily in stocks and apparently they were having to economize. at any rate, bessie was willing, just for this year, to take sylvie under her wing and to let her pay for her room and board. the maines' house was a good, big one, and mrs. legrand had very little doubt that, just as a family favour, bessie would be willing to receive hagar on similar terms. bessie would certainly stipulate that the arrangement should be a quiet one, just between themselves, and that hagar, no less than sylvie, should be regarded merely as a young friend and connection, visiting her that winter. this understood, bessie would look after the two as if they were her own. it was fortunate that neither sylvie nor hagar was "out," for the maines were in mourning. but powhatan and bessie knew a great many people, and the two girls would probably see company enough. "you remember bessie, don't you? good-nature itself! nothing pleases her so much as having people happy about her." then, too, there would be rachel bolt. she could take hagar to the theatre and to concerts and the picture galleries and where not. "the maines are all members of st. timothy's--the bishop's nephew's church, you know."--in fine, mrs. legrand advised that the ashendynes write at once to mrs. maine. it was done and hagar's winter soon arranged for. new york!... she had dreamed of great cities, but she had never seen one. the night on the sleeping-car--her first night on any sleeping-car--she stayed awake and watched through the window the flying clouds and the moon and stars between, and, underneath, the fugitive landscape. there was a sense of exaltation, of rushing on with the rushing world. now and again, as the train creaked and swung, and once, as another roared past, there came moments of fascinated terror. rushing train and rushing world, all galloping wildly through the night, and in front, surely some bottomless precipice!... she and sylvie had a section, and though hagar had offered to take the upper berth, it had ended in their having it put back and sleeping together. now hagar sat up in bed, and looked at the sleeping sylvie. there was a dim, blended light, coming from the lamp above and the moonlight night without. sylvie lay, half-uncovered, fast asleep, her hair in glossy braids, her pretty face, shell-tinted, sunk in the pillow, her breast quietly rising and falling. hagar had an intense, impersonal, abstract passion for beauty wherever and in whatever form it resided. now, limbs beneath her, her arms nursing each other, she sat and regarded the sleeping sylvie with a pure, detached admiration. the train roared into a station; she drew the window curtain until it roared out again, then bared the window, and sat and watched the flying dark woods and the silver surface of some wide water. new york--new york--new york.... sylvie was a travelled lady. sylvie had been to new york before. she had been to florida and new orleans and niagara and saratoga. she could play sweetly, not arrogantly,--sylvie was not arrogant, except, perhaps, a little when it came to good looks,--the part of guide and mentor to hagar. in the jersey city station she kept a reassuring touch upon hagar's arm down the long platform to the gate. "the new york ferry has a sign over it. even if they don't meet us, i know how to manage--oh, there's cousin powhatan!" it was a pearl-grey morning, going over, with a mist that was almost a fog hanging upon the water and making unearthly and like a mirage the strange sky-line before them. there were not so many huge, tall buildings as there would be in after years, but they were beginning. the mist drifted, opening and closing, and to the mist was added the fairy garlands and pennants of white steam. out of the luminous haze grew white ferryboats and low barges, and here passed an opalescent shape like a vast moth wing. "a sailboat," said hagar under her breath. the air was chill and clinging. sylvie and captain powhatan maine preferred to sit and talk within the cabin, but hagar remained outside. she stood with her hands lightly touching the rail, her eyes wide. another sailboat slipped past. she turned and looked along the widening water, oceanward, and in a rift of the grey pearl clouds she seemed to see, at a great distance, a looming woman shape. a salt odour filled her nostrils. "oh, the sea! i smell the sea!" the ferryboat glided into its slip, the bell rang, the chains rattled; out resonantly, from the lower deck, passed the great dray horses and heavy wagons; the passengers disembarked; a crowd hurried, in column, toward the elevated. half-bewildered, hagar found herself mounting long flights of steps, passing through a gateway, entering a train, which at once, with a shriek, began to run upon a level with second-story windows. she saw dingy red-brick factory and tenement buildings close, close to her face; fire-escapes and staring windows with squalid or horribly tawdry rooms beyond; on the window-sills spindling, starved plants in ancient, battered tin cans, children's faces, women leaning out, children, children, children--"we have to go quite far uptown," said captain maine. "well, and what do you girls want to see first?" he was a short, stout, gallant gentleman with a fierce grey mustache. sylvie talked for both. hagar nodded her head or commanded a smile when manners seemed to indicate it, but her mind was dealing with a nightmare. "was this--was this new york?" once she turned her head toward their escort, but something told her that if, indeed, she asked the absurd question, he would say, "why, yes! don't you like it?" where were the domes and colonnades? where the cleanness and fairness--where the order and beauty? where was the noble, great city? where were the happy people? she tried to tell herself, first, that all these were there, that this was but a chance ugly street the train was going through ... but they went through it for miles, and she caught glimpses of so many other streets that seemed no better! and then she tried to tell herself, that, after all, she must have known it would be something like this. she had seen before, on a small scale, in a small city, decrepit buildings and decrepit people of all ages. poverty, dirt, and disease.... one city would be like another, only larger.... she must have known. but knowing did not seem to have helped--or perhaps she had never really seen, nor thought it out. she was tired and overstrained; a horror came upon her. she looked through a window into a room hung with a ghastly green, torn, and soiled paper. men and women were working in it, bent over a long table, working haggardly and fast, the shirts of the men, the bodices of the women, open at the throat. another window--a wretched, blowsy woman and a young man with a bloated, unwholesome face;--another, and an old, old woman with a crying child, whom she struck;--then mere blank windows or windows with starveling geraniums in broken pots; and beneath and around and everywhere voices and heavy wheels, and the train rushing on upon its trestle high in the air. something black and cold and hopeless rolled over hagar's soul. it was as though the train were droning, droning, a melancholy text. "hagar! what is the matter? you looked as though you were going to faint!" but hagar wasn't going to faint. she pulled herself together. "no, no! it isn't anything! i was tired, i suppose--" "mustn't faint in new york," said captain maine genially. "you'll get run over if you do." on went the elevated, and the walls of windows grew vaguely better--or the shock of surprise was over--or the armoured being within shouldered away a hampering unhappiness. _new york--new york--new york!_ hope and vision sprang afresh. the windows and the houses in which they were set decidedly bettered. there were distant glimpses of fine buildings, spires of churches, trees that must be in a park. the sun, which had been all morning hidden by clouds, came suddenly forth and flooded the world with october gold. the gulf between what she had dreamed and what she saw perceptibly narrowed, though it was still there and though it still ached. "here we are!" said captain maine, and folded his newspaper. out of the train upon a platform--then more stairs, this time running downward--then a block or two of walking, in the crisp air, then a very different street from those the train had rushed through and very different houses. "here we are!" said their host again, and they mounted a brownstone stoop. a coloured maid opened the door--they passed into a narrow reception hall with the maines' ancestral tall clock standing by the stair and on the opposing walls engravings of southern generals; thence, through folding doors, into a cool, deep parlour and the embrace of mrs. maine. mrs. maine was large and sleepy and quiet and dark, with a nebulous personality. everybody who knew her said that she was extremely good-natured, while a few added that she was too indolent to be irascible, and a fair number called it native kindliness and adduced a range of respectable incidents. no one ever hinted at intellectuality, and she certainly did not shine in conversation; she was not, apparently, socially ambitious, and nobody could be said to take less trouble--and yet a number of people--chiefly southerners dwelling in new york, the more decorative and prosperous of st. timothy's congregation, and powhatan maine's legal associates and acquaintances--exhibited a certain partiality for the maine house. powhatan told good war stories and darky stories; almost always there appeared something good to eat, with a southern name and flavour; and mrs. maine was as unobtrusive and comfortable to get on with as the all-pervasive ether. there was nothing riotous nor especially buoyant in the house; it was rather dim and dull and staid; but people who had begun to visit the maines twenty years before visited still. perhaps most of them were dim and dull and staid themselves. others, perhaps, liked the occasional salt of an environment which was not habitually theirs. the house itself was deep and for a new york dwelling wide, cool, high-ceilinged, and dark, with a gleam of white marble mantel-pieces and antiquated crystal chandeliers, with some ancient virginia furniture and some ebony and walnut abominations of the 'seventies. everything was a little worn, tending toward shabbiness; but a shabbiness not extreme, as yet only comfortable, though with a glance toward a more helpless old age. there were a fair number of books, some portraits and good, time-yellowed engravings. there were four coloured servants beside the nurse for mrs. bolt's children. the children, charley and betty, were pudgy, quaint elves of three and five. charley, the younger, had been blind from birth. that evening, rachel bolt came before bedtime into hagar's room. "may i sit and talk a little while? sylvie and mother and father and dick dabney, who came in a little while ago, are playing duplicate whist." "of course you may. it's such a pleasant room you've given me." rachel turned in her chair and regarded it from wall to wall somewhat cynically. "well, i suppose at the first blush it may seem so. it is, however, rather shabby. we meant to do it over again this year, but times are so tremendously hard that we gave it up with a lot of other things.--what i really came in for was to ask what kind of things and places and people you'd like to see this winter. it's agreed with your grandfather that i'm to take you around." "it is good of you to be willing to do it--" "oh, i'm to be paid for doing it! i'll be spinning my spring outfit and betty's and charley's while we gallivant. but i do not mean"--she laughed--"that it is going to be hard or disagreeable work, unless"--she ended coolly--"you want to go to places where i don't want to go." "to those places," said hagar seriously, "i will go alone." "then," said rachel, "we will get along very well.... what do you want to do anyhow?" "i want to feel around for a while. and i'd like to be shown how to go and how to manage, just at first. but after that i hope you won't mind if i just wander about by myself." she lifted her long arms above her head in a gesture, harassed and restless. "i think there are people to whom solitude means as much as food or sleep." "do you want me to get up and say good-night?" asked rachel promptly. hagar gave a warm little laugh. "not yet awhile. i'm not that greedy and sleepy. i strive to be temperate.... what i want to see first are pictures. i have never seen any--barring those at home and at eglantine." "well, we can go to the metropolitan to-morrow." "i should like that. then i want to hear music. i have never heard any to count." "there'll be concerts and the opera later. the opera is, of course, very expensive, but i understand that your father wants you to do pretty well what you wish. if you don't mind being high up, we can do a good deal of it reasonably." "then let us go high up." "at the moment there aren't even concerts. we might find an organ recital, and on sundays there is music in the park." "day after to-morrow is sunday. i'll go and hear that. then i want to go to the theatre." "most of that will come later, too. are you fond of the theatre?" "i don't know. that is why i want to go--to find out. i have never seen but three plays." "what an awfully lucky person! what were they?" "one--i was a little girl and i went to richmond for two days--was 'maria stuart.' janauschek played it. the next was in the small town near where i live. it was rather terribly done, i believe, and it kept me awake for a week afterward. i was fifteen. it was 'the corsican brothers.' then"--said hagar, "last winter i saw 'romeo and juliet.'... they didn't seem like plays. they seemed like life,--sometimes terrible and sometimes beautiful. i want to go to find out if it is always so." "it isn't," said rachel. "you are inexperienced." "there is a natural history museum here, isn't there?" "yes, a large one." "i want to go there. i want to see malachite and chrysoprase and jade, and the large blue butterflies and the apes up to man and the models of the pterodactyl and dinosaur and a hundred other things." "until now," said rachel, "i have thought that charley and betty had the largest possible appetites. what else?" "am i tiring you?" "not a bit. besides, it is business. i came in here to get a _catalogue raisonné_.--it's rather curious that you should have such a passion for minerals and species and prehistoric things." "is it? well, i have it," said hagar. she put her arms again behind and above her head. "if you want to know all, you must live all--though in honour preferring one to the other." beside her, on the little table by the hearth, was a paper and pencil. suddenly she unlocked her hands, bent over and drew a sheet of paper from under the book with which she had covered it on rachel's entrance. "i was trying to write something when you came in. it is rough and crude,--just the skeleton,--but it's something like what i mean and what i want." she held it out; then, with a deprecating gesture and a shy flush, "if it doesn't bore you--" rachel took it and read. "god that am i, i that am god, mass and motion and psyche inextricably wound! we began not; we end not; and a sole purpose have we,-- intimately to know and exalted to taste, in wisdom and beauty perpetually heightening, the absolute, infinite, one substance who is! in joy to name in wisdom to know all flames and all fruits from that hearth and that tree! to name infinite modes, eternally to name, to name as we grow, and grow as we name. and stars shall arise, beyond stars that we see, and self-knowledge shall come, to me in god, god in me--" rachel put it down. "i'll think that out a little. we've never had any one in the house just like you." "i thought," said hagar, "that sunday morning i would go to the catholic cathedral. if you tell me the way i can find it--" "you are not a catholic?" "no. but i have always wanted so to smell incense.-- "'when from the censer clouds of fragrance roll--'" "you are rich in differences," said rachel. "i hope we'll get along well together. i think we will. is there anything else you can think of at the moment?" "i want to see the salvation army." "that may be managed, if you are willing to take it in detachments." "and i want--oh, i want to go somewhere where i can really see the ocean!" "i'll get father to take us down to brighton beach. it isn't too late, this mild weather." "this morning," said hagar, "we came through--miles, i think--of places where poor people live. i want to see all that again." "it isn't very edifying. but we can get under the wing of some association and do a little mild slumming." "i want to go down there alone and often--" "that," said rachel, "is impossible." "why?" "it is not done. besides, it would be dangerous." "dangerous?" "you might take any disease--or get into any kind of trouble. there are all sorts of traps." "why should they set traps?" "oh, all kinds of horrors happen.--just look at the newspapers! a girl--alone--you'd be subjected to insult." hagar sighed. "i've always been alone. and i don't see that we are not subjected to insult everywhere. i could never feel more insulted than, sometimes, i have been at home." rachel, turning in her chair, darted at her a lightning-like glance of comprehension. "well, that's true enough, though i never heard it put into words before! it's true.... but it remains that with our present conventions, you must have company when you go to see how the other half lives." "the other half?" "it's a term: one half of us doesn't know how the other half lives." "i see," said hagar. "well, i'll be glad when i get out of fractions." both laughed. a kind of soft, friendly brightness prevailed in the third-floor back bedroom. there was no open fire, but they sat on either side of the little squat table, and the reading-lamp with a yellowy globe did the job of a common luminary. the light reached out to each and linked them together. rachel bolt was small and dark and slender. much of the time she passed for a cynical and rather melancholy young woman; then, occasionally, sheaths parted like opening wings and something showed that was vivid and deep and duskily luminous. the next moment the rift might close, but there had been received an impression of the inward depths. she had been married at eighteen, her first child born a year later. she was now twenty-five, and had been a widow for two years. in worldly wisdom and _savoir faire_, and in several emotional experiences she was well ahead of hagar, but in other respects the brain ways of the younger in years were deeper and older. whatever differences, their planes were near enough for a comprehension that, continually deepening, passed before long into the country of lasting friendship. chapter xv looking for thomasine when hagar had been ten days in new york, she went early one afternoon to find thomasine. she had the address, and upon showing it to rachel the latter had pronounced it "poor but respectable," adding, "are you sure you ought to go alone?" "'ought to go alone?--ought to go alone?'--i am so tired of that phrase 'ought to go alone'!" said hagar. "at gilead balm they said, 'don't go beyond the mile-and-a-half cedar!' you say yourself that i couldn't get lost, and i was brought up with thomasine, and jim and his wife are perfectly good people." downstairs, as she was passing the parlour doors, mrs. maine called to her from within. "where are you going, dear?" hagar entered and explained. "that is very nice of you to look her up, but do you think you ought to go alone?" hagar explained that, too; whereupon mrs. maine patted her hand and told her to trot along, but always to be careful! as the front door closed after her, her hostess resumed her box of chocolates and the baby sacque she was knitting. "it isn't as though i had promised to give her, or to make rachel give her, continual chaperonage! to look after her in a general way is all that could possibly be expected. besides, it's foolish always to be nervous about people!" she took a chocolate cream and began the sleeve. "medway ashendyne, with all those millions, isn't doing very much for her. she couldn't dress more plainly if she tried. i wonder what he means to do with her eventually. perhaps he doesn't mean anything--just to let things drift...." hagar knew how to orientate herself very well. she took the surface car going in the right direction, and when she had travelled some distance she left it and took a cross-town car. this brought her to the block she wished. out of the jingling car, across a street of push-carts and drays and hurrying, dodging people, she stood upon the broken and littered pavement a moment to look about her. the houses were tall and dreary; once good, a house to a family, but now not so good, and several families to a house. the corners were occupied by larger buildings, unadorned and jerry-built and ugly, each with a high-sounding name, each containing "flats";--flats and flats and flats, each with its ground floor occupied by small stores--unprosperous greengrocer, unprosperous butcher, poor chemist, prosperous saloon, and what not. it was a grimy, chilly grey afternoon with more than a hint of the approaching winter. all voices seemed raw and all colours cold. among the children playing on the pavement and in areaways or on high, broken, entrance steps, there sounded more crying than laughing. dirty papers were blown up and down; there floated an odour of stale beer; an old-clothes man went by, ringing a bell and crying harshly, "old clothes! old clothes! got any rags?" hagar stood with contracted brows. she shivered a little. "why, thomasine should not live in a place like this!" she looked about her. "who should?" she had a vision of thomasine playing ring-around-a-rosy, thomasine looking for four-leaved clovers. but when she climbed to the third floor of one of the corner buildings, and, standing in the perpetual twilight of the landing-way, rang the bell of a door from which much of the paint had been scarred, she found that thomasine did not live there. the door was opened by a gaunt, raw-boned woman. "thomasine dale? did she live with marietta green and jim?" "yes. she is jim's niece." "well, she don't live here now." "may i see jim or his wife?" "they don't live here neither." the door across the landing opened, and a stout woman in a checked apron looked out. "was you looking for the greens?" "yes, please." "if you'll come in and set a minute, i'll tell you about them. i've got asthmy, and there's an awful draught comes up those steps." hagar sat down in an orange plush rocking-chair and the stout woman, having removed her apron, took the green and purple sofa. "there now! i meant to mend that carpet!"--and she covered the hole with the sole of her shoe. "i am as fond as i can be of the greens! jim's a good man, and if marietta wa'n't so delicate she'd manage better. the children are nice youngsters, too.... well, i'm sorry they've gone, but jim hurt his arm down in the works and marietta couldn't seem to get strong again after the last baby, and everybody's cutting wages when they ain't turning men off short, and jim's turn come, for all he's always been good and sober and a good workman. first the works hurt his arm, and then it said that he wasn't so useful now; and then it said that it had seen for a long time that it would have to economize, and the men could choose between cut wages or no wages at all, and jim was one of them it said it to. so he had to take the cut." she began to cough and wheeze and then to pant for breath. "did you--ever have--the asthmy? i'm--going off--with it--some day. glass of water? yes--next room--cup by the sink.... thank you--child! you're real helpful.--what was i saying? oh, yes--'t was jim and marietta and the children and thomasine who had to economize." "where are they gone?" asked hagar sorrowfully. "it isn't so awful far from here. i'll give you the address. the car at the corner'll take you there pretty quick. but it ain't nowhere near so nice a neighbourhood or a house as this." she regarded her plush furniture and nottingham curtains with pride. "thomasine's an awful nice girl." "yes," said hagar. the tears came into her eyes. "i love thomasine. i oughtn't to have waited so long before coming to find her, but i never thought of all this. it never entered my head." "she's got an awful good place, for a woman--nine dollars a week. she could have kept a room here, but she's awful fond of jim and marietta and the children, and she went with them. i reckon she'll help right sharp this winter--'less'n the stores take to cutting too." on the street-car, the new address in her hand, hagar considered poverty. it was there in person to illustrate, in an opposite row of anæmic, anxious faces and forms none too warmly clad; it was there on the street, going up and down; it was there in the houses that were so gaunt, defaced, and ugly. the very november air, cold and querulous, seemed poor. her mind was sorting and comparing impressions. she had known, when she came to think of it, a good deal of poverty, and a number of poor people. in the first place, she had been brought up on the tradition of the poverty after the war--but that had been heroic, exalted poverty, in which all shared, and where they kept the amenities. then, when that had passed, there were the steadygoing poor people in the country--those who had always been poor and apparently always would be so. but it did not seem to hurt so in the country, and certainly it was not so ugly. often it was not ugly at all. of course, everybody at home, in a cheerful tone of voice, called the greens poor people. the greens were poor,--car'line and isham were poor;--she remembered, with a curious vividness, the poor woman on the canal boat, the summer her mother died. she had even heard the colonel say that he--the colonel--was poor. of course, she had seen hosts of poor people. and yet until to-day, or rather, to be more precise, until the morning of the ferry and the elevated, she had never generalized poverty, never conceived it abstractly. poverty! what was poverty? why was poverty? was it a constant; was it going to last? if so, why? if it wasn't going to last, what was going to make things better? it was desirable that things should be better--oh, desirable, desirable! the slave of beauty and the slave of righteousness in hagar's soul rose together and looked upon the dump-heap and the shards that were thrown upon it. "it shouldn't be. there is no need and no sense--" four or five summers past, visiting with miss serena some coltsworth or ashendyne house in the country, and exploring, as she always did almost at once, the bookcases, she had come upon--tucked away in the extreme shadow of a shadowy shelf--a copy of william morris's "news from nowhere." hagar had long since come to the conviction that her taste was radically different from that of most coltsworths and ashendynes. where they tucked away, she drew forth. she had read "news from nowhere" upon that visit. but she had read it hurriedly, amid distractions, and she was much younger then than now. it had left with her chiefly an impression of a certain kind of haunting, other-world beauty. she remembered the boy and the girl in the tobacco-shop, playing merchant, and the cherry trees in the streets, and the cottage of ellen, and ellen herself, and the harvest home. why it was written or what it was trying to show, she had not felt then with any clearness. now, somehow, the book came back to her. "that was what 'news from nowhere' was trying to show. that people might work, work well and enough, and yet there be for all beauty and comfort and leisure and friendliness.... i'll see if i can find that book and i'll read it again." the car stopped at the street-corner indicated. when she was out upon the pavement, and again stood a moment to look about her, she was frightened. this was the region of the fire-escapes, zig-zagging down the faces of the buildings, the ramshackle buildings. it was the region of the black windows, and the women leaning out, and the wan children. this street was narrower than the other, grimier and more untidy, more crowded, colder, and the voice of it never died. it rose to a clamour, it sank to a murmur, but it never vanished. usually it kept a strident midway, idle and fretful as the interminable blown litter of the street. hagar drew a pained breath. "thomasine's got no business living here--nor jim and marietta and the children either!" but it seemed, when she mounted a dirty, narrow stair and made enquiries of a person she met atop,--it seemed that they didn't live there. "they moved out a week ago. the man was in some damned works or other, and it threw him on the scrap-heap with about a thousand more. then the place where the girl worked thought scrap-heaps were so pretty that it started one, too. then he heard a report of work to be had over in new jersey--as if, if this is the frying-pan, that ain't the fire!--and so they left this state. no; they didn't leave any address. working people's address this year is 'tramping it. care of the unemployed.' sometimes, it's just plain 'gone under.'" the man looked at hagar, and hagar looked at the man. she thought that he had the angriest, gloomiest eyes she had ever seen, and yet they were not wicked eyes. they blazed out of the dark entryway at her, but for all their coal-like glowing they were what she denominated far-away-seeing eyes. they seemed to look through her at something big and black beyond. "have you seen the evening paper?" he asked abruptly. "no, i have not. why?" "i wanted to see.... this morning's had an account of three anarchist bits-of-business. a bomb in barcelona, a bomb in milan, and a bomb in paris.--no, i can't tell you anything more about your friends. yes, i'm sorry. it's a hard world. but there's a better time coming." grieving and bewildered, she came out upon the pavement. why hadn't thomasine--why hadn't jim let them know? if there wasn't anything at home for jim to do,--and she agreed that there wasn't--nor for thomasine, still they could all have stayed there and waited for a while until jim's arm and hard times got better. she tried to put them all--there were six--in the overseer's house with mrs. green. it would be crowded, but.... the overseer's house was her grandfather's; mrs. green had had it, rent free, since william green's death, and most of her cornmeal and flour came from the colonel's hand. hagar tried to say to herself that her grandfather would be glad to see jim and marietta and thomasine and the three children there staying with mrs. green as long as was necessary; that if it were crowded in the overseer's house her grandmother would be glad to have thomasine and perhaps one of the children stay in the big house. it would not work. it came to her too, that perhaps jim and marietta and thomasine might not be so fond of coming and sitting down on mrs. green and saying, "we've failed." but couldn't they work in the country? jim was a mechanic; he didn't know anything about farming--and the farmers were having a hard time, too. hagar's head began to ache. then the travelling expenses--she tried to count those up. if they couldn't pay the rent, how could they pay for six to go down to virginia--and the children's clothes, and the food and everything?... was there no one who could send them money? mrs. green couldn't, she knew--and thomasine's mother and father were very poor, and corker wasn't doing well, and maggie was at home nursing their mother whose spine was bad.... gilead balm had a kindly feeling for the greens, she knew that. william green had been a good overseer, and he had fought in the regiment the colonel led. her grandfather--if he knew how bad it was, if he could see these places where they had been living, if he could have heard the woman in the check apron and the man with the eyes--he might send jim twenty-five dollars, he might even send him fifty dollars, though she doubted if he could do that much. she herself had twenty dollars left of that august two hundred. she had been saving it for christmas presents for gilead balm, but now she was going to send it to thomasine--just as soon as she knew where to send it. she walked on for a little way in a hopeful glow, and then the bottom dropped out of that, too. it wouldn't go far or do much. it was too small a cloth to wrap a giant in. jim and thomasine's unemployment--jim's injured arm, hurt in the works, marietta weak and worn, trying to care for a little baby.... other mariettas, jims, thomasines, thousands and thousands of them.... they were willing and wanting to work. they were not lazy. jim hadn't injured his own arm. apparently there had to be babies.... unemployment, and no one to help when help was needed.... it needed a giant. "all of us together could do it--all of us together." she was cold, even under her warm jacket and with her thick gloves. the street looked horribly cold, but she did not notice many jackets, and no gloves. with all her beauty-loving nature she hated the squalid; nothing so depressed her. she had not seen it before so verily itself; in the country it was apt to have a draping and setting of beauty; even a pigpen might be environed by blossoming fruit trees. here squalor environed squalor, ugliness ugliness. on a step before her sat a forlorn little girl of eight or nine, taking care of a large baby wrapped in a shawl. hagar stopped and spoke. "are you cold?" the child shook her head. "are you hungry?" she shook it still; then suddenly broke forth volubly in a strange tongue. she was telling her something, but what could not be made out. the door behind opened, and elizabeth eden came forth. she spoke to the child kindly, in her own language, with a caressing touch upon the shoulder. the little girl nodded, gathered up the baby, and went into the house. "miss eden--" elizabeth turned. "what--why, miss ashendyne! did you drop out of the sky? what on earth are you doing in omega street?" "i came down here to find some people whom i know. i am visiting in new york. oh, i _am_ glad to see you!" "we can't stand here. the settlement is just two blocks away. can't you come with me and have a cup of tea? where are you staying?" hagar told her, adding, "i must be back before dark or they won't let me come out again by myself." "it isn't quite four. i'll put you on the elevated in plenty of time.--what people were you looking for?" hagar told her as they walked. elizabeth listened, knew nothing of them, but said gravely that it was a common lot nowadays. "i have seen many hard winters, but this promises to be one of the worst." she advised writing guardedly to mrs. green, until she found out how thomasine and jim wrote themselves. "they may not be telling her how bad it is, and if she cannot help, it is right that they shouldn't. i believe, too, in being hopeful. if they're sturdy, intelligent people, they'll weather the gale somehow, barring accidents. it's the miserable accidents--the strained arm, your marietta's illness after the baby--things like that that tip the scales against them. well, cheer up, child! you may hear that they've got work and are happy.--this is the settlement." three old residences, stranded long years ago when "fashionable society" moved away, first street by street and at last mile by mile, formed the settlement. made one building by archways cut through, grave and plain, with a dignity of good woodwork and polished brass and fit furniture sparely placed, the house had the poise and force of a galleon caught and held intact in the arms of some sargasso sea. all around it were wrecks of many natures, strangled, pinned down, and disintegrating, but it had not disintegrated. one use and custom had left it, but another had passed in with a nobler plan. hagar ashendyne went through the place, wondering, saw the workrooms, the classrooms, the assembly-room, the dwelling-rooms, austere, with a quiet goodness and fairness, of the people who dwelled there and made the heart of the place. "it is not like a convent," she said in a low voice; "at least, i imagine it is not--and yet--" "oh, the two ideas have a point of contact!" answered elizabeth cheerfully. "only, here, the emphasis is laid on action." she met several people whom she thought she would like to meet again, and at the last minute came in marie caton. it was marie, who, at five o'clock, put her on the elevated that would take her home in twenty minutes. marie had met the maines--"i'm southern, too, you know,"--and she promised to come to see hagar, and she said that hagar and rachel bolt must come, some sunday afternoon, to the settlement. "that is chiefly when we see our personal friends." that night hagar wrote to her grandmother and to mrs. green. in four days time she heard from the latter. yes, jim and all of them and thomasine had moved to new jersey. times were hard, jim said, and work was slack, and they thought they could better themselves. sure enough he had got a right good job. they were living where it wasn't so crowded as it was in new york, almost in the country, right by a big mill. there was a row of houses, just alike, thomasine said, and they were living in one of them. there wasn't any yard, but you could walk into the country and see the woods, and thomasine said the sky was wonderful at night, all red from a furnace. thomasine hadn't got work yet, but she thought that she would. there was a place where they made silk into ribbons, and she thought there'd be a place for her there. marietta was better, and the children were fine. mrs. green sent the address--and gilead balm certainly missed hagar. old miss wrote an explanatory letter. hagar knew or ought to know that they had little or nothing but the place. the colonel had been in debt, but medway had cleared that off, as it was right that he should, now that he was able to do it; right and kind. but as for ready money--country people never had any ready money, she knew that perfectly well. medway was now, old miss supposed, a rich man, but no one knew exactly how rich, and at any rate it was his money, and living abroad as he did was, of course, expensive. he couldn't justly be expected to do much more than he was doing. "as for your having money to give the greens, you haven't any, child! medway has told your grandfather that he wants you from now on to have every proper advantage, but that he does not believe in the way young people to-day squander money, nor does he want you to depart from what you have been taught at gilead balm. he wants you to remain modest in your wants, as every woman should be. the money he has put in your grandfather's hands for you this year is to pay for this winter in new york and for wherever you go next summer. he never meant it to be diverted to helping people without any claim upon him that are out of employment. your grandfather won't hear to any such thing as you propose. he says your idea of coming home and using the money you are costing in new york is preposterous. the money isn't your money; it's your father's money, to be used as he, and not as you, direct.... of course, it's a hard year, and of course, there are people suffering. there always are. but jim's a man and can get work, and thomasine oughtn't to have gone away from home anyhow. they aren't starving, child."--so old miss, and more to the same effect, and then, at the end, a postscript. "i had a ten-dollar gold-piece that's been lying by me a long time, and i've taken it to mary green and told her to send it to jim. she seemed surprised, and from what she says and what his letter says, i don't think they are any worse off than most people. you're young, and your feelings run away with you." hagar wrote a long, loving letter to thomasine, and sent her the twenty dollars. thomasine returned her effusive, pretty thanks, showed that she was glad, and glad enough to have the help, but insisted that she should regard it as a loan. she acknowledged that jim and she, and therefore marietta and the babies, had been pretty hard up. but things were better, she hopefully said. she had a place and jim had a place. his arm was about well, and on the whole, they liked new jersey, "though it isn't as interesting, of course, as new york." chapter xvi the maines it was the year of the assassination of sadi carnot in france, of the trial of emma goldman in new york, of much "hellish anarchist activity." it was a year of growth in the american federation of labour. it was a year of socialist growth. it was a year of strikes--mine strikes, railway strikes, other strikes, lehigh and pullman and cripple creek. it was the year of the army of coxey. it was the year of the unemployed and of relief agencies. it was the year when the phrase "a living wage" received currency. in the winter of the spanish war had not been, the boer war had not been, the russo-japanese war had not been. the war between japan and china was on the eve of being; people talked of matabeleland, and cecil rhodes was chief in south africa. hawaii was in process of being annexed. in the winter of it was the wilson tariff bill, and bimetallism, and mr. gladstone and home rule, and the mafia in sicily, and the a.p.a., and the bicycle, and queen liliuokalani, and the causes of strikes and of panics, and electric traction, and the romances of sienkiewicz and "tess of the d'urbervilles" and "the prisoner of zenda" and "the heavenly twins." mr. howells was writing "letters of an altrurian traveller"; george meredith had published "lord ormont and his aminta." stevenson, at vailima, was considering "weir of hermiston." in occurred the first voting of women in new zealand. it saw the opening of a woman's congress in berlin. in new york a woman suffrage amendment was strongly advocated before a constitutional convention. there was more talk than usual of the unrest among women, more editorials than usual upon the phenomenon, more magazine articles. but the bulk of the talk and the editorials and the magazine articles had to do with the business failures and the unemployed and the strikes. the beating of the waves of the year was not loudly heard in the maines' long, high-ceilinged parlour. the law droned on, bad years with good. powhatan had speculated and made his little losses. his philosophy this winter was pessimistic, and the household "economized." but the table was still good and plentiful, and the coloured servants, who were fond of him and he of them, smiled and bobbed, and he had not felt it necessary to change his brand of cigars, and the same old people came in the evening. mrs. maine never read the newspapers. she rarely read anything, though once in a while she took up an old favourite of her youth, and placidly dipped now into it and now into her box of chocolates. powhatan kept her supplied with the chocolates. twice a week, when he came in at five o'clock, he produced out of his overcoat pocket a glazed, white, two-pound box:--"chocolates, bessie! catch!" rachel bolt was more alert to the world surge, but to her, too, it must come a little muted through the family atmosphere. her swiftest vibrations were upon other lines, curious inner, personal revolts and rebellions, sometimes consumed below the crust, sometimes breaking forth with a flare and rain of words as of lava. the family and the people who habitually came to the house were used to rachel's way of talking; as long as she did nothing _outré_,--and she did not,--it was no more to them than a painted volcano. as for sylvie--sylvie was as sweet and likeable as sugar, but not interested in anything outside of the porcelain world-dish that held her. she liked her clothes this winter, and the young men who came to the house, and she dutifully practised her voice, and enjoyed the shops and the plays, and wondered a good deal if she was or was not in love with jack carter, who was an interne in one of the hospitals, and who sent her every week six of the new roses called american beauties. she had other, more distant relatives in new york, people of wealth who presently took her up. she was with them and away from the maines a good deal, and, on the whole, hagar saw not much of sylvie this winter. she and rachel were more together. almost every evening, at the maines', people came in--old southern friends, living in new york, or here on business or other occasions, young men and women, fond of rachel, acceptable fellow-sheep from the fold of st. timothy, now and then the rector himself, now and then some young man, southern, with a letter of introduction. sometimes there were but one or two besides the family, sometimes seven or eight. there was little or no formal entertainment, but this kind of thing always. each day at dusk hagar put on one of the two half-festive gowns which, at the last moment, miss serena had insisted she must have. both were simplicity itself, both of some soft, crêpy stuff, one dark bronze and one dark green. they were made with the large puffed sleeves of the period, and the throat slightly low and square. "country-made, but somehow just right," rachel judged. "you aren't any more adorned than the leaf of a tree, and yet you might walk, just as you are, into cæsar's palace." usually by half-past ten visitors were gone, lights downstairs were out. powhatan and bessie believed in early to bed and late to rise. upstairs, in her bedroom on the third floor, hagar shook out and hung in the closet the bronze or green dress, as the case might be, put on her gown and her red wrapper, braided her hair, pushed the couch well beneath the light, curled herself up on it under the eider-down quilt, and, tablet against knee, began to write.... the short story--it was that she dreamed and wrote and polished. two currents of thought and aspiration ran side by side. "to earn money--to make my own living--to be able to help"; and "to make this idea, that i think is beautiful, come forth and grow.--to get this thing right--to make this dream show clear--to do it, to do it!--to create!" the latter current was the most powerful. the former would sooner or later accomplish its end; it would turn the mill-wheel and be content. but the latter--never, never would it be satisfied; never would it say, "it is accomplished." always there would be the further dream, always the necessity to make that, too, come clear. there were other currents, more or less strong, desire of fame, desire to be known, desire to excel, and others; but the first two were the great currents. since march and the fairy story she had written other stories, four or five in all. she had sent them to magazines, and all but one had come back. that one she had sent immediately after her search for thomasine. in a month she had word that it was taken, and that, on publication, she would be paid fifty dollars. the letter was like manna, she went about all day with a rapt face. to write--to write--to write stories like hawthorne, like poe.... she had been six weeks in new york. that night, when she had worked for an hour over one half-page, and then, the light out, had sat for a long while in the window looking at the winter stars above the city roofs, she could not sleep when she went to bed, but lay, straight and still, half-thinking, half-dreaming. a pageant of impressions, waves of repeated, altered, rearranged contacts drove through her mind. the pictures and marbles of the metropolitan, the sculptures and casts of sculptures which she cared for more than for the paintings, those of the latter which she loved--the music that she had heard, the plays she had seen, the park and the slow, interminable afternoon parade of carriages watched from a bench beneath the trees, fifth avenue, broadway, the hurrying crowds, the rush and roar, tramp and clangour, the colour and bravura--omega street, the settlement, a sunday afternoon there, discussions to which she had listened, a mass meeting of strikers which, powhatan having taken her downtown to show her the stock exchange and trinity, they had inadvertently fringed, and from which, with epithets of disapproval, he had hurried her away;--uptown once more and the florists' windows and the wheels on the asphalt, a sunday morning at st. timothy's with the stained glass and the bishop's nephew intoning;--again the theatres, a gilbert and sullivan opera, the "merchant of venice," a play of pinero's; again the pictures and the statues, the cast of the great venus, the cast of niobe, of the diana with the hound, of apollo and hermes; the pictures, rembrandts and vandykes, and certain landscapes, and a form that she liked, firelit and vague, blind nydia moving through ruining pompeii, and bastien lepage's joan of arc; then the park again, and the great trees above the mall, and people, people, people!--all made a vibrating whirl, vast, many-hued, and with strange harmonies. she lay until it passed and sank like the multi-coloured sand of the desert. when at last she slept, she had a curious dream. she and her mother were alone on an island with palm trees. she was used to being with her mother in dreams. she had for the memory of her mother so passionate a loyalty; the figure of maria, young, it always seemed to her, as herself, so kept abreast with her inner life that it was but a naturalness that she should be there in the dream mind, too. she was there now, on the island with the palm trees, and the two sat and looked at the sea, which was very blue. then, right out of the lonely sea, there grew a crowded wharf, with a white steamship and people going to it and coming from it. her father came from it, dressed in white with a white hat like a helmet, and then suddenly there was no wharf nor ship, but they were in a curious street of low, pale-coloured houses--her father and her mother and herself and the palm trees. "now we are all going to be happy together," she said; but "no," said her mother, "wait until the procession passes." then there was a procession, and they were all women, and at first they all had the face and eyes of bastien lepage's joan of arc, but then that faded, and they were simply many women, but each of them carried a blossoming bough. she saw faces that she knew among them, and she saw women that she thought belonged to the middle ages, and greek women, and egyptians, and savages. they went by for a long time, and then, with a turn of the hand, the dream changed, and they were all in a courtyard with a well and more palm trees, and people coming and going, and they were eating and drinking, and there was a third woman with them whom her father called anna. she had a string of jewels, and she tried them, first on hagar and then on maria; but maria had a knife and suddenly she struck at her father with it. she cut him across both wrists and the blood flowed.--hagar wakened and sat up in bed, shivering. her father's face was still plain against her eyeballs--bearded and handsome, with red in his cheeks and the hat like a helmet. during christmas week ralph coltsworth appeared. he had to spend his holidays somewhere, he said. hawk nest was dull and he didn't like gilead balm without hagar. "ralph, why don't you study?" "i do study. i'm a star student. only i don't like the law. i'm going to do a little more convincing myself and the family, and then i'm going to chuck it! i've got a little money to start things with. i want to go in with a broker i know." "what do you want to do that for?" "oh, because!... there are chances, if you've got the feeling in your finger tips!... don't you know, gipsy, that something like that is the career for a man like me? if i had been my father, i could have waved my sword and gone charging down history--and if i'd been my grandfather, i could have poured out whig eloquence from every stump in the country and looked olympian and been carried in procession (i don't like politics now; it's an entirely different thing);--and if i'd been my great-grandfather, i could have filibustered or settled the southwest; and back of that i could have done almost any old thing--come over with the adventurers, seized a continent, shared england with the normans, marauded with the vikings, whiled through europe with attila, done almost anything and come out with a name and my arms full! now you can't conquer things like that, but, by george, you can corner things!" "what do you mean?--that you want to become a rich man?" "that's what most of those others wanted. yes, riches and power." "i was reading the other day a magazine article. it said that the day when any american, if he had energy and ambition, might hope to make a great fortune was past. it said that the capets and plantagenets and hapsburgs were all here; that the dynasties were established and the _entente cordiale_ in operation; that young and adventurous americans might hope to become captains of mercenaries, or they might go in for being court chaplains, and troubadours." "oh, that article had dyspepsia!" said ralph. "it isn't as easy as it was, that's certain! but it's possible yet, in --if you've got an opening." "have you got one?" "elder and marten would take me in. marten was an old flame of my mother's, and i got his son dick out of a scrape last year.--in ten years, you'll see, gipsy! i'll send you orchids and pearls!" "i don't want them, thank you, ralph." ralph took the flower from his buttonhole and began to pluck away its petals. "gipsy, i was awfully glad, last summer, when you sent that eglantine fellow about his business." "mr. laydon and i sent each other." "well, the road's clear--that's all i want to know! gipsy--" "ralph, it's no use. i'm not going to listen." "the family has planned this ever since we were infants. when you used to come to hawk nest with your big eyes and your blue gingham dress and your white stockings--i knew it somehow even then, even when i teased you so--" "you certainly teased me. do you remember the rain barrel?" "no, i don't. the family has set its heart--" "oh, ralph, family can be such a tyrant! at any rate, ours will have to take its heart off this." ralph turned sullen. "well, the family used to settle it for women." "yes, it did--when you came over with william the conqueror! do you want to _take_ me, regardless--just as you'd take those millions? well, you may take those millions, but you can't take me!" "your father wants it, too. the colonel showed me a letter--" hagar stopped short--they were walking in the park. "my father!... do you think i owe my father so great a love and obedience?" she looked before her, steadily, down the vista of vast, leafless trees. "the strongest feeling," she said, "that i have about my father is one of strong curiosity." chapter xvii the socialist meeting the house was full, said the man at the ticket-window. nothing to be had, short of almost the back row, under the gallery. rachel shook her head, and her cousin, willy maine, leaving the window, expressed his indignation. "you ought to have told me this afternoon that you wanted to go! anybody might have known"--willy was from one of the sleepier villages in one of the sleepiest counties of his native state--"anybody might have known that in new york you have to get your tickets early! now we've missed the show!" by now they were out of the swinging doors and down upon the pavement. the night was bright and not especially cold. it was the lyceum theatre, and they stood at the intersection of fourth avenue and twenty-third street. "it's too late to try anything else," pondered rachel. "willy, i'm sorry. but we truly didn't know we could go until the last minute, and i didn't believe it would be crowded." "it's a beautiful night," said hagar. "it's light and bright, and there are crowds of people. why can't we just walk about until bedtime?" willy, who was nineteen but a young giant, pursed his lips. "is it proper for ladies?" "oh, i think so," said rachel absently, "but would it really amuse you, hagar?" "yes, it would. let us go slowly, rachel, and look in windows and pretend to be purchasing." willy laughed, genially and patronizingly. "i've been along here. there aren't any paris fashions in these windows." "i want," said hagar succinctly, "to saunter through the streets of a great city." they began to walk, their faces turned downtown, staying chiefly upon the avenue, but now and then diverging into side streets where there were lights and people. by degrees they came into congested, poorer quarters. to willy, not long removed from a loneliness of tidal creeks, vast stretches of tobacco, slow, solitary sandy roads, all and any of new york was exciting, all a show, a stimulus swallowed without discrimination. that day rachel had found occasion to rage against a certain closed circle of conventions. the subject had come up at the breakfast table, introduced by a headline in the morning paper, and she had so shocked her family that for once they had acted as though the volcano was real. mrs. maine had grown moist and pink, and had said precipitately that in her time a young woman--whether she were married or single, that didn't matter!--would as soon have thought of putting her hand in the fire as of mentioning such things! and powhatan had as nearly thundered as was in his nature to do. rachel shrugged her shoulders and desisted, but she had gone about all day with defiance written in her small, sombre face. now to-night, the street, the broad stripes of blackness, the thin stripes of gold light, the sound of voices and of many footfalls, the faces when the light fell upon them and the brushing by of half-seen forms suited her raised, angry, and mutinous mood. as for hagar, the street and its movement simply became herself. she never lost the child's and the poet's power of coalescence. it was before the days of waring. the only white wings upon this avenue had been the snowflakes which a week ago had fallen thickly, which had been dully scraped over the curbing into the gutter, and which now stayed there in irregular, one to three feet in altitude, begrimed alpine ranges. the cobblestones of the street between, over which the great dray horses ceaselessly passed, were foul enough, while the sidewalks had their own litter of torn scraps of paper, cheap cigar ends, infinitesimal bits of refuse. the day of the weirdness of electric lighting, of the bizarre come-and-go of motion signs was not yet either. down here there were occasional arc lights, but gas yet reigned in chief. the shops, that were not shops for millionaires, nor even for the quite comfortable, all had their winking gaslights. below them like chequered walls sprang out the variegated show-windows. the wares displayed were usually small in size, slight of value, and high in colour, a kaleidoscopic barbaric display. above dark doorways the frequent three golden balls showed up well. because the night was so mild and windless many people were abroad--people not well-dressed, and yet not quite poverty-stricken in aspect; others who were so, lounging men with hopeless faces, women wandering by, pinched and lost-looking; then again groups or individuals of a fairly prosperous appearance. the flaring gas showed now and again faces that were evidently alien, or there came a snatch of strange jargon. a crowd had gathered at a street corner. a girl wearing a dark-blue poke bonnet with a red ribbon across it was going from one to the other holding out a tambourine. a few pennies clinked into it. a man standing in the centre of the crowd, raised his arm. "now, we are going to sing." the women in the bonnets beat upon the tambourines, a man with a drum and another with a cornet gave the opening bars, the women raised shrill, sweet voices,-- "there is a fountain filled with blood, drawn from immanuel's veins, and sinners, plunged beneath that flood, lose all their guilty stains--" the hymn ended, a woman lifted both hands and prayed with fervour and a strange, natural eloquence. then the squad gathered up horn and drum and tambourines, and, drawing a part of the crowd with it, moved up the street to another skirmish ground. rachel and willy and hagar drifted on. the night was still young, the stars glittering above, the gaslamps making a vista, the footfalls on the pavement murmurous as a stream. the clanging of the street-car bell, the rush of a train on the neighbouring elevated, the abrupt rise and fall of passing voices--all exercised a fascination. the night was coloured, rhythmic. they came to a building, narrow and plain, with lit windows, as of a hall, on the second floor, and with a clean, fairly lighted stair going up from an open street door. men and women were entering. a care-worn, stooping, workman-looking man stood by the door with handbills or leaflets which he was giving out. "socialist meeting," he said. "good speaking. the unemployed and the strikes. socialist meeting. everybody welcome." hagar stopped. "rachel, i want to go in here. yes, i do! come now, be good to me, rachel! mr. maine wants to go, too." "socialists!" said willy. "those are the people who are blowing up everybody with bombs. i didn't suppose new york would let them hold a meeting! they're devils!" but willy had so well-grown a human curiosity that he was not averse to a glimpse of devils. perhaps he heard himself, back home in the sleepy county, talking at the village post-office or in the churchyard before church. "yes, and where else do you think i went? i went to a socialist meeting! bomb-throwers--socialists and anarchists, you know!" rachel, hardly more informed, was ready to-night for anything a little desperate. she would not have taken hagar where she positively thought she ought not to go,--but if these were desperate people going in, they were, to say the least, pretty quiet and orderly and decent-looking;--and it could do no harm just to slip in and sit on a back seat for a few minutes and look on--just as you might go to mass in a cathedral abroad, disapproving all the time, of course. but hagar had a book or two in her mind, and in addition the talk that sunday afternoon at the settlement. when they had climbed the stairs and come into the hall, which was a small one, they found that the back seats were all taken. apparently all seats were taken, but as they stood hesitating, a young man beckoned, and before they knew it they found themselves well down the place, seated near the platform. rachel looked around a little uneasily. "crowded, and they all look so intent! it's not going to be easy to get up and leave." the hall was rude enough, and small, the light not brilliant, the platform a few bare boards. upon it stood a deal table, and three or four chairs. back of these, fastened against the wall, was a red flag, and on either side of this a strip of canvas with large letters. on one side, universal brotherhood, and on the other, workingmen, unite! now standing beside the table, and slowly walking from end to end of the platform, a dark-eyed, well-knit man was speaking, quite conversationally, with a direct appeal, now to this quarter of the hall, now to that. his voice was deep and mellow; he spoke without denunciations, with a quiet reasonableness and conviction. at the moment he was stating a theory, giving the data upon which it was based, weighing it, comparing it with its counter theory. he used phrases--"economic determinism"--"unearned increment"--"class-consciousness"--"problem of distribution"--explained clearly what he meant by them, then put them aside. "they are phrases that will serve their ends and pass from speech," he said. "we shall bring in modifiers, we shall make other phrases, and they, too, in their turn, will pass from the tongues of men; but the idea behind them--the idea--the idea and its expression, the intellectual and moral sanction, the thing that is metaphysical and immortal, that will not pass! the very word socialism may pass, but socialism itself will be in the blood and bone and marrow of the world that is to be! and this is what is that socialism." he began to speak in aphorisms, in words from old wisdom-religions, and then, for all they were stories of quite modern happenings, in parables--the woe of the world epitomized, a generalization of its needs, all lines of help synthesized into a world saviour, which, lo! was the world itself. he made an end, stood a moment with kindling eyes, then sat down. after an appreciable silence there came a strange, deep applause, men and women striking fist on palm, striking the bare floor with ill-shod feet. a small, wiry dark man, sitting on the platform, rose and spoke rapidly for twenty minutes. he had a caustic wit and the power of invective which, if possessed by the other, had not been displayed. once or twice he evoked a roar of angry laughter. when he had finished, and the applause had subsided, the chairman of the evening stood up and spoke. "as the comrades know, it is our habit to turn the last half-hour into an open meeting. nearly always there's somebody who's been thinking and studying and wants to say a word as to what he's found--or there's somebody who's got a bit of personal experience that he thinks might help a comrade who's struggling, maybe, through a like pit. anybody that feels like speaking out, let him do it--or let her do it. men and women, we're all comrades--and though socialists are said not to be religious, we're all religious enough to like a good experience meeting--" he paused, waiting for some one to rise. the first speaker came for a moment to his side. "mr. chairman, may i say one word to our comrades, and to any others who may be here? it is this. if 'religious' means world-service and a recognition and a striving toward the ultimate divine in my neighbour as in myself, and in myself as in my neighbour--then i think socialism may be called religious." as he moved back to his chair a man arose in the back of the house and began to speak. after a moment the chairman halted him with a gesture. "it is difficult for the comrades on this side the hall to hear you. won't you come to the platform?" the man hesitated, then nodded his head; and with a certain deliberateness moved down the aisle, and stepping upon the only slightly raised platform stood facing the gathering. a colour flared in his cheek, and his hands, held somewhat stiffly at his sides, opened and shut. it was evident that he was not an accustomed speaker, and that there was diffidence or doubt of himself and his welcome to be overcome. he began stammering, with nervous hesitation. if anything he _could_ say would help by one filing he would say it, though he wasn't used--yet--to speaking. he owed a debt and he believed in paying debts--though not the way the world made you pay them. it was hard to tell how young or old he was. at times he looked boyish; then, when a certain haggard, brooding aspect came upon him, he seemed a middle-aged man. his clothes were poor, but whole and clean, his shirt a grey flannel one. above the loose collar showed a short, dark beard, well-cut features, and deep-set dark eyes. lines came into hagar's forehead between her eyes. she had seen this man somewhere. where? she had a trick of holding her mind passive, when the wanted memory would slowly rise, like water from a deep, deep well. now, after a minute or two, it came. she had seen him in the street-car that night, going from eglantine to see "romeo and juliet." he had been in workman's clothes, he had touched her skirt, standing before her in the car; then he had found a seat, and she had watched him unfold and read a newspaper. some vague, uncertain thought that she could not trace had made her regard him at intervals until with miss bedford and lily and laydon she had left the car.... the man on the platform had shaken off the initial clumsiness of speech and bearing. like a swimmer, he had needled the wave. he was not clumsy now; he was speaking with short, stripped words, nakedly, with earnestness at white heat. once he had been dumb and angry, he said, as a maddened dog. he had been through years that had made him so. he had been growing like a wolf. there were times when he wanted to take hold of the world's throat and tear it out. "do you remember ishmael in the bible?--his hand against every man and every man's hand against him? well, i was growing to feel that way." then at that point--"and that was perhaps three years ago, and i was down south in a town in my state, trying to get work. i knew how to break rock, and i knew how to make parts of shoes, and i didn't know much besides, except that it was a hard world and i hated it"--at this point chance "or something" had sent him an acquaintance, an educated man, a bookkeeper in the concern where he finally got a job. out of the acquaintanceship had grown a friendship. "after a while i got to going to his house. he had a wife who helped him lots." the three used to talk together, and the man lent him books and made him read them, and "little by little, he led me on. he was like an old man i knew in the mountains when i was a boy. he showed me that we're all sick and sorry, but that we're growing a principle of health. he showed me how slow we creep up from worm to man, and how now we're fluttering toward something farther on, and how hands of the past come upon us, and how we yet escape--and the wings strengthen. he showed me how vindictiveness is no use, and how much that is wrong with the world is owing to poor social mechanism and can be changed. he showed me what brotherliness means, on the road to unity. he put it in my mind and heart to want to help. he told me i had a good mind. i had always rather liked books, but i'd been where i couldn't get any, even if they'd given you time for reading. he made me study things out, and one day i began to think--think for myself--think it out. i've never stopped. usually now, i'm at night-school nights. i'm learning, and i'm going to keep on, until i make thinking wisdom." he studied the ceiling a moment, then spoke out with a ring in his voice. "i was a mountain boy. when i wasn't out of my teens i got drunk at a dance and played hell-fool and almost killed a man or two. then the sheriff chased me up to catamount gap, and the stuff was still in me and my head hitting the stars, and i shot and shot at the sheriff.... well, the end of all that playing was that i went to the penitentiary for four years. one thing i want wisdom for is to know how to talk to people about what is called crime and about that great crime, our law courts and penal system. well, i came out of the penitentiary, and then it was very hard to get work. it was bitter hard. that's another thing i want learning and wisdom for--to talk about that. you see, the penitentiary wasn't content with the four years; it followed me always. and then it's hard to get work anyhow. there wasn't any use in going back to the mountains. but after a while i got work and kept it. then, three months ago, i came up here, and i got work here. i'm working on your streets now, and studying between times.... i'm standing up here to-night to tell you that you've got a flag that draws the unhappy to you, when it happens that they're seeking with the mind. i don't know much about class-consciousness. we didn't have it in the mountains, though, of course, we had it in the penitentiary. but i know that we've got to take the best that was in the past and leave the worst, and go on with the best toward new things. we've got to help others and help ourselves. and it doesn't do just to want to help; you've got to have a working theory; you've got to use your mind. you've got to consider your line of march and mark it out and blast away the rock upon it and go on. and i am willing to be of your construction gang. the man i was talking about thought pretty much that way, too. he said there were a lot of isolated people, here, there, and everywhere, not only those that call themselves working-people, but others, too, and women just as well as men, who were thinking that way--that they might not call themselves socialists, but that they were blood kin just the same. i don't know why, to-night, but i am thinking of something that happened when i had been a year in the penitentiary, and they had rented a lot of us up the river to make the bed for a railroad. while i was up there, i couldn't stand it any longer, and i ran away. they set the dogs on my track and took me, of course, but before they did, i was lying in a thicket, and i hadn't had anything to eat for two days and a night. a little girl, about twelve years old, i reckon, came over a hill and down to the stream by the thicket. she gathered flowers and set them around a big rock for a flower doll tea-party. she had two little apple pies and she put those in the middle--and then she saw me, lying in the thicket. and i was wearing"--the colour flared into his face, then ebbed--"i was wearing stripes.... i don't think she ever thought of being frightened. she gave me both pies, and she sat and talked to me like a friendly human being. i've never forgotten. and when the dogs came, as they did pretty soon, and the men behind them, she lay on the grass and cried and cried as if her heart would break. i've never forgotten. that's what i mean. i don't care what we've done, if we're not fiends incarnate, and very few of us are, we've got to feel toward one another like that. we've got to feel, 'if you are struck, i am struck. if you are wearing stripes, i am wearing stripes.' we've got to feel something more than brotherhood. we've got to feel identity. and as a part, anyway, of that road seems to me to be named socialization, i'm willing to be called a socialist." he nodded to the audience, and, stepping from the platform, amid a clapping of hands and stamping of feet, did not return to his place in the back of the hall, but sat upon the edge of the stage, his hands clasped around his knee. a german clockmaker and a fiery, dark woman spoke each for a few minutes, and then the meeting ended. there was a noise of rising, of pushing back chairs, a surge of people, in part toward the exit, in part toward the platform. hagar touched rachel on the arm. "wait here for me. i want to speak to that man.--yes, i know him. wait here, rachel." she made her way to the space before the platform where men and women were pressing about the speakers. the man with the grey flannel shirt was answering a question or two, put by the dark-eyed man who had spoken first. he stood with a certain mountain litheness and lack of tension. a movement, his answer given, brought him face to face with hagar. she had taken off her hat, so that it might not trouble the people behind her, and she had it still in her hand. her dark, soft hair framed her face much as it had done in childhood; she was looking at him with wide, startled eyes. "i had to come to tell you," she said, "that i am glad you came through. i never forgot you either." "'forgot you either!'--" the man stared at her. "they were apple turnovers," she said; but before she had really spoken there came the flush and light of recognition. "oh--h!..." he fell back a step; then, with a reddened cheek and a light in his eyes, put out his hand. she laid hers in it; his fingers closed over hers in a grasp strong enough to give pain. then, as their hands dropped, as she fell back a little, the second speaker came between, then others. suddenly the lights were lowered, people were staying too long. rachel's hand on hagar's arm drew her back. "come, we must go!" willy, too, was insistent. "it's getting late. show's over!" the space between her and the boy of the thicket, the figure drawn against the sky of the canal lock, widened, filled with forms in the partial dusk. she was half-drawn, half-pushed by the outgoing stream through the door, out upon the stair, and so down to the street, where now there were fewer lights. the wind had arisen and the air turned colder. "we'll take this cross-town car, and then the elevated," and while she was still bewildered, they were on the car. the bell clanged, they went on; again, in what seemed the shortest time, they were out in the night, then climbing the long stairs, then through the gate and upon the rushing elevated. willy talked and talked. he was excited. "i thought it was going to be all about bombs! but they talked sense, didn't they?--and there was something in the air that kind of warmed you! next time i'm in new york i'm going again. look at the lights streaming off! by jiminy! new york's great!" he was not staying at the maines', but with other kinspeople a few blocks away. he saw the two in at the door, said good-night, and went whistling away. hagar and rachel turned off the lowered gas in the hall and went softly upstairs. as they passed mrs. maine's door she asked sleepily from within, "did you enjoy the play?" "we didn't go," said rachel. "we'll tell you about it in the morning." when the two had said good-night and parted and hagar, in her own room, kneeling at the window, looked up at the pleiades, at aldebaran--only then came the realization that she did not know that man's name, that she had never heard it. in her thoughts he had always been "the boy." chapter xviii a telegram the next day she went down to the settlement. elizabeth was at home. "yes, i could give you a list of books on socialism. i read a good deal along those lines myself. i am glad you are interested." "i am interested," answered hagar. "i cannot get any of these books now, but i am looking for fifty dollars, and when it comes, i will." "but i can lend you two or three," said elizabeth. "won't you take them--dear hagar?" she regarded the younger woman with her steady, friendly eyes, her strong lips just parting in a smile. there was perhaps nine years' difference in their ages, but mentally they came nearer. it was the first time that she had dropped the formal address. hagar answered with a warm colour and a tremulous light from brow to chin. "yes, if you'll be so good--elizabeth!" she crossed the floor with the other to the long, low, bookcase. elizabeth drew out a couple of volumes. "these are good to begin with--and this." she stood a moment in thought, her back to the case, her elbow resting on its polished top and her head upon her hand. on a shelf behind her stood a small bronze psyche, a photograph of botticelli's judith, a drawing of florence nightingale. "hagar," said elizabeth, "if i give you two or three books upon the position of woman in the past and to-day, will you read them?" "i will read anything you give me, elizabeth." she took her parcel of books and went back to the maines'. she read with great rapidity. her memory was not a verbal one, but her very tissues seemed to absorb the sense of what she read. much in these books simply formulated for her with clearness what was already in solution in her mind. here and there she was conscious of lines of difference, of inward criticism, but in the main they but enlarged a content already there, but brought above the threshold, named and fed what she was already thinking. her mind went back to eglantine and roger michael's talk. "no. it did not begin even here. it was in me. it had been in me a long time, only i didn't know it, or called it other names." before these books were finished she got her fifty dollars from the magazine, and the magazine itself was sent her with her story in it. she sat and read the story, and it seemed strange and new in its robe of print. the magazine had provided an illustration--and how strange it was to see her figures (or rather _not_ her figures) moving and laughing there! again and again, after the first time, she opened the magazine and in part or whole read the story and gazed upon the illustration--half a dozen or more times during the first twenty-four hours, then with dwindling frequency day after day, for a week or so. after that her appetite for her own completed work flagged. she laid the magazine away, and it was years before she read that story again. the fifty dollars--she put thirty-five away to go toward her summer clothes and wrote to her grandmother that she had done so. the remaining fifteen she expended on books, taking starred titles from elizabeth's list. in january she wrote "the lame duck." she sent it to one of the great monthlies. it was accepted, she was paid a fair price, and the monthly gave her to understand that it should like to see _hagar ashendyne's_ next story. the letter came as she was leaving the house for a walk in the park. there was no great distance to go before you came to an entrance, and she often went alone and wandered here and there by herself. the country was in her veins; not to see trees and grass very often was very bad. she opened the letter, saw what it was, then walked on in a rosy mist. after a while, out under the branched grey trees, she found a bench, sat down, and read it again and yet again. her soul passioned to do this thing; to write, to write well, to give out wonderfully, beautifully. a letter that told her it was so, that she was doing that which, with the strongest longing, she longed to do, must be to her golden as a love letter. with it open on her lap, with her eyes on the serene, pearl-grey meadow on the edge of which she sat, she stayed a long time, dreaming. a young man and woman, lovers evidently, slowly passed her bench beneath the trees. she watched them with tranquil eyes. "they're lovers," and she felt a reflex of their bliss. they passed, and she watched as happily the grey spaces where a few sheep stirred, and the edge of trees beyond, dream trees in the mist. quite simply she fell to thinking of "the boy." he had been often in her mind since the evening of that meeting; she wondered about him a good deal. she did not know his name; she had no idea where he lived; he might be in new york now, or he might not be; she might pass him in the street and not know--though, indeed, now she kept a lookout. he did not know her name; she was to him "the little girl" as he was to her "the boy." they might never meet again, but she had a faith that it would not be so. what she felt toward him was but friendliness, concern, and some admiration; but the feeling had a soft glow and pulse. the most marked thing was the consciousness that she knew him truly; reasoning did not come into it; she could have told herself a dozen times how little she did know, and it would have made no difference. it was as though the boy and she had seen each other's essential self through a clear pane of glass. her mind did not dwell long upon him to-day. she sat with her hands crossed above the letter, and her eyes, half-veiled, upon the far horizon. to write--to write--to produce, to lead forth, to give birth, to push out and farther on forever, to make a beautiful thing, and always a more beautiful thing--always--always.... she was more mind than body as she sat there; she saw her thought-children going up to heaven before her. there came an impulse to look on beauty that other minds had sent forth. she rose and walked, with her light, rhythmic swiftness, northward toward the metropolitan. when she passed the turnstile there lacked less than an hour of closing time. she went at once toward the rooms where were the casts. there was hardly a moving figure besides herself; there were only the still, white giants. she entered an alcove where there was a seat drawn before a cast of the tomb of lorenzo de' medici. she sat down and gazed upon michael angelo's thinker. after a while her eyes moved to the great figures of twilight and dawn, and then, rising, she crossed to guliano's tomb and stood before day and night. presently she left the alcove, and crossing by the models of the parthenon and of notre dame came into the hall of the antique and into the presence of the great venus. here she stayed until a man came through the place and said it was closing time. in february she sent to the same monthly "the mortal." it passed from hand to hand until in due time it reached the editor. he read it, then strolled into the assistant editor's room:--"new star in the sky." but before hagar could hear from the monthly, another moment in her life was here. a week after she had mailed this story, she and rachel were together one evening in the latter's room. it was pouring rain, and there would be no company. supper was just over,--the maines clung to supper,--and the children had not been put to bed. nightgowned, they made excursions and alarms from their nursery into their mother's room and out again and in again. then rachel turned out the gas, and they all sat in the light of the coal fire, and first rachel told a story, and then betty told one, and then hagar, and then charley. they were all stories out of mother goose, so no one had to wait long for their turn. then hagar had to tell about bouncing bet and creeping charley, which was a continued story with wonderful adventures, an adventure a night. then the clock struck eight with a leaden sound, and mammy appeared in the nursery door. "you carry me!" cried bouncing bet, and "you carry me!" cried creeping charley. so rachel took one and hagar took the other, mounted them like papooses, and in the nursery shot each into the appropriate small, white bed. back before the fire, with the lights still out, the two sat for a time in silence. hagar had a story in mind. she was musing it out, seeing the figures come true in the lit hollows. rachel had a habit of crooning to herself. she went on now with one of the children's rhymes:-- "baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?" "yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full-- one for my master and one for my dame, and one for the little boy that lives in the lane!" hagar stirred, lifted her arms, and clasped her hands behind her head. "how the rain pours! the winter is nearly over. it has been a wonderful winter." "i'm glad you've found it so," said rachel. "you've got a wonder-world of your own, behind your eyes. everything spins out for good for you sooner or later and somehow or other. you're lucky!" "aren't you lucky, too? haven't you liked this winter?" "oh, i've liked it so-so! i've liked you." "rachel, i wish you'd be happy. you've got those darling children." "i am happy where the children touch. and, oh, yes, they touch a long way round! but there's a gap in the circle where you go out lonely and come in lonely." "that's true of everybody's circle:--mine, yours, everybody's. but you chafe so. you blow the coals with your breath." "i don't need to blow the coal. it burns without that.... let me tell you, hagar. there are two kinds of people in the world. the people who are half or maybe two thirds the way out of the pit and the mire and the slough and the shadow so thick you can cut it! they are rising still, and their garments are getting clean and white, and they can see the wonderful round landscape, and they look at it with calm, wide eyes. they're nearly out; they're more or less spectators. the other kind--they're the poor, dull, infuriated actors. they're still in; they can hardly see even the rim of the pit. the first kind wants to help and does help. it's willing for the others to lay hold of its hands, its skirts, to drag out by. it's willing as an angel, and often the others wouldn't get out at all if it didn't give aid. but it's seen, of course, and it's away beyond.... people like elizabeth eden, for instance.... but the other kind--my kind.--it's all personal with us yet--we're fighting and loving and hating, down here in the muck and turmoil--all of us who are yet devils, and those who are half-devils, and those of us who are just getting vision and finding the stepping-stones--the animal and the half-animal, and those who've only got pointed ears--all resenting and striking out and trampling one another, knowing, some of us, that there are better things and yet not knowing how to get the shining garments; others not caring--oh, i tell you, life's a bubbling cauldron!" "i know it is--deep above and deep below. but--" rachel rose, went to the window, and stood, brow against the pane, looking out. the rain dashed against the glass; all the street lights were blurred; the gusty wind shook the bare boughs of the one tree upon the block, "you don't know anything about my married life. well, i'm going to tell you." she came back to the fire, pushed a footstool upon the hearth, and sat down, crouching close to the flame. "i'm not yet twenty-six. i was married to julian bolt when i was eighteen. i'd known him--or i thought i'd known him--for years. his mother and sisters went in summer to the place in the mountains where we always went. they had money, though less than people supposed. julian spent two weeks with them each summer. he was older than i, of course,--years older. but he used to row us girls upon the lake, and to play tennis with us, and we thought him wonderful. we called him 'the prince.' as i got older, he rowed me sometimes alone on the lake, and now and then we went for a walk together. he was good-looking, and he dressed and talked well, and he spent money. i had heard somebody call him 'a man-about-town'--but i didn't know what 'a man-about-town' meant. there were two or three families in the place with daughters out or about to come out, and they made julian bolt very welcome. i never heard a father or mother there say a word against him. mine didn't. "well, i came out very early, and the summer after, when i went to virginia, to the white with my aunt, and that winter when i stayed with some army people at old point, he came to both places, and i knew that he came to see me. he told me so.... of course, though i would have died rather than say it, even to myself, of course, i was expecting men to fall in love with me and ask me to marry them--and expecting to choose one, having first, of course, fallen in love with him, and be married in white satin and old lace, and be romantically happy and provided for ever after! isn't that the thinking rôle for every properly brought-up girl? the funny thing is that i'd rather die than see betty come upon that treadmill they've built for a girl's mind!... well, i was on it all right.... "julian had money, and he spent it recklessly. i didn't see how recklessly; i didn't see anything except that he liked me; for he sent me the most beautiful flowers, the most expensive bon-bons and books and magazines. it was a gay winter. looking back, it seems to me that everybody was eating and drinking, for to-morrow we die. i knew i must fall in love--that had been suggested to me, suggested for years, just as regularly and powerfully as any hypnotist could do it. the whole world was bent on suggesting it to every young girl. you see, the world's selfish. it wants to live, and it can't live unless the young girl says yea. and it can't leave it, or it thinks it can't, to nature working in a certain number in her own good time. it must cheat and beguile and train the girl--every girl--every girl! i tell you, i didn't know any more about marriage than i did about life on the planet mars! i was packing my trunks for a voyage--and i didn't know where i was going. i didn't know anything about it. no one offered me a baedeker.... it was orange blossoms and a veil and a ring--and i didn't know what either meant--and felicitations and presents and 'hear the golden wedding-bells!' and 'they lived happily ever after.' julian was handsome and lavish and popular, and his family were all right, and if he had been gay he would now settle down; and father and mother were satisfied, and people said i was to be envied.... i married at eighteen. i hadn't read much. i didn't know anything. no one told me anything. maybe the world thinks that if it tells, the young girl would say no. "we went on a wedding-trip. i suppose sometimes a wedding-trip isn't a mockery. i'm not so bitter as not to know that often it isn't so--that often it is all right. i'm not denying love, and clean men and considerate. i'm not denying hosts of marriages that without any very high ideal are fit and decent enough. i'm not denying noble lovers--men and women--and noble marriages. i'm only saying that the other kind, the kind that's not fit nor clean nor decent and anything but noble, is so frequent and commonplace that it is rather laughable and altogether sardonic and devilish to kneel down and worship as we do the institution of staying together--staying together at any price, even when evidently the only clean thing to do would be to stay apart.... my wedding-trip lasted four months. i went eighteen, and i came back old as i am now--older than i am now; for i have grown younger these last two years. my marriage wasn't the noble kind. it was the kind you couldn't make noble. it wasn't even the decent, low-order type. it was a sink and a pit and a horror." she bent and stirred the fire. outside the gusty wind went by and the rain beat upon the windows. "i know that there are marriages where woman is the ruiner. there are women who are wreckers. they fasten themselves on a man's life and drain it dry. they are devil-fish. they hold him in their arms and break his bones. they're among the worst of us struggling here in the pit. they're wicked women. they may be fewer than wicked men, or they may be equal in number, i don't know. i'm not talking of wicked men or wicked women in that sense. i'm talking of men whom the world does not call wicked, and of a great army of women like myself, an army that stretches round the world and through hundreds of years.... an army? it isn't an army. we never had any weapons. we were never taught to fight. we were never allowed to ask questions. we were told there were no questions to ask. we were young girls, dreaming, dropped into the wolf pack ... and it goes on all the time. it is going on now. it may be going on when betty grows up--though i'll tell her! you needn't be afraid. i'll tell her.... "that wedding trip--that honeymoon. i had married a handsome beast--a cruel one, too. he treated me like a slave, bought for one purpose, wanted for one purpose, kept for one purpose. i wasn't enough for him--i found that out very soon. but those others were freer than i. they made him pay them.... he would have said that he paid me, too; that he supported me. perhaps it's true. i only know that i am going to have betty taught to support herself." "you should have left him." "we were in europe. i hadn't any money. i was beaten down and stunned. when i tried to write to father and mother, i couldn't. they would have said that i was hysterical, and for god's sake to consider the family name!... i have been a woman slow to develop mentally. what poise i've got, what reading, what knowledge, what everything, has come to me since that time. then i didn't know how to hold my head up and march out. then i only wanted to die.... we came home, and it was to find father with a desperate illness. i couldn't tell mother then. i doubt if i could ever have told her. i doubt if it would have done any good if i had.... we went to live in a house up on the sound. julian said his fortune was getting low, and that it would be cheaper there. but he himself came into town and stayed when he wished. he spent a great deal of money. i do not know what he did with it. he threw away all that he had.... i knew by now that betty was coming. she was born before i was nineteen. and charley was born a year afterward--born blind, and i knew why. i loved my children. but my marriage remained what it had always been. when charley was nearly a year old, i couldn't stand it any longer. if i could stand it for myself, i saw that i couldn't stand it for them. i couldn't let them grow up having that kind of a mother, the kind that would stand it.... julian went away. every two or three months he took all the money he could lay his hands on and disappeared. i knew that he had dived into all that goes on here, in some places, in this city. he would be gone sometimes two weeks, sometimes longer.... well, this time i took betty and charley and came home, came here--and they tried to persuade me to go back. the bishop was here, visiting his nephew, and he came and tried to persuade me to go back. but i wouldn't ... and there was no need. within the week julian was killed in a fray in a house a mile, i suppose, from where we sit. that was two years ago." she rose and moved about the firelit room. "yes, i've got the two children, and life's healing over. i don't call myself unhappy now. at times i'm quite gay--and you don't know how eerie it feels! but happy or not, hagar, i'll never forget--i'll never forget--i'll never forget! they talk about the end of the century, and about our seeing the beginning of better things. they say the twentieth century will be an age of clearer thinking and greater courage, and they talk about the coming great movements.--there's one movement that i want to see, and that's the movement to tell the young girl. if i were the world i wouldn't have my dishonoured life as it gets it now.... and now let's talk about something else." hagar crossed to her, took her in her arms, and kissed her lips and forehead. "i love you, rachel. come, let's look at the rain, how it streams! listen! isn't that thunder?" they stood at the window and looked out upon the slanting lines and the glistening asphalt. the doorbell rang. "who on earth can that be?" rachel went to the door, opened it, and stood listening. "a telegram. dicey is bringing it up. it's for you, hagar." she struck a match and lit the gas. hagar opened the brown envelope and unfolded the sheet within. the telegram was from gilead balm, from her grandfather:-- _cables from physician and consul at alexandria. terrible accident. yacht on which were medway and his wife wrecked. his wife drowned, body not recovered. medway seriously injured. life not despaired of, but believe it will leave him crippled. ill in hotel there. unconscious at present. every attention. your grandmother will fret herself ill unless i go. insists that you accompany me. have telegraphed for passage on boat sailing saturday. arrive in new york friday morning. get ready.--argall ashendyne._ chapter xix alexandria "my master," said the valet, "is fond of cairo and detests alexandria. as soon as he is able to be moved, if not sooner, he will wish to be moved." "he is not able now," said hagar. "no, miss. he is still delirious." "the doctor says that he is very ill." "yes, miss. but if i may make so bold, i think mr. ashendyne will recover. i have lived with him a long time, miss." "what is your name?" "thomson, miss." the colonel entered. "he didn't know me. nor would i have known him. he is pretty badly knocked to pieces.--what have you got there? tea? i want coffee." thomson moved to the bell, and gave the order to the arab who appeared with the swiftness of a genie. "is there anything else, sir?" "no, not now." "the english papers are upon the small table, sir." and thomson glided from the room. the colonel looked about him. "humph! millionaires fix themselves luxuriously." "i keep seeing her," said hagar. "her body lying drowned there." the colonel glanced at her. "pull yourself together, gipsy! whatever you do, don't get morbid." "i won't," hagar answered. "i'm like you there, grandfather. i hate it. but it isn't morbidness to think a little of her." the arab brought the coffee. "turkish coffee!" said the colonel, not without relish in his voice. "i always wanted to taste--" he did so, appreciatively. "ah, it's good--" he leaned back in the deep wicker chair and gazed upon the latest attendant. "and what may be your name?" the figure spread its hands and said something unintelligible. "humph! comment vous nommez-vous?" "mahomet, monsieur." "we've come, gipsy," said the colonel, "far from old virginia. well, i always wanted to travel, but i never could. i had a sense of responsibility." it struck hagar with the force of novelty that what he said was true. he had such a sense. there had always been times when she did not like her grandfather, and times when she did. but during the last two weeks, filled with a certain loneliness and strangeness for them both, she had felt nearer to him than ever before. there had chanced to be on the boat few people whom he found congenial. he had been forced to fall back upon his granddaughter's companionship, and in doing so he had made the discovery that the child had a mind. he liked mind. of old, when he was most sarcastically harsh toward maria, he had yet grudgingly admitted that she had mind--only, which was the deep damnation, she used it so wrongheadedly! but gipsy--gipsy wouldn't have those notions! the laydon matter had been just a foolish girl's affair. she had been obstinate, but she had seen her mistake. as for ralph--ralph would get her yet. the colonel had been careful, in their intercourse during the voyage, to bring forward none of her mother's notions. he found that she knew really an amazing amount of geography and history, that to a certain extent she followed public events, that she knew byron and could quote milton, and that though she had no greek (he had forgotten most of his), she was familiar with translations and could not only give a connected account of the olympian family, but could follow in their windings the minor myths. the long voyage, the hours when they reclined side by side in their steamer chairs, or with the country need for exercise paced from prow to stern, and from stern to prow, taught him more about his granddaughter than had done the years at gilead balm. she told him of the acceptance of "the lame duck" and the sending of "the mortal," and he was indulgent toward her prospects. "there have been women who have done very good work of a certain type. it's limited, but it's good of its kind. as letter-writers they have always excelled. of course, it isn't necessary for you to write, and in the old south, at least, we've always rather deprecated that kind of thing for a woman." the colonel drank his thick coffee from its little metal cup with undeniable and undenied pleasure. he was not hypocritical, and he never canted. his only son lay in a large bedroom of this luxurious suite, maimed and hardly conscious, and whether he would live or die no one knew. but the colonel had never wept over medway in the past and he was not going to weep now. he drank his coffee leisurely, and when it was done mahomet took salver and cup away. rising, the colonel walked to one of the windows and stood looking out at a bougainvillæa-covered wall, a shaggy eucalyptus tree, and a seated beggar, fearful to the eye. it was afternoon, and they had been in alexandria since eight o'clock. "i sent a cable to your grandmother. the doctors think he's holding his own, but i don't know. it looks pretty bad. they've got a nurse from a hospital here,--two, in fact,--and that man thomson is invaluable.... i've seen, too, this morning, before they let me into the room, his wife's brother. it seems that he was in london at the time, and came on and has very properly waited here for our arrival. we walked through the place mahomet ali, and he took me to a very good club, where we sat and talked.... her will--it's rather curious. i suppose medway, if he lives, will be disappointed. and yet, with care, he'll have enough." the colonel laughed, rather grimly. "we'd think in virginia, that a million was a good livelihood, but standards are changing, and doubtless he's been feeling many times that amount between his fingers. it occurred to me that they must have quarrelled. it's like a woman to fling off and do a thing like that hastily. her brother says, however, that he believes they were really happy together. he fancies that she had some feminine scruple or other as to the way her first husband obtained his wealth,--as the world goes, entirely honourable transactions, i believe,--and that she had an idea of 'restoring' it. she made this last will in london, just before they started on this long trip that's ended so. it's been read. there's a string of bequests to servants and so on. she leaves just one million, well invested, to medway. the rest, and it's an enormous rest, goes into a fund, for erecting model lodging-houses and workmen's dwellings. philanthropy mad!" said the colonel. "her brother's got, i understand, some millions of his own, and he could afford to smile. also, he's been supposing for a year that it would all go to medway. well, that's where medway is--if he lives. fifty thousand or so a year," said the colonel, regarding the beggar, "is not an income to be despised. i should be happy if i saw, each year, in clear money, an eighth as much." there came a knock at the door and the physician entered. he was an american, a young, fresh-coloured man with an air of strength and capability. he had lunched with the two ashendynes, and now came in as one at home. he looked graver now than then; there was a plain cloud upon his brow. "i don't believe he can hold out," he said abruptly. "he has a magnificent constitution, and his body is making a splendid fight, but--it may come at any minute with a quick collapse. of course, i'm not saying that it will be so. but if miss ashendyne wishes to see him, or to be with him if it should happen to be the end--" hagar turned deadly pale. the colonel, not usually considerate of her or given to thinking that she needed consideration, was somehow different to-day. "if you'd rather not, gipsy--? indeed, i think that you had better not. it isn't as though you had been always with him." he turned to the physician. "she has seen very little of her father since baby-hood." but hagar had steadied herself and risen from her chair. "thank you, grandfather, but i would rather go with you." it was almost sunset, and the splendid western light flooded the chamber where the sick man lay. he lay low upon the pillows, with only a light covering. there had been, beside injuries to spine and limb, and some internal hurt, a bad blow over the head. this was bandaged; fold after fold of gauze wrapped around forehead and crown. "oh," thought hagar, "it is like the white helmet in that dream!" but the features below were not flushed with health; they were grey and drawn. the second physician, standing at the bed-head, lifted his hand from the pulse and moved to the side of the first. "a little stronger." the nurse placed a chair for hagar. thomson, at the windows, raised the jalousies higher, and the light evening breeze blew through the room. "it may or it may not be," said the first doctor in a low voice to the colonel. "if he pulls through to-night, i'll say he wins." the amber, almost red, light of the sun bathed the bed. when the sun sank, a violet light covered it. when the short twilight was gone, and the large, mild stars shone out, they brought shaded lamps, and the bed lay half in that light and half in the shadow. in the room, through the slow passing hours, hushed, infrequent movements took place, the doctors relieving each other in the watch by the bed, the night nurse arriving, the giving of stimulants, whispered consultations by the window. the adjoining room was prepared for rest and relaxation; there was a table with bread and cold meat and wine. the colonel came and went, noiseless as a shadow, but a restless shadow. once or twice during the night his touch upon her shoulder or his hand beckoning from the doorway drew hagar forth. "you'd better rest, child. here, drink this wine!" each time she stayed half an hour or so, either in the room or out upon the balcony which gave upon a garden, but then she stole back into the bedroom. she sat in a big chair which she had drawn aside and out of the way. she could, however, see the bed and the figure upon it; not clearly, because the lights were low, but dimly. she rather felt than saw it; it was as though a sixth sense were busy. she sat very still. her father.... through her mind, automatically, without any conscious willing, drifted words and images that spoke of father and child. it might be a bible verse, it might be a line from a younger poet, it might be an image from some story or history. father and child--father and daughter--father and daughter.... to sit and see her father die, and to feel no deep sorrow, no rending sense of companionship departing, no abject, suffocating pulsing of a stricken heart, no lifted hope and faith or terror for him, no transcending sense of self-relinquishment, while the loved one flew farther and swifter and higher out of her sight, away from this life's low level.... she could not feel any of that. as little as the colonel did she believe in or practise cant. she knew that she could not feel it thus, and knew why. but there was a great forlornness in sitting there and watching this stranger die. she tried to strengthen the faint memories that the past held. was she five or six years old the last time she had seen him? the distinctest image was of underneath the cedars at gilead balm. there was a shawl spread upon the grass. her father was lying on it, his hat tilted over his eyes. there was a book beside him. she had been gathering dandelions, and she came and sat down on the edge of the shawl and opened the book. she thought every book had pictures, but there were none in that one. then he had waked up and laughed at her, and said, "come here!"--it flashed into her consciousness, from where it had lain unrecalled all these years, just what he had said. he had said, "come here, miss ugly, ill-omened name!" she had gone, and in playing with her he had accidentally burned her finger with his lighted cigar. and then--it came to her with an effect of warmth and sunshine, and with a feeling of wanting to laugh, with tears in her eyes--he had been beautifully, charmingly shocked and apologetic. he had taken her away and made old miss bandage the finger, and then he had shouldered her and carried her into the orchard and broken boughs of apple blossoms for her and told her "jack and the beanstalk." ... that was almost all she could remember; or if there were one or two less agreeable things, she would not remember those now. she tried to keep the warmth about her heart; on the whole, aided by human pity for the broken form upon the bed, she succeeded better than she could have dreamed. the man upon the bed!--outside the fatherhood, outside the physical relation between them--there he was, a human being with death hovering above. it was easier to think of him just as a fellow-being; she laid hold of that thought and kept it. a fellow-mortal--a fellow-mortal. with a strange sense of relief, she let the images and words and the painful straining for some filial feeling pass from her soul. she did not know why she should feel toward him filially; he had not, like her mother, suffered to give her life; he had probably never thought of her; she had not been to him the concern in the matter. nor hardly since had he acted parentally toward her. with a wry humour she had to concede the winter in new york, the summer at the new springs, but it hardly seemed that the sacrifice could have been great, or that the need for gratitude was extreme. her soul rose against any hypocrisy. she could not and she would not try to say, "dear father--dear father!" the vision of her mother rose beside her.... but just to think of him as a human being--she could do that; a man lying there on the knife edge of the present, with the vast, unplumbed gulf before him.... that dream of the blue sea and the palm trees and the low pale-coloured houses returned to mind, but she put it from her somewhat shudderingly. he had looked so abounding in life, so vivid and vital, with the white hat like a helmet!... a fellow-mortal, lying there, helpless and suffering.... at three in the morning the physician in charge, who had been sitting for some time beside the bed, rose and moved away. he nodded his head to his fellow. hagar caught the satisfaction in the gesture even before, in passing her chair, he paused to say just audibly, "i think your father will recover." a short time passed, and then the colonel touched her arm. "they think it safe for us to go. he is stronger. come! they'll call if there is any need, but they don't think there will be." going, she stopped for a moment close beside the bed. she had not been this near before. medway lay there, with his head swathed in bandages, with his lips and chin unshorn, with no colour now in his cheeks, with his eyes closed. hagar felt the sudden smart of tears between her own lids. the gold thread of the dandelion day tied itself to the natural human pity and awe. her lips trembled. "father!" she said, in the lowest of whispers. her hand moved falteringly until, for the lightest moment, it rested upon his. in the outer room the physician joined them. "he'll still have to fight for it, and there may be setbacks. it's going to be a weary, long, painful siege for him, but i don't believe he's going to die. indeed, i think that, except in the one respect, we'll get him back to being a well man with a long life before him." "and that respect?" "i'm afraid, colonel ashendyne, that he'll never walk again. if he does, it will be with crutches and with great difficulty." when, half an hour later, hagar opened the door of her own room, the dawn was coming. it was a comfortable bedroom, large, cool, and high-pitched, and it, too, had a balcony. the bed invited; she was deadly tired; and yet she doubted if she could sleep. she stood in the middle of the room, her hands over her eyes, then, a little stumblingly, she went out upon the balcony. it was a small place, commanding the east. there was a chair and a little table on which you could rest your arms, and your head upon them, sideways so that you could see the sky. it was just grey light; there were three palm trees rustling, rustling. after a while purple came into the sky, and then pale, pale gold. the wind fell, the palms stood still, the gold widened until all the east was gold. she saw distant, strange, flat roofs, a distant dome and slender towers, all against the pale, pale gold. the air was cool and unearthly still. her head upon her arm, her face very quiet, her eyes open upon the deepening light, she stayed until the gardeners came into the garden below. chapter xx medway five days later, medway, one morning, recognized the colonel. "why, my dear father, what are you doing here?... what's it all about?" his feeble voice died away; without waiting for an answer, he lapsed into a kind of semi-consciousness. out of this, day by day, though, he came more strongly. directly he appeared to accept, without further curiosity, his father's occasional presence in the room. another interval, and he began to question the physician and nurses. "back, eh?--and leg, and this thing on my head. i don't remember.--a kind of crash.... what happened?" evasive answers did for a while, but it was evident that they would not do for ever. in the end it was thomson who told him. "you did, did you!" exclaimed the doctor in the outer room. "well, i don't know but what it's just as well!" "i couldn't help it, sir. he pinned me down." the colonel spoke. "just what and how much did you tell him?" "i told him, sir, about the wreck, and how he got beaten about, and how i fastened him, when he was senseless and we were sinking, to a bit of spar, and how we were picked up with some of the crew about dawn. and about his being brought here, and being very well cared for, and your coming from new york, you and miss ashendyne, and that he'd been wonderful close to dying, but was all right now, and what the date was, and things like that, sir." "did he ask for his wife?" "yes, sir." "and you told him?" "yes, sir." the doctor rose. "well, i'm glad it's done. i'll go see--" and disappeared into the sick-room. "i think you did well, thomson," said the colonel. "when you've got to take a thing, you'd better stand up and take it, and the quicker the better." "yes, sir," said thomson; and adjusted the jalousies, it being now very warm and the glare at times insupportable. the colonel, under the guidance of a dragoman of the best, had been shopping, and was in white duck. hagar, too, had secured from a french shop muslin and nainsook. thomson had been concerned for her lack of any maid or female companionship. he had gently broached the subject a week or two before. "mrs. ashendyne had an excellent maid, miss, who was with us on the yacht that night and was saved. but she's of a high-wrought nature, and the shock and cold and everything rather laid her up. she has a brother who is a photographer in cairo, having married a native woman, and she's gone to stay with him awhile, before she goes back into service. if that hadn't been the case, miss, you might, if you wished, have taken her on. i think she would have given satisfaction. as it is, miss, i know some english people with a shop here, and i think through them i could find you some one. she would not be a superior lady's maid like cécile, but--" hagar had declined the offer. "i never had a maid, thank you, thomson. i can do for myself very well." she liked thomson, and thomson agreed with the nurse that she was a considerate young lady. now, having adjusted the blinds, thomson left the room. the colonel paced up and down, his hands behind him. the white duck was becoming; he did not look sixty. hair, mustache, and imperial were quite grey; except for that he had never aged to hagar's eyes. his body had the same height and swing, the same fine spareness; his voice kept the same rich inflections, all the way from mellow and golden to the most corroding acid; he dominated, just as she remembered him in her childhood. not all of his two weeks in egypt had been spent by medway's bedside; he had been fairly over alexandria, and to meks and ramleh, and even afield to abûkir and rosetta. he had offered to take her with him upon these later excursions, but she had refused. the brother of her father's wife was going with him, and she correctly thought that they would be freer without her. the colonel acquiesced. "i dare say you'll have chances enough to see things, gipsy." it was her first intimation that any one had in mind her staying.... now the colonel, after pacing awhile, spoke reflectively. "at this rate it won't be long before he's really well enough to talk. i'll have to have several talks with him. did you gather, gipsy, that thomson had told him that he would remain crippled?" "i do not think he told him that, grandfather." "that's going to be the shock," said the colonel. "well, he'll have to be told! i think thomson--or the doctor--had better do it. and then he'll have to learn about that will. altogether, it may delay his convalescence a little. of course, i'll stay until he's practically recovered--as far as he can recover." "do you think that ... perhaps ... he might like to go home--to go home to gilead balm?" "not," answered the colonel, "if i know medway, and i think i do! to come back, crippled, after all these primrose years--to sleep in his old room, and maria's--to sit on the porch and listen to bob and serena--no!" that night in her own room hagar placed two candles on the table, took a sheet of paper and a pencil, and sitting down, made a calculation. the night was warm to oppression; through the windows came the indefinite, hot, thick murmur of the evening city. hagar sat with bare arms and throat and loosened hair. she wrote her name, _hagar ashendyne_, and her age, and then, an inch below, a little table,-- the prize story $ . (_clothes, books, thomasine. all spent._) the story in ----'s magazine $ . (_clothes, books. all spent._) "the lame duck" $ . (_i have most of it yet._) "the mortal" $ . ------- total $ . after a pause the pencil moved on. "many stories in mind, one partly written. the monthly says i can write and will make a name." it paused, then moved again. "to earn a living. to live where life is simple and doesn't cost much. if i go on, and i will go on, i could live at gilead balm on what i make, and help keep up the place. if ever i had to live by myself, i could get two or three rooms in a city and live there. or maybe a small house, and have thomasine with me. in another year or two years, i can keep myself. i do not want to stay here when grandfather goes. where there is no love and honour, what is the use? it isn't as though he needed me--he doesn't--or wanted me--" she laid the pencil down and leaned back in the deep chair. her eyes grew less troubled; a vague relief and calm came into her face, and she smiled fleetingly. "if he doesn't think he needs me or wants me,--and i don't believe he'll think so,--then there isn't anything surer than that i won't stay." she rose and paced the room. "i shouldn't worry, hagar!" some days after this, she offered one afternoon to relieve the nurse. she had done this before and frequently. heretofore the service had consisted, since the patient almost always slept through the afternoon, in sitting quietly in the darkened chamber and dreaming her own dreams for an hour or two, when the grateful nurse came back refreshed. to-day she was presently aware that he was awake; that he was lying there with his eyes open, regarding the slow play of light and shadow upon the ceiling. she had found out, on those earlier occasions, that he did not discriminate between her and the usual nurse; when he roused himself to demand water he had looked no farther than the glass held by her hand to his lips. now, as she felt at once as with a faint electric shock, it was going to be different. he spoke presently. his voice, though halting and much weakened, resembled the colonel's golden, energetic drawl. "what time is it?" "five o'clock." "what day of the month?" she told him. "alexandria in april!" he said. "what impossible things happen!" she did not answer, and he fell silent, lying there staring at the ceiling. in a few minutes he asked for water. the glass at his lips, she felt that he looked with curiosity first at the hand which held it, and then at her face. "water tastes good," he said, "doesn't it?" "yes, it does." she put down the glass and returned to her seat. "you aren't," he said, "the nurse i've had." "no; she will be back presently." there followed another pregnant silence; then: "a beautiful string of impossibilities. i know the colonel's here--been here a long time. now, did i dream it or did thomson tell me that he'd brought my daughter with him?" "thomson told you." medway lay quite quiet and relaxed. the cut over the head was nearly healed; there was now but a slight fillet-like white bandage about it. thomson had trimmed mustache and short pointed beard; the features above were bloodless yet, but no longer sunken and ghastly; the eyes were gathering keenness and intelligence. ashendynes and coltsworths were alike good-looking people, and medway had taken his share. he knew it, prized it, and bestowed upon it a proper care. hagar wondered--wondered. he spoke again. "life's a variorum! i shouldn't wonder ... hagar!" "yes, father?" "suppose you come over here, nearer. i want to see how you've 'done growed up.'" she moved her chair until it rested full in a slant ray of sunlight, coming through the lowered blinds, then sat within the ray, as still almost as if she had been sculptured there. five minutes passed. "haven't you any other name than hagar?" said medway. "are they always going to call you that?" "grandfather calls me gipsy--except when he doesn't like what i do." "does that happen often? are you wilful?" "i do not know," said hagar. "i am like my mother." when she had spoken, she repented it with a pang of fear. he was in no condition, of course, to have waked old, disturbing thoughts. but medway had depth on depth of _sang-froid_. "you look like her and you don't look like her," he murmured. "you may be like her within, but you can't be all like her. blessings and cursings are all mixed in this life. you must be a little bit like me--gipsy!" "it is time," said hagar, "for an egg beaten up in wine." she gave it to him, standing, grave-eyed, beside the bed. "i do not think you should talk. shut your eyes and go to sleep." "can you read aloud?" "yes, but--" "can you sing?" "not to amount to anything. but i can sing to you very low until you go to sleep, if that's what you mean--" "all right. sing!" she moved from the shaft of light, and began to croon rather than to sing, softly and dreamily, bits of old songs and ballads. in ten minutes he was asleep, and in ten more the nurse returned. the next afternoon thomson brought her a message. "mr. ashendyne would like you to sit with him awhile, miss." she went, and took her chair by the window, the nurse leaving the room. medway lay dozing, his eyes half-closed. after a while he woke fully and asked who was there. "it is hagar, father." "sit where you were yesterday." she obeyed, taking again her place in the slant light. it made a gold crown for her dusky hair, slid to the hollow of her firm young throat, brought forward her slender shoulders, draped in white, and bathed her long hands, folded in her lap. medway lay and looked at her, coolly, as long as he pleased. "you are not at all what is called beautiful. we'll dismiss that from mind. but the people who give us our terms are mostly idiots anyhow! beauty in the eye of the beholder--but what bats are the beholders! no, you haven't beauty, as they say, but there's something left.... i like the way you sit there, gipsy." "i am glad that you are pleased, father." "i couldn't deduce you from your letters." her eyes met his. "i did not choose that you should." again she felt a quiver of pain for what she had said. she was torn between a veritable anger which now and again rose perilously near the surface and a profound pity for his broken body, and for what he would feel when he knew. her dream of the early winter haunted her. she saw him leaving that white steamer, coming lightly and jauntily down from it to the shore, robust, with a colour in his cheeks and his white hat like a helmet. she heard again roger michael speaking. "we met him at carcassonne, and afterwards at aigues-mortes. he was sketching most wonderfully." she saw him, moving lightly, from stone to stone in old half-ruined cities. the dandelion day and the blossoming orchard came back to her; she felt again beneath her his half-dancing motion as he carried her under the boughs where the bees were humming. her pity, her comprehension, put the anger down. medway was watching her curiously. "you have a most expressive face," he said. "i do not remember you well as a child. how old were you the last time we met?" "five or six, i think. the clearest thing i can remember, father, is one day when you were lying under the cedars and i had been gathering dandelions and came to look at a book you had. you played with me, and i accidentally burned my finger on your cigar. then you were very kind and lovely; you took me to grandmother to have it tied up, and then you carried me on your shoulder through the orchard, and told me 'jack and the beanstalk.'" "by jove!" said medway. "why, i remember that, too!... first the smell of the cedar and then the apple blossoms.... you were a queer little elf--and you entered into the morals of 'jack and the beanstalk' most seriously.... good lack! whoever forgets anything! that to come back as soft and vivid!... well, i thought i had forgotten you clean, gipsy, but it seems i hadn't." "you mustn't talk too much. shall i sing you to sleep?" "yes, sing!" just before he dozed off, he spoke again, drowsily. "have you heard them say how many days it will be before i am on my feet again?" "no." "i will want to show you and the colonel--" but she had begun to croon "swanee river," and he went to sleep with his sentence unfinished. the next day he spoke of his drowned wife. it came as a casual remark, but with propriety. "anna was a good woman. there could hardly have been a more amiable one. she had experience and tact; she was utterly unexacting. she had her interests and i had mine; we lived and let live.... i cannot yet understand how she happened to have been the one--" "she sent me her picture," said hagar. "i thought it very handsome, and a good face, too. and the two or three letters i had from her--i have kept them." "she was a good woman," repeated medway. "you rarely see a tolerant woman--she was one. her brother has told me about her will. it is true that i expected, perhaps, a fuller confidence. but it was her money--she had a right to do as she pleased. i knew that she had some unfortunate idea or other as to the origin of her wealth--but i did not conceive that her mind made so much of it.... however, i refuse to be troubled on that score. her disposition of matters leaves me comfortable enough. i am not worrying over it. i never worry, gipsy!" after lying for three minutes he spoke with his inimitable liquid drawl. "when i think of all the years out of which i have squeezed enjoyment on the pettiest income--going here and going there--every nook of europe, much of asia and africa--just managing to keep thomson and myself--knowing every in and out, every rank and grade and caste, palace and hovel, château and garret, camp and atelier, knowing pictures, music, scenery, strange people and strange adventures, knowing my own kind and welcome among them--now basking like a lizard, now in action as though a tarantula had bit me--everywhere, desert and sea and city--and all on next to nothing!--making drawings when i had to (i did that one year in southern france; carcassonne, aigues-mortes, nîmes, and so forth), but usually fortunate in friends ... it seems that i might be able to manage on fifty thousand a year ... resume at the old house." it was another week before he was told. he was growing impatient and suspicious.... the doctor did it, thomson flunking for the first time in his existence. the doctor, having done it, came out of the room, drew a long breath, and accepted coffee from mahomet with rather a shaking hand. "well?" demanded the colonel. "well?" "he's perfectly game," said the doctor, "but i should say he's hard hit. however,"--he drank the coffee,--"there's one thing that a considerable experience with human nature has taught me, and that is, colonel, that your born hedonist--and it's no disparagement to mr. ashendyne to call him that; quite the reverse--your born hedonist will remain hedonist still, though the heavens fall. he'll twist back to the pleasant. he's going through pretty bitter waters at the moment, but he'll get life somehow on the pleasurable plane again. all the same," mused the doctor, "he's undoubtedly suffering at present." "i won't go in," said the colonel. "better fight such things out alone!" the other nodded. "yes, i suppose so." but a little later hagar went in. she waited an hour or two in her own room, sitting before a window, gazing with unseeing eyes. the heat swam and dazzled above countless flat, pale, parapetted roofs of countless houses. palm and pepper and acacia and eucalyptus drooped in the airless day; there sounded a drone of voices; a great bird sailed slowly on stretched wings far overhead in a sky like brass. she turned and went to her father's room. outside she met thomson. "are you going in, miss? i'm glad of that. mr. ashendyne isn't one of these people whom their own company suffices--" hagar raised sombre eyes. "i thought that my father had always been sufficient to himself--" "not in trouble, miss." he knocked at the door for her. medway's voice answered, strangely jerky, quick, and harsh. "what is it? come in!" thomson opened the door. "it's miss hagar, sir," then closed it upon her and glided away down the corridor. medway was lying well up upon his pillows, staring at the light upon the wall. he had sent away the nurse. he did not speak, and hagar, moving quietly, went here and there in the large room, that was as large as an audience chamber. at the windows she drew the jalousies yet closer, making a rich twilight in the room. there were flowers on a table, and she brought fresh water and filled the bowl in which they lived. there were books in a small case, and, kneeling before it, she read over their titles, and taking one from the shelf went softly through it, looking at the pictures. at last, with it still in her hand, she came to her accustomed seat near the bed. "it's a bad day for you," she said simply. "i am very sorry." "do you object to my swearing?" "not especially, if it helps you." "it won't--i'll put it off.... oh--h...." he turned his head and shoulders as best he could, until his face was buried in the pillows. the bed shook with his heavy, gasping sobs.... it did not last. ashendynes were not apt long to indulge in that kind of thing. medway pulled a good oar out of it. the room very soon became perfectly still again. when the silence was broken, he asked her what she was reading, and then if she had seen anything of the city. presently he told her to sing. he thought he might sleep; he hadn't slept much last night. "i must have had a presentiment of this damned thing--go on and sing!" she crooned "dixie" and "swanee river" and "annie laurie," but it was of no use. he could not sleep. "of all things to come to me, this--!... why, i should like to be out in the desert this minute, with a caravan.... o god!" she brought him cool water. "i'm sorry--i'm sorry!" she said. as she put down the glass, he held her by the sleeve. a twisted smile, half-wretched, half with a glint of cheer, crossed his face. "do you know, gipsy, i could grow right fond of you." chapter xxi at roger michael's on an early april afternoon in the year a man and woman were crossing, with much leisureliness, trafalgar square. "we won't get run over! it isn't like paris." "aren't you tired, molly? don't you want a hansom?" "tired? no! what could make me tired a day like this? i want to go stroke the lions." they gravely went and did so. "poor old british lion!--listen!" news was being cried. "_details of fight at bushman's kop!_" christopher josslyn left the lions, ran across and got a paper, then returned. "a small affair!" he said. "how interminably the thing drags out!" "but they'll have peace directly now." "yes--but it's poor old lion, just the same--" they moved from the four in stone, striking across to pall mall. "there was a halcyon time in england, fifty years or so ago, when, if you'll believe what men wrote, it was seriously held that no civilized man would ever again encroach upon a weaker brother's rights! Æons were at hand of universal education, stained glass, and ascension lilies. at any rate æons of brotherhood. under the kindly control of the great elder brother england. and they had some reason--it looked for an illusory moment that way. i always try to remember that--and moments like that in every land's history--at moments such as these. why doesn't that moment carry on over? there's something deeply, fundamentally wrong." he looked along the crowded street. men were buying papers--that seemed their chief employment. _delarey--kitchener--report of fight at hartz river._ "not far from a billion dollars expended on this war--and those east side streets we went through yesterday--concentration camps--and the coronation--this reactionary administration with its corn laws and coercion laws and wretched education bill, and so on--and the coronation talk--and piccadilly last night after nine--" "oh," said molly sharply. "that's the sting that i feel! it's women and children who are suffering in those concentration camps, i suppose--and it's women's sons who are lying on the battlefields--and it's women just as well as men who are paying the taxes--and it's women, too, in those horrible slums, wretched and hopeless--and bad legislation falls on women just as hardly as on men--but the other! there we've got the tragedy mostly to ourselves--and there's no greater tragedy below the stars!" she dashed a bright drop from her eyes. "i'll never forget that girl, last night, on the embankment--thin and painted and that hollow laugh.... i wish women would wake up!" "women and men," said the other. "they're waking, but it's slow, it's slow, it's slow." the softened, softened english sunlight bathed the broad street, the buildings, the wheeled traffic, the people going up and down. the two americans, here at last at the latter end of their six months abroad, delighted in the tender light, in the soft afternoon sky with a few sailing clouds, in the street sights and sounds, in the english speech. they strolled rather than walked; even at times they dawdled rather than strolled. they developed a tendency to stand before shop-windows. so strong and handsome a pair were they that they attracted some attention. thirty-five and thirty-two, both tall, both well-made, lithe, active, both aglow with health; she a magnificent rosy blonde, he blue-eyed, but with nut-brown hair; both dressed with an unconventional simplicity, fitness, and comfort; both interested as children and happy in each other's company--those who observed them did not call them "promise-bearers"; and yet, in a way, that was what they were. there were three children at home with as splendid a grandmother. a university had sent christopher to make an investigation, and the children had said, "you go, too, mother! it'll be splendid. you need a rest!" and christopher had said, "molly, you need another honeymoon." the english weather was uncommonly good. as they came to green park a barrel-organ was playing. spring was full at hand; you read it everywhere. two men passed, talking. "yes, to confer at klerksdorp, with steyn and botha and de wet. peace presently, and none too soon!" "i should think not. i'm done with wars." "little annie rooney," played the barrel-organ. "there is more than one way for societies to survive," said christopher, "and some day men will find it out. you can survive by being a better duellist and for a longer time than the other fellow--and you can survive by being the better toiler, also with persistence--or you can survive by being the better thinker, in an endless, ascending scale. each plane makes the lower largely unnecessary, is, indeed, the lower moved up, become more merciful and wiser. survive--to live over--to outlive. the true survivor--wouldn't you like to see him--see her--see _us_, molly?" "yes," said molly soberly. "we are a long way off." christopher assented. "true enough. and, thank heaven! the true survivor will always vanish toward the truer yet. but i don't know--it seems to me--the twentieth century might catch a faint far glimpse of our lineaments! i am madly, wildly, rashly optimistic for the twentieth century--even when i remember how optimistic they were fifty years ago! who could help being optimistic on such an afternoon? look at the gold on the green!" the barrel-organ played an old, gay dance. "do you suppose," said molly, "that, in merry england, the milkmaids and shepherdesses danced about a maypole at thirty-two? for that's just exactly what i should like to do this minute! how absurd to be able to climb the matterhorn, and then not to be let go out there and dance on that smooth bit of green!" "you might try it. only i wouldn't answer for the conduct of the policeman by the tree. and if you're arrested, we can't dine to-night with roger michael." roger michael lived in a small, red, georgian house in chelsea. her grandparents had lived here, and her parents, and she had been born here, nearer fifty than forty years ago. it had descended to her, and she lived here still. she had an old housekeeper and a beautiful cat, and two orphan children who were almost the happiest children in that part of the world. she always kept children in the house. there were a couple of others whom she had raised and who were out in the world, doing well, and when the two now with her were no longer children she would find another two. she did not believe in orphan asylums. she herself had never married. she remembered george eliot, and she had known the rossettis, and more slightly the carlyles. now in her small, distinguished house, with its atmosphere of plain living and high thinking, fragrant and sunny with kindliness and good will, she set her table often for her friends and drew them together in her simple, old-fashioned, book-overflowing drawing-room. her friends were scholars, writing and thinking people, and simply good people, and any one who was in trouble and came to her, and many reformers. she was herself of old, reforming stock, and she served humanity in all those ways. she had met and liked the josslyns when she was in america years before, and when they wrote and told her they were in london she promptly named this evening for them to come to chelsea. they found besides roger michael a scientific man of name asked to meet christopher, a writer of plays, a writer of essays, a noted fabian, and as noted a woman reformer. the seventh guest was a little late. when she came, it was hagar ashendyne. "what an unexpected pleasure!" said the josslyns, and meant every word of it. "how long since that summer at the new springs? almost nine years! and you've grown a great, famous woman--" "not so very great, and not so very famous," said hagar ashendyne. "but i'm fortunate enough--to-night! you're a wind from home--you mountain-climbing, divine couple! the bear's den! do you remember the day we climbed there?" "yes!" said molly; "and judge black waiting at the foot. oh, i am glad to see you! we did not dream you were in london." "we--my father and i--have been here only a little while. all winter we were in algeria. then, suddenly, he wanted to see the leonardos in the national." her voice, which was very rich and soft, made musical notes of her words. she was subtly, indescribably, transfigured and magnified. she looked a great woman. while she turned to greet others in the room, one or two of whom seemed acquaintances of more or less old standing, molly and christopher were alike engaged in drawing rapidly into mind what they knew of this countrywoman. they knew what the world knew--that she was a writer of short stories whose work would probably live; that her work was fabulously in demand; that it had a metaphysical value as well as a clutching interest. they knew that she was a world-wanderer, sailing here and there over the globe with a father whose insatiable zest for life crutches and wheel-chair could not put under. it was their impression that she had not been in america more than once or twice in a number of years. they read everything she published; they knew what could be known that way. they had that one summer's impression and memory. she was there still; she was that hagar ashendyne also, but evolved, enriched.... roger michael never had large dinner-parties, and the talk was oftenest general. the fare that she spread was very simple; it was enough and good; it gained that recognition, and then the attention went elsewhere. the eight at the round table were, through a long range, harmoniously minded; half, at least, were old friends and comrades, and the other half came easily to a meeting-place. thought, become articulate with less difficulty than usual, wove with ductileness across and across the table. there sounded a fair deal of laughter. they were all workers here, and, necessarily, toward many issues, serious-minded enough. but they could talk shop, and one another's shop, and shop of the world at large, with humour and quick appreciation of the merrier aspects of the workroom. at first, naturally, in a time of public excitement, they talked the war in africa, and the sick longing the country now felt for peace, and the general public foreboding, undefined but very real, that had taken the place of the old, too-mellow complacency; but then, as naturally in this company, the talk went to underlying, slow, hesitant movements, evolutionary forces just "a-borning"; roads that people such as these were blazing, and athwart which each reactionary swing of the pendulum brought landslides and floods enough, mountains of obstruction, gulfs of not-yet-ness. but the roadmakers, the pioneers, had the pioneer temper; they were spinning ropes, shouldering picks, stating to themselves and one another that gulfs had been crossed before and mountains removed, and that, on the whole, it was healthful exercise. they were incurably hopeful, though at quite long range, as reformers have to be. the fabian told a mirth-provoking anecdote of a tory candidate. the scientific man, who possessed an imagination and was a member of the society for psychical research, gave a brief account of thomson's new theory of corpuscles, and hazarded the prediction that the next quarter-century would see remarkable things. "we'll know more about radiation--gravity--the infinitely little and the infinitely big. and then--my hobby. there's a curious increase of interest in the question of a fourth dimension. it's a strange age, and it's going to be stranger still--or merely beautifully simple and homecoming, i don't know which. science and mysticism are fairly within hailing distance of each other." the talk went to christopher's investigation, and then to mountain-climbing, and cecil rhodes's will, and marconi's astonishing feat of receiving in newfoundland wireless signals from a station on the english coast, and m. santos-dumont's flight in a veritable airship. the writer of essays, who was a woman and an earnest and loving one, had recently published a paper upon a term that had hardly as yet come into general use--_eugenics_; an article as earnest and loving as herself. roger michael had liked it greatly, and so had others at the table. now they made the writer go over a point or two, which she did quietly, elaborating what she had first said. only the writer of plays--his last one being at the moment in the hands of the censor--chose to be strangely, deeply, desperately pessimistic. "i am going," he said, "to quote huxley--not that i couldn't say it as well myself. says huxley, 'i know of no study which is so unutterably saddening as that of the evolution of humanity.... out of the darkness of prehistoric ages man emerges with the mark of his lowly origin strong upon him. he is a brute, more intelligent than other brutes; a blind prey to impulses which, as often as not, lead him to destruction; a victim to endless illusions which make his mental existence a terror and a burthen and fill his physical life with barren toil and battle. he attains a certain degree of comfort and develops a more or less workable theory of life ... and then for thousands of years struggles with varying fortunes, attended by infinite wickedness, bloodshed, and misery, to maintain himself at that point against the greed and ambition of his fellow-men. he makes a point of killing and otherwise persecuting all those who first try to get him to move on; and when he has moved a step farther, foolishly confers _post-mortem_ deification on his victims. he exactly repeats the process with all who want him to move a step yet farther.'--that," said the writer of plays, "is what happens to brains, aspiration, and altruism in combination--rack and thumbscrews and auto-da-fés, and maybe in five hundred years or a thousand a picture skied by the royal academy--'giordano bruno going to the stake,' 'galileo recanting,' 'joan of arc before her judges.' my own theory of the world is that it is standing on its head. naturally it resents the presence of people whose heads are in the clouds. naturally it finds them rather ridiculous and contrary to all the proprieties, and violently to be pulled down. moral: keep your brains close to safety and the creeping herb." "i think that you worry," said the fabian, "much too much about that play. i don't believe there's the slightest prospect that he'll think it fit to be produced." the woman reformer was talking with molly. "yes; it's a long struggle. we've been at it since the 'fifties--just as you have been in america. a long, long time. the movement in both countries is a grey-haired woman of almost sixty years. we've needed what they say we have--patience. sometimes i think we've been too patient. you younger women have got to come in and take hold and give what perhaps the older type couldn't give--organization and wider knowledge and modern courage. we've given the old-time courage all right, and you'll have to have the patience and staying qualities, too;--but there's needed now a higher heart and a freer step than we could give in that world that we're coming out of." "i think that i've always thought it right," said molly, "but i've never really come out and said so, or become identified in any way.--of course, it isn't thinking so very positively if you haven't done that--" "it is like that with almost every one. diffused thought--and then, suddenly one day, something happens or another mind touches yours, and out of the mist there gathers form, determination, action. you're all right, my dear! only, i hope when you go home you will speak out, join some organization--that is the simple, right thing that every one can do. concerted effort is the effort that tells to-day." "are you speaking," asked hagar ashendyne, "of the suffrage movement?" they were back in the drawing-room, all gathered more or less closely around a light fire upon the hearth, kindled for the comfort of americans who always found england "so cold." it softened and brightened all the room, quaint and old-fashioned, where, for a hundred years, distinguished quiet people had come and gone. "yes," said the older woman. "are you interested?" "yes, of course--" she had not spoken much at dinner, but had sat, a pearl of listeners, deep, soft eyes upon each discourser in turn. there was in the minds of all an interest and curiosity regarding her. her work was very good. she had personality to an extraordinary degree. now she spoke in a voice that had a little of the ashendyne golden drawl. "i have been--in the last eight years--oh, all over! europe, yes; but more especially, it seems to me, looking back, the orient. egypt, all north africa, turkey and persia, japan and india. yes, and europe, too; greece and italy and spain, the mid-continent and the north. around the world--a little of spanish america, a little of the islands. sometimes long in one place, sometimes only a few days.... everywhere it was always the same.... the social organism with a shrivelled side." the writer of plays was in a mood to take issue with his every deepest conviction; also to say banal things. "but aren't american women the freest in the world?" hagar ashendyne did not answer. she sat in a deep armchair, her elbow upon the arm, her chin in her hand, her eyes dreaming upon the fire.... but christopher entered the lists. "'freest'--'freest'! yes, perhaps they are. the italian woman is freer than the oriental woman, and the german woman is freer than the italian, and the english woman is freer than the german, and the american is freer than the english! but what have they to do with 'freer' and 'freest'? it is a question of being free!" "free politically?" "free in all human ways, politically being one. i do not see how a man can endure to say to a woman, 'you are less free than i am, but be satisfied! you are so much freer than that wretch over there!'" hagar rose. her eyes chanced to meet those of the man who had talked physics and mysticism. "we shan't," she said, "get into the fourth dimension while we have a shrivelled side. we can't limp into that, you know." she crossed the room and stood before a portrait hung above a sofa. "roger michael, come tell me about this quaker lady!" she left before ten, pleading an early rising for work that must be done. and molly and christopher would come to see her? she might be a month in london. christopher and the fabian saw her into her cab, and she gave each her hand and was driven away. "that," said the fabian, as they turned back to the house, "is a woman one could die for." it was a long way to the hotel where the ashendynes were staying. a mild, dark, blurred night; street lights, houses with lights and darkened houses, forms on the pavement that moved briskly, forms that idled, forms that went with stealthiness; passing vehicles, the horses' hoofs, the roll of the wheels, the onward, unfolding ribbon of the night. the air came in at the lowered window, soft and cool, with a hint now of rain. hagar was dreaming of gilead balm. up over the threshold had peered a childhood evening, and she and thomasine and maggie and corker and mary magazine played ring-around-a-rosy, over the dewy grass until the pink in the west was ashes of roses and the fireflies were out. chapter xxii hagar in london "i have been re-reading humboldt," said medway ashendyne. "what do you say, gipsy, to risking a south american revolution? venezuela--colombia--sail from new york in september--and if you wanted ten days at gilead balm--" their drawing-room looked pleasantly out over gardens; indeed, so closely came the trees, there was a green and shimmering light in the room. it was may, and the sounds of the london streets floated pleasantly in at the open windows with the pleasant morning breeze. the waiter had taken away medway's breakfast paraphernalia. hagar had breakfasted much earlier. thomson stood at the back of the room arranging upon a small table, which presently would be moved within reach of medway's hand, smoking apparatus, papers, magazines, and what not. that eight-years-past prolonged sojourn and convalescence in egypt had produced a liking for mahomet, and medway had annexed him as he annexed all possible things that he liked and that could serve him. mahomet, speaking english now, but still in the costume of the east, had just brought in a pannier of flowers. they were all over the room, in tall vases. "too many," said hagar's eyes; but medway who, when he was in search of the rarefied pleasure of adventure and novelty in strange and barbarous places, could be as ascetic as a red indian on the warpath, loved, when he rocked in the trough of the waves, to rock in a bower. "cartagena would be our port. there's a railroad, i believe, to calamar. then up the magdalena by some kind of a steamboat to giradot. then get to bogotá as best we might. there's an interesting life there, eight thousand feet above the sea, with schools and letters, and governments in and governments out, and cool mountain water running downwards through the city, and the houses built low because of the earthquakes. let us go up the magdalena and across to bogotá, gipsy!" he sat in the wheel-chair he had himself designed, a wonderfully light and graceful affair,--considering,--with wonderful places alongside and beneath for wonderful things. his crutches were there, slung alongside, ready to his hand, and wicker detachable receptacles for writing-things and sketching-block and pencils and the book he was reading and so forth. where he travelled now, the wheel-chair must travel. he was good with crutches for a hundred paces or two; then he must sit down and gather force for the next hundred. he suffered at times--not at all constantly--a good deal of pain. but with all of this understood, he yet looked a vigorous person,--fresh, hale, well-favoured, with not a grey hair,--a young man still. "bogotá," he said, "an archiepiscopal see--universities, libraries, and a botanic garden. shut-in and in-growing meridional culture, tempered by revolutions. by all means let us go to bogotá, gipsy!" hagar smiled, sat without speaking, waiting, her eyes upon thomson putting the last touches to the table, and mahomet thrusting long-stemmed irises into the vases, the faces of both discreetly masking whatever interest they might feel in the proposed itinerary. when, after another minute or two, they were gone from the room, "were you waiting for them to go? why, who keeps anything from thomson? he knows my innermost soul. i told him this morning i was thinking of south america." hagar rose, and with her hands behind her head, began slowly to pace the large room. "bogotá _qua_ bogotá is all right. you've the surest instinct, of course, when it comes to matching your mood with your place. you're a marvel there, as you are in so many ways, father! and thomson and mahomet would like it, too, i think." "do you mean that you won't like it?" "no. i should like it very much. but i am not going, father." medway made an impatient movement, "we have had this before--" "yes, but not so determinedly.... why not agree that the battle is over? it _is_ over." "and you rest the conqueror?" "in this--yes." "i could see," said medway, "some point in it if the existence you lead with me made the fulfilment of your undoubted talent--your genius, perhaps--impossible. but you write wherever we go. you work steadily." "yes," said hagar, "but the work by which you live is not all of life." "it seems to me that you have touched life at a good many points in these eight years." "being with you," said hagar, "has been a liberal education." she laughed with soft, deliberate merriment, but she meant what she said. from a slender green vase she took an iris, and coming to the wheel-chair knelt down and drew the long stalk through the appropriate buttonhole. "you must have as large a bouquet as that!" she said. "yes, a university and a training-ship! i can never be sufficiently grateful!" they both laughed. "well, you've paid your way!" he said; "literally and metaphorically. i suppose two gratitudes cancel each other--" "leaving an understanding friendship." she grew graver. "a good deal of love, too. i want you to realize that." she laughed again. "i do not always approve you, you know, but, thank god! i can love without always approving!" medway nodded. "i like a tolerant woman." she rose and stood, regarding him with a twisted smile, affectionate and pitying. "i think that you are a fearfully selfish man--to quote stevenson, quoted by henley, 'an unconscious, easy, selfish person.' and i think that, of your own brand, you have grit and pluck and stamina for twenty men. there's no malice or envy in you, and you're intellectually honest, and you can be the best company in the world. i am very fond of you." "aren't you the selfish person not to be willing to go to bogotá?" "perhaps--perhaps--" said hagar ashendyne, "but i am not willing." "what is it that you do want?" "that is the first time you have asked me that.... wandering is good, but it is not good for all of life. i want to return to my own country and to live there. i want to grow in my native forest and serve in my own place." "to live at gilead balm with bob and serena?" "no; i do not mean that precisely." hagar pushed back her heavy hair. "i haven't thought it out perfectly. but it has grown to be wrong to me, personally, to wander, wander forever like this--irresponsible, brushing life with moth wings.... if i saw any end to it ... but i do not--" "and you wish to cut the painter? this comes," said medway, "of the damned modern independence of women. if you couldn't write--couldn't earn--you'd trot along quietly enough! the pivotal mistake was letting women learn the alphabet." "i could always have taken a position as housemaid," said hagar serenely. "you can't make me angry, and so get the best of me. and you like me better, knowing the alphabet, and there's no use in your denying it.... if only you would conceive that it were possible for you to return to america, to take a house, to _live_ there. and still you could travel--sometimes with me, sometimes without me--travel often if you pleased and far and wide.... would it be so distasteful?" "profoundly so," said medway. "it is idle to talk of it. i should be bored to extinction.--what is your alternative?" "i shall be glad to spend three months out of every year with you." "is that your last word?" "yes." "suppose you do not begin the arrangement until next year? then we can still go to bogotá." "are you so wild to go to bogotá?" "all life," said medway, "is based upon compromise." hagar, pacing to and fro, in her soft dull-green cotton with its fine deep collar of valenciennes, stopped now before the purple irises and now before the white. "had i not appeared by your bedside in alexandria, eight years ago, had i not been at hand during that convalescence for you to grow a little fond of, you would have, all these years, taken thomson and mahomet and gone to every place where we have gone, just the same,--just the same,--and with, i hardly doubt, just as full enjoyment. if you had not liked me, you would, with the entirest equanimity, have bidden me good-bye and seen me return with grandfather to gilead balm, and you would have travelled on, finding and making friends, acquaintances, and servants as you do to so remarkable a degree, missing not one station or event. if i died to-day, you would do every proper thing--and in the autumn proceed to bogotá." "granting all that," said medway, "it remains that i find and have found in the past a pleasure in your company.--i am going to remind you again, gipsy, that all life is compromise." hagar, at the window, in the green and shimmering light like the bottom of the sea, leaned her forehead against the sash and looked across into the leafy gardens. children were there, playing and calling. a young girl passed, carrying smart bandboxes; then an old woman, stooping, using a cane, with her a great dog and a young woman in the dress of a nurse. the soft rumble and crying of the city droned in together with a bee that made for the nearest flower. hagar turned. "i will go with you for another year, father, but after that, i will go home." "no end of things," said medway, "can happen in a year. i never cross a bridge that's three hundred and sixty-five days away.--i'd advise you, if you haven't already done so, to read humboldt." he had a luncheon engagement, and at twelve vanished, thomson and mahomet in attendance. this drawing-room, his large chamber and bath, an adjoining room with its own entrance for thomson, quarters somewhere for mahomet, were his; he paid for them. hagar had two rooms, her bedroom, and a much smaller drawing-room. they were hers; she paid for them. after the first two years she had assumed utterly her own support. medway had shrugged. "as you choose--" now, in her own rooms, she wrote through the early afternoon, then, rising, weighted the sheets of manuscript with a jade buddha, put on a street dress, and went out into the divine, mild may weather. she knew people in london; she had acquaintances, engagements; but to-day was free. she walked a long way, the air was so sweet, and at last she found herself before westminster abbey. after a moment's hesitation she went in. the great, crowded place was empty, almost, of the living; a few tourist figures flitted vaguely. she moved slowly, over the dust of the dead, between the dull, encumbering marbles, until she reached a corner that she liked. sitting here, her head a little thrown back against the stone, her soul opened the gates of quiet. rose and purple light sifted down from the great windows; all about was the dim thought of dead kings and queens, soldiers, poets, men of the state. in the organ loft some one touched the organ keys. a few chords were sounded, then the vibration ceased. hagar sat very still, her eyes closed. her soul was searching, searching, not tumultuously, but quietly, quietly. it touched the past, here and there, and lighted it up; days and nights, dreams, ambitions, aspirations. some dreams, some ambitions were in the way of fulfilment. medway ashendyne was within her; she, too, knew _wanderlust_--"for to admire an' for to see." she had wandered and had seen. she would always love to wander, crave for to see and to admire.... to write--to earn--to write.... her lips curved into the slightest smile. the old days and nights when she had wondered, wondered if that would ever come to pass, if it ever _could_ come to pass! it had come to pass. to do better work, and always better work--that was a continuing impulse; but it was still and steady now, not fevered.... her mind swept with wider wings. to know, to learn, to gain in content and in fineness, to gather being, knowledge, wisdom, bliss--to gather, and then from her granary to give the increase, that was the containing, the undying desire. she had a strange passion for the future, for all that might become. she was sensitive to the wild and scattered motion within the whole, atom colliding with atom, blind-man's-buff--all looking for the outlet into freedom, power, glory; all groping, beating the air with unclutching hands, missing the outlet, it was perhaps so small. she thought of an expression of george meredith's, "to see the lynx that sees the light." to see it--to follow--to help find the opening.... what was needed was direction, and then unity of movement, the atoms in one stream, resistless. that, when the lightning bolt went across the sky, was what happened; corpuscles streaming freely, going side by side, not face against face, not energy dashing itself endlessly against energy. it was all one, physical and psychic; power lay in community of understanding.... public opinion, community of understanding, minds moving in a like direction, power resulting, power to accomplish mighty and mightier things.... then do your best to ennoble public opinion. do not think whether your best is little or great; do your best.... she opened her eyes upon the light sifting down from the rose windows. it was shortening, the shaft; evening was at hand in the church of the great dead. many who lay there had had within them a lynx that saw the light and had tried to bring the mass of their being to follow; many had ennobled the world-mind, one this way and one that; each had brought to the vast granary his handful of wheat. ruby and amethyst, the light lay athwart the pillars like an ethereal stair. the organist touched the organ again. a verger came down the aisle; it was closing time. hagar rose and went out into what sunshine lay over london. chapter xxiii by the sea but after all they did not go to bogotá. that autumn a revolution flared up in colombia. medway considered the matter, but finally shrugged and shook his head. his point gained and bogotá prepared for, he gave the idea up "for this time" with entire nonchalance. but they were in new york by now, and something must be done. he went with hagar to gilead balm for two weeks--going home for the second time in eight years. the first time had been perhaps two years after his accident. old miss had cried out so to him to come, had so passionately besought him to let her see him again, and hagar had so steadfastly supported her claim, that at last he gave in and went. he spent two months at gilead balm, and he had been gracious and considerate to all the family with an extra touch for his mother. but when he went away he evidently considered that he had done all that mortal could ask, and though old miss continued to write to him every three months, and though she always said, "and when are you coming home?" she never so urged the matter again. now he went with hagar down through the late autumn country to his birthplace, and stayed for a fortnight, as unruffled, debonair, and dominant as before. the colonel and old miss had each of them years enough now; as age is counted they were old. but each came of a long-lived stock, and they held their own to a marvel. hagar could see the difference the years had made, but there was no overwhelming difference. the colonel did not ride so far, and old miss, though she jealously guarded her key-basket and abated authority not a jot, was less active than of old. she had grown rather deaf, and medway avoided much conversation with her. captain bob was more broken; he looked older than the elder brother. luna was dead long ago, and he had another hound, lisa. he was fond of lisa and lisa of him, but lisa was not luna, and he was very faithful to luna's memory and always telling stories of her intelligence and exploits. miss serena had changed very little. mrs. green was dead, and the overseer's house at the moment stood empty. car'line was dead, too, but mary magazine kept house for isham. hagar walked down to the ferry, and she and mary magazine talked about the old flower dolls and the hayloft, and the cavern by the spring. she walked by herself upon the ridge, and sat under the cucumber tree, and went to the north side, and, leaning against the beech, which had grown to be a good-sized tree, looked down the long slope to the hollow and streamlet, the sunken boulder and thicket. the two weeks passed. indian summer held throughout november. "this dreamy place makes you disinclined to vigorous planning," said medway. "i think, gipsy, that we will drift on down through florida, and cross to cuba." this year there were evidently cross-winds. at palm beach, medway came upon an old acquaintance, associate of ancient days in paris, an artist with whom he had rambled through fontainebleau forest and drunk good wine in barbizon. for years each had been to the other a thin memory; now, almost with violence, the attraction renewed itself. but the artist was not going to cuba; he was going to the bahamas. he had a commission to paint a portrait, and his subject, who was a chicago multi-millionaire, had elected to winter at nassau and to give the sittings there. commissions evidently did not come every day to the artist, who was post-post-impressionist, and he was quite willing to go to nassau, jubilantly so, in fact. he said that, for once, light was going to be thrown upon the multi-millionaire. medway strove to persuade him to forfeit the commission and go to cuba; and he was even, it was evident, prepared to make the proceeding no financial loss. but the artist stated explicitly that he had a sense of honour and could not leave the chicagoan in the lurch; besides he wanted to paint that portrait. "come and see me do it, old fellow! i'm going to take a reasonable small house with a garden, knock out partitions and make a studio. one commission leads to another:--light on the whole bunch.--oh, i'm told that you've got a million, too! how the devil did you get into that galley?" in the end, rather than part with the old companion, medway exchanged cuba for the bahamas. thomson found a house that he thought would answer. hagar went with him to see it, and agreed that it would. both spoke entirely with reference to medway. back at the great hotel, she explained its advantages. "there's a pleasing, tangled garden, palms and orange trees and hibiscus, and a high garden wall. the verandahs, upper and lower, are wide. you get the air, and you have, besides the town, a great sweep of this turquoise sea. there's only a short, quiet, easy street between the house and mr. greer's studio. i think that it will answer." it answered very well as medway granted. he and greer were much together. the chicagoan, when he arrived, proved to be a good fellow, too, earnest in his endeavour to play blotting-paper to culture. greer gathered from the hotel several congenial americans. medway, who always had the best of letters, provided an englishman or two from the more or less stationary government set. the studio became practically his and greer's in common; they were extraordinarily good talkers and they rolled wonderful cigarettes and mahomet made _café fort_. a violinist of some note was stopping at the hotel, and he and his violin added themselves to the company. when a traveller who knew lhasa, bangkok, and baalbek, knossos and kairwan and kandy, was joined to the others, it became evident that medway had made his circle and found the winter's entertainment. he had never made greatly too large demand upon hagar's hours. he was full of resources, supple in turning from person to person of all his varied acquaintance in varied lands, moderately appreciative, too, of the value of solitude. on her side she would have stood, had there been need, for time to herself. it was to her the very breath of life. but there was never extreme need. she was within call when he wanted to turn to her, and that was sufficient. but this winter, it was evident, she would have her days to a greater extent than usual in her own hand. there was never any accounting to him for her days apart from him; almost from the first there had obtained that relation of personal liberty. to do him justice he felt no desire to exact such an accounting, and had he tried to do so he would have failed. hagar saw that she was going to have time, time this winter; and, what she liked, they would be long enough in one place to allow her to work with advantage. there would be visitors, invitations--already they had begun:--medway would wish to give, now and then, a garden-party, a dinner-party. but life would by no means run to an exchange of visits and entertainments. father and daughter had alike, in this direction, the art of sufficient but not too much. anything beyond a certain, not-great amount wearied and exasperated him, wearied and saddened her. all that would be kept in bounds. hagar, pacing the garden, saw quiet days, surcharged with light. she was thinking out her half-year's work. a volume of stories, eight or ten in all--such a subject and such a subject; such or such an incident, situation, value; such a man, such a woman. she knew that her work was good, that it was counted very good, counted to her for name and fame. all that was something to her; rather, it was much to her; but only positively so, not relatively. it could by no means fill her universe. for years she had taken now this, now that filament-like value and with skill and power had enlarged, coloured, and arranged it so that her great audience might also see; and she had done, she thought, service thereby; had, in her place, served beauty and knowledge. but the hunger grew to serve more fully. knowledge, knowledge--wisdom, wisdom--action.... hagar moved to a stone seat that commanded an opening in the garden wall. she looked out, down and over a short, steep, dazzling white street and a swarm of low, pale-coloured, chimneyless houses, with the green between of tropic trees, to the surf upon the coral shore and the opaque, marvellous blue of the surrounding sea. the creative passion was upon her, but it moved nowadays as it had moved with many an idealist-realist before.... to mould living material, to deal with the objective, to deal with the living world, not the world of bright-hued shadows; to see the living world lighten to the dawn, see the dull hues brighten, see the beautyless become beauty and beauty grow vivid, to see all the world lift, lift toward the golden day, to see the race become the over-race.... she would have died for that and died to help. she laid her arms along the stone and her head upon them. "and yet i do not help, or not with all that is in me. i sit here to one side and spin fancies." she rose, and put on a shady hat, and going out into the dazzling white street moved down it, and then by another across for some distance to the white road by the sea. her back to the town, she walked on. a few scattered palms, the sea-wall; then where it ended, an edging tangle of the hard green leaves of the sea-grape; outside of that, low fantastically worn coral rock and the white dash and spray of the water. though the sun was high and the sky intense and cloudless, a wind blew always; the air was dry and the day not too warm. there was hardly anyone upon the road. she met a cluster of negro children and talked with them a little. a surrey, of the type that waited on the street near the great hotels, passed her, driven sleepily by a sleepy negro, within it a large man in white. when it was gone in a little cloud of white dust there was only the long road, and the unyielding monotonous green of the sea-grape, and the water thundering in an undertone. hagar turned aside, broke through the grape, and came down to the edge of the surf. there was a rock hollowed until it made a rude chair. she sat down and looked out to sea. on one hand, across the harbour mouth, rose from a finger-narrow sliver of land, a squat white lighthouse; but turn a little and look away and there was only the open sea, unimaginably blue, azure as the sky. the soft wind blew, the surf broke in low thunder. hagar, her chin upon her hand, sat for a long time, very still. "how good is man's life, the mere living--" it seemed true enough, sitting there in the sunshine, in the heart of so rich a beauty. she agreed. how good it was, how good it often was!--only, only.... the line was true, perhaps, of all at some time, of some at all times--though she doubted that--but never of all at all times. it was true of a host at very few times; it was never so true of any as it might be. "how good is man's life, the mere living!--how fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!" who felt that?--not even the poets immemorial who so sang--sang often in sadness of heart! they felt only the promise that the future cast before her. association of ideas was so strong and quick within her that she was apt to call up images, not singly, but in series and sequences. her mind swept away from the west indian sea. she saw her mother at gilead balm, beating her wings against invisible bars; the woman on the packet-boat, racked with anxiety, her child in her arms, begging her way to her sick mate; the figure of the convict at the lock, thomasine in the silk mill, omega street.... she thought of rachel and her married life, of things which she had heard at the settlement, and the pain in elizabeth eden's eyes as she told them. she thought of eglantine and its insidious sapping, sapping ... of miss serena and her stunted, small industries and too-obedient soul. she thought of miss bedford, and of francie smythe, and of mrs. legrand. she seemed again to hear mrs. legrand upon roger michael. she thought of the bishop and the day he passed sentence upon a child for reading a great book. she saw the thicket back of the ridge, and dogs set by a human being upon a human being. she saw winter streets in new york, and the light shining on the three balls of the pawnbrokers, and a bread-line, and men and women huddled on park benches while the wind shook the leafless trees. she saw wall street and st. timothy's. her mind passed overseas. russia--three summers before they had been there. medway, though he laughed at her, had agreed to a stepping aside which she proposed. she wished to see tolstoy. it was always easy to him to arrange such things, and it had ended in their being invited for two days to yásnaya polyána. she saw again the old man and heard his slow words. _non-resistance_--but his mind, through his pen, was not non-resistant! it acted, it scourged, it fought, it strove to build and to clear the ground that it might build. he deceived himself, the tremendous old man. he thought himself quietist as lao-tzu, but there in that bare, small study he cried, _allah! allah!_ and fought like a mohammedan. russia and the burden of russia ... the world and the burden of the world. she thought of the east, and now her mind entered zenanas--of india, and it was the child marriages; of turkey, egypt, algeria, morocco, and it was the veiled women, proclaimed without souls. she saw the eunuchs at the gate. away to europe--and she saw that concept grading away, but never quite gone, never quite gone. woman as mind undying, self-authoritative and unrelated, the arbiter of her own destiny, the definer of her own powers, with an equal goal and right-of-way--few were the earthly places where that ray fell! "how good is man's life, the mere living--" "with vast modifications and withdrawals, with dross and alloy," said hagar. "but it might be--o, god, it might be! lift all desire and you lift the whole. lift the present--steady, steady!--and know that one day the future will blossom. and a woman's work is now with women. solidarity--unification--woman at last for woman." chapter xxiv denny gayde a few days after this she grew tired one morning of working. at ten o'clock she put away paper and pencil, pen and ink, letters and manuscript, and went out, first into the garden, and then through the gate in the wall into the high white light of the street and the pale-coloured town. few were abroad in this section; she gave a friendly nod to those she met, but they were not many--an old negress carrying chickens, a few slow wagons, a priest, a young girl and boy, white-clad, with tennis rackets; two or three others. the street swam in light, the blue vault above sprang intense, there was just enough air to keep away languor. she turned into the grounds of the old, closed royal victoria hotel. here was shade and greater freshness. she sat down on the rock coping of the driveway; then, as there was no one about, lay down upon it pillowing her head on her arms. above her was a tall, tall tree, and between the branches the deep and vivid blue. it seemed so near, it was as though with a little upward effort you might touch a sapphire roof. between the leaves the sun scattered gold sequins. they lay upon her white skirt, the hat she had discarded, her arms, her hair. she looked sideways watching a chameleon, burnished and slender, upon the wall below her. it saw her at last and with a jerk of its head scuttled away. hagar laughed, sat up and stretched her arms. some neighbouring, one-storey house, buried in foliage, possessed a parrot or cockatoo. she watched it now, on some hidden perch, a vivid splash of colour in the enfolding green, dancing about, chattering and screaming. some curious, exotic fragrance came to her; she could not trace its source. "it's a morning for the gods!" she said, and walked slowly by winding paths downward through the garden to the street. before her, seen through foliage, rose the curiously shaped building with a history where now was lodged the public library. she had visited it several times; she liked the place, which had a quaintness, and liked the way the air blew in through its deep windows; and where books were she was at home. she crossed the white street, entered and went up the stair past dusty casts, pieces of coral and sea-curios, and into the round room where english and american papers and magazines were spread upon a table. from this centre sprang, like short spokes, alcoves made by the book-stacks. each of these divisions had its chair or two and its open window. the air came in coolly, deliciously. there were the librarian and two or three people standing or seated about the central table,--no one else in the cool, quiet place. hagar, too, stood by the table for a while, turning over the january magazines, looking at the table of contents or glancing at some article or illustration. catholicism versus ultramontanism--why ireland is disloyal--drama of the future--the coal strike and its lessons--labour and the trusts--labour and capital--municipalization of public services--the battleship of the future--the war against disease--tschaikowsky and tolstoy--mankind in the making--mendel's law--the advancement of woman--the woman who toils--variation in man and woman--genesis of the Æsthetic categories--new metaphysical movement--inversion of ideas as to the structure of the universe--the world and the individual.--after a while she left these and the table and moved to one of the alcoves. it was not a day somehow for magazines. the rows of books! her gaze lingered with fondness upon them--this familiar title, this loved old friend and that. finally she drew forth a volume of keats, and with it sat down in the sweet air from the window. "no, no! go not to lethe, neither twist wolf'sbane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine--" an hour passed. a man, who had come into the room a few minutes before, was standing, looking about him--evidently the first time he had been in the building. the librarian joined him. "it's a pleasant old place, isn't it?" she said politely. "it certainly is," answered the man. "but it's so curious with that narrow stair and these deep-set windows." "yes. you see it's the old jail. once they kept men here instead of books." there was a pause. then the man said, "this is the nobler use, don't you think?" "oh," said the librarian; "but of course they were wicked men--that is, most of them. there wasn't anything else to do with them." "i see," said the man. he looked about him. "well, it's sweet and clean and useful now at last!" some one called the librarian and she went away. the man moved on with slow steps from alcove to alcove. hagar, from her recess, watched him, fascinated. her book had fallen upon the floor. with half of her mind she was again in a poor hall in new york on a winter night.... five or six people entered the library together. they came between her and the man she was following with her eyes. when at last they moved from before her alcove, she saw him leaving the place. before she could hastily rise and come out into the wider space he was out of the room upon the landing--he was going downstairs. she caught up the book from the floor, thrust it hurriedly into its place, and with a light and rapid step followed. he was at the foot of the stair when she reached the head. "oh," she called, "will you stop--will you wait?" he stopped short, turned. she was halfway down the stair, which was not long. "i beg your pardon. was it to me you were speaking?" "yes!" she came up with him--they stood together in the light-washed doorway. "i--you do not remember me." she put up her hand and took off her wide hat of straw and lace. "do you, now?" he gazed. "no--yes! wait.... oh--h! you are the little girl again!" they both laughed with pure pleasure. a soft, bright swirl of feeling enfolded the ancient doorway. "oh," she said, "i have so often thought of you!" "not oftener than i have thought of you.... you've always been like a quaint, bright picture and a piece of music in my mind.--i don't know your name." "hagar ashendyne.--and i don't know yours." "denny gayde.... i tried to find you in the crowd that night--the night of the meeting, you remember--but you were gone." "yes. and for weeks after that night i used to think that perhaps i might meet you on the street any day. and then i went away." the sun was dazzling where they stood. people, too, were coming down the stairs behind them. "let us go somewhere where we can talk," said hagar; "the gardens over there--have you time?" "i'm here on a holiday. i came yesterday. i don't know a soul and i was lonely. i've all the time there is." they crossed the street, passed under an arch of blossoming vines, and entered the royal victoria's garden--deserted, cool, and silent as when hagar had quitted it earlier in the morning. built high above the ground, about the vast trunk of a vast silk-cotton tree was a square, railed platform reached by a flight of steps. a bench ran around it; it was a cool and airy perch, chequered with shadows of leaf and twig and with a sight of the azure sea. the two mounted the steps, and moving around the trunk to a well-shaded angle, sat down. no one at all seemed near; for solitude it was much like a tree house which, shipwrecked, they might have built on a desert island. "life's the most curious thing!" said gayde. "isn't it? 'curiouser and curiouser!' said alice. i was twelve years old that summer we shared the apple turnovers." "we didn't share them. you gave me all.--i was nineteen." "and then--how many years?--nine, isn't it?--that night at that socialist meeting, when you spoke--" "what were you doing there? i asked about you--i got to know well many of the people who were there that night--but no one could identify you. and though i kept you in mind, and looked for you, too, i could never find you again." "i was spending the winter in new york. that night we had missed the theatre. we walked down fourth avenue and across--we were seeing new york at night. a crowd was going into that hall, and we went in too--" "i see." "not until i got home that night did i remember that i did not know your name.... and in a month i was upon the ocean, and i have been in america very little in all the years since. i am here this winter with my father.... and you?" she regarded him with dark eyes, simple and serious and interested as the eyes with which as a child she had regarded him above her flower dolls. he was not hungry and haggard and fear-ridden as then, nor was he as he had been the night of the socialist meeting, somewhat embarrassed and stumbling, strong, but piteous, too.... he was a little thin and worn, and looked as though he had been ill, she noted, but he was quiet, at ease, and assured. there needed no elaborate process in telling her things; to intuition she added a considerable knowledge of the world and of ways and means; to heart, intellect. one could do much in nine years; she knew that from personal experience. this man had added to native strength education, experience, poise, and significance. she might have said culture, only she had grown to dislike the word. he had not, evidently, attained to wealth as wealth is counted. in a region where the male visitor, though he might arrive in winter garments, promptly sloughed them off for fine white flannels, he had not followed custom. it was true that he was not wearing a winter suit, but what was probably a last summer's one. it was not white--only a grey, light-weight business suit, ready-made and somewhat worn. his straw hat looked new. he was clean-shaven. his face was at once the face of the boy in the thicket, and the face of the workman talking out of bitter experience to other workmen, and a new face, too,--a judging face, ascetic rather than not, with eyes that carried a passion for something vaster than the flesh. "and you?" asked hagar again. but he had fallen into a brown study. "_hagar ashendyne_--you can't be--do you mean that you are--hagar ashendyne, the writer?" "yes, hagar ashendyne, the writer." she smiled. "it never occurred to me that you might read what i have written. have you?" "yes, i have read what you have written--read it and cared for it greatly.... well, all life's a strange encounter!" "and that's true enough. and now will you tell me about yourself?" his eyes smiled back at her. "let me see--what is there to tell? that night in new york.... well, after that night ... i was fortunate in the work i got, and i rose from grade to grade. i studied hard, every moment i could get. i read and read and read. i became secretary to a certain socialist organization. i have been for some years a socialist organizer, lecturer, and occasional writer. in the summer i am to take the editorship of a socialist paper. behold the short and simple annals of the poor!" "how long are you going to be in nassau?" "a whole month. these last two years have been years of exacting, constant work, and there's a prospect of the same continuing. i thought i'd got my second wind--and then i came down suddenly. the doctor said that if i wanted to do the paper justice--and i do--i'd have to give it an editor who could sleep. so he and rose packed me off." "rose?" "my wife--rose darragh." he spoke as though she would know the name. indeed, it seemed to have for her some association; but it wavered like a dream; she could not fix it. she seemed to feel how long she had been away from america--out of touch--not knowing things, events, trendings. "nine years," she said again, uncertainly; "so much happens in nine years." "yes," he said. "personal life changes rapidly to-day--with everything more flexible, with horizons growing wider--and the age follows and changes and changes--changes and mounts. we are in for a great century. i'm glad to be alive!" "yes, i am, too." presently she looked at her watch. it was luncheon-time. would he not take it with her father and herself? no; he would not do that to-day; but leaving the great tree and the garden they walked together to the house. at the gate in the wall she said, "come to see me here to-morrow morning, if you will. i should like you to come and go as you please." "thank you," he said, then, with emphasis, "_friend_.... that is what, when i was nineteen and afterwards, i called you in my mind." "it's a good word--'friend.' let us use it still." "with all the will in the world. you are wonderful to me--hagar ashendyne." "i am glad to have found you again, denny gayde." that night, suddenly, before she slept, she placed the name rose darragh.... a feminist--a socialist agitator and leader--a writer of vigorous prose--sociology--economics.... she seemed to see her picture in some magazine of current life--a face rich, alert, and daring, rising on a strong throat from a blouse like a peasant's. chapter xxv hagar and denny the afternoon sun yet made a dazzle of the white road. infrequent trees cast infrequent shadows. it was warm, but not too warm, with an endless low wind. the tide was going out; there spread an expanse of iridescent shallows, and beyond a line of water so blue that it was unearthly. there was a tonic smell of salt and marsh. the wheels of the surrey, the horse's hoofs, brought a pleasant, monotonous, rhythmic sense of sound and motion. "that is the shell house," said hagar, breaking a long silence; "that small, small house with the boat behind. there you can buy throngs of things that come out of the sea--coral and sponges and purple sea-fans and wonderful shells." "i walked out here last week. there's a sick child i know--a little cripple. i am going to take her a great box of the prettiest shells. she'll lie there and play with them in her dingy corner of the dingy room where all the others work, and maybe they'll bring her a little of all this.... god knows!" the wheels went on. they passed the small house with a great lump of coral on one side of the door, and a tall purple sea-fan upon the other. "i sometimes think," said hagar, "that the trouble with me is that i am too general. my own sharp inner struggle was for intellectual and spiritual freedom. i had to think away from concepts with which the atmosphere in which i was raised was saturated. i had to think away from creeds and dogmas and affirmations made for me by my ancestors. i had to think away from the idea of a sacrosanct past and the virtue of immobility;--not the true idea of the mighty past as our present body which we are to lift and ennoble, and not immobility as the supreme refusal to be diverted from that purpose,--but the past, that is made up of steps forward, set and stubborn against another step, and immobility blind to any virtue in change. i had to think away from a concept of woman that the future can surely only sadly laugh at. i had to think away from sanctions and authorities and taboos and divine rights--and when i had done so, i had to go back with the lamp of wider knowledge, deeper feeling, and find how organic and on the whole virtuous in its day was each husk and shell. the trouble was that in love with the lesser we would keep out the stronger day ... and there was everywhere a sickness of conflict. i had to think away from my own dogmatisms and intolerances. i'm still engaged in doing that.... what has come of it all is a certain universal feeling.... i'm not explaining very well what i mean, but--though i want to be able to do it--it is difficult for me to drive the lightning in a narrow track to a definite end. it's playing over everything." "i see what you mean. you're more the philosopher than the crusader. well, we need philosophers, too!... i'm more, i think, the type that is sharpened to a point, that couches its lance for one promised land, which it believes is the key to many another. but i hold that it is better to move full-orbed, if you can." "i do not know--i do not know," said hagar. "i try to plunge with my whole mind into some political or social theory, but i fail. even the slow drawing-up of the submerged capacities in woman, even the helping in that,--which is greater than would be the discovery of atlantis, which is greater than almost anything else,--cannot bring the ends together. name everything and there is so much besides!" "there is such a thing," said denny, "as going to the stake for what you know to be partial, only factors, scaffoldings, stairs to mount by.... stairs and scaffoldings are necessary; therefore, die for them if need be." "i agree there," answered hagar. the surrey had left the sight of the sea. the pale road stretched straight before them, going on until it touched the cobalt sky. on either hand stood growing walls, dense and thorny as those about the sleeping beauty's palace--all manner of trees, silver palm and thatch palm, tamarind, poison-wood and plum, ink-berry and jack-bush, bound all together with smilax and many another vine. at long intervals occurred an opening, a ragged space and a hut or cabin, with an odour, too languid-sweet, of orange blossoms, and a vision of black children. the walls closed in again sombrely. the road would have been a little dreary but for the sky and the sun and the jewel-fine air. "i suppose," said hagar, "that there is a certain brahmin-like attitude to be overcome. i suppose that to take wallet and staff and go with the mass upon the day's march, encouraging, lifting, helping, pointing forward, bearing with the others, is a nobler thing than to run ahead upon your own path and cry back to the throng, 'why are you not here as well?' i suppose that ... and yet there are times when i am nietzschean, too. i can be opposites." "yes; that is what bewilders," said denny. "to include contradictories and irreconcilables--to be both centripetal and centrifugal--to be in one brain socialist and individualist!... but the greatest among mankind have found themselves able. they have been farthest ahead, and yet they have always seemed to be in the midst." the sun sank low, the white road grew pallid. "better turn presently," said hagar. "when we get to that palm. how wonderful it stands against the sky!--i never thought that i should see palm trees." when they came to it, the negro driver turned the horse. roll of wheel and slow thud of hoofs they went dreamily back toward nassau. the walls on either hand were darkening; the sky was putting on a splendid dress. "years and years now i have been away," said hagar. "in the spring i am going home." "home to--to gilead balm?" "at first, yes, i think ... then, i do not know. i have been away so long. there are people in new york i want to see--old friends--women. do you chance to know elizabeth eden?" "yes, i know her. she's one of the blessed." after a moment he said abruptly, "i want you to know rose darragh." "yes, i want to," said hagar simply. they came before long to the shell house. "let us stop and get some shells." inside they had the place, save for the merchant of shells, to themselves. right and left and all around were strewn the pearl and pink and purply spoils. all the sunset tints were here, and the beauty of delicate form--grotesqueries, too; nature in queer moods. it was pleasant to run the hands through the myriad small shells heaped in baskets, to weigh the sea-cushions and sea-stars and golden seafeathers, to admire rose coral and brain coral and finger coral, and hold the conch shells to the ear. through the open door, too, came the smell and murmur of the near-by sea, and on the floor lay one last splash of sunlight. "give me a shell," said hagar, "and i will give you one. then each of us will have something to remember the other by." they gravely picked them out, and it took some minutes to do it. then in turn each crossed to the merchant in his corner and paid the purchase price, then came back to the light in the doorway. denny held out a delicate, translucent, rosy shell. "it won't hold my gratitude," he said. "you'll never know.... i used to see you in the moonlight, between me and the bars.... somebody had cried for me, ... wept passionately. it helped to keep me human. i've always seen you with a light about you. this is your shell." "thank you. i shall keep your kind gift always," said hagar. she spoke in a child's lyric voice, quaintly and properly, so precisely as she might have spoken at twelve years old that, startled herself, she laughed, and denny, with a catch in his voice, laughed too. "oh," she cried with something like a sob, "sixteen years to slip from one like that!" she held out a small purple shell. "this is yours, denny gayde.... and i've thought of you often, and wished you well. if i did you, unknowing, a service, so you, unknowing, have done me a service, too. that summer morning, long ago--it shocked me awake. the world since then has been different always, more pitiful and nearer. here's your shell. it won't hold my gratitude and well-wishing either." they passed out between the coral and the sea-fans, entered the surrey, and it drove on. now they were back by the sea. the tide was far out, the expanse of shallows vaster. the salt pools had been fired by the torch of the sky; they lay in reds and purples, wonderful. the smell of the sea impregnated the air and there blew a whispering wind. the town began to appear, straggling out to meet them, low chimneyless houses of the poorer sort. men and women were out in the twilight, and children calling to one another and playing. the vivid lights had faded from sky and from wet sand and rock, shoal and lagoon, but colour was left, though it was the ghost of itself. it swam in the air, it gleamed from the earth. warmth was there, too, and languor, and the melancholy of the gathering night. a dreamlike quality came into things--the children's voices sounded faint and far; only there were waves of some faint odour, coming now it seemed from gardens.... now they were in the town and the sea was shut away. "one half of my fairy month is gone." "you are sleeping better?" "yes--much better.... where shall we go to-morrow?" "leave it to to-morrow. look at the star ... oh, beauty!" when to-morrow was here they walked inland to fort fincastle, and then to the queen's staircase. negro children raced after them with some sweet-smelling yellow flower in their hands. "penny, boss!--penny, boss!--penny, boss!" when they were gone, and when two surreys filled with white-dressed hotel people vanished likewise, they had the queen's staircase to themselves. broad-stepped, cut in the living rock, it plunged downward to the green bottom of the seventy-foot deep ancient quarry. trees overhung it and yellow flowers, and there was a rich, green light like the bottom of the sea. denny and hagar sat upon a step a quarter of the way down. "i do not know why," said denny, "there should be so deadly a fear of upheaval. all growth comes with upheaval--surely all spiritual growth comes so. growth by accretion means little. growth from within comes with upheaval--what you have been transformed or discarded. a little higher, a little finer breaks the sod and grows forth so. the deadly fear should be of down-sinking--from the stagnant grow-no-farther-than-our-fathers-grew down--down.... of course, the woman movement means upheaval and great upheaval--but that is a poor reason for condemnation.... as far as its political aspect is concerned, most open-minded men, socialists and others, with whom i come into contact, admit the right and the need. unless a man is very stupid he can see what a farce it is to talk of a democracy--government of the people, for the people, by the people--when one out of every two human beings is notoriously living under an aristocracy. and, of course, we who want an associative gain of livelihood, no less than an associative form of government, stand for her equality there.... but to me there is something other than all that in this upheaval. i cannot express it. i do not know what it is, unless it is some faint, supernal promise.... it is as though the spirit were again working upon the face of the waters." he paused, gazing upward at the sky above the wall of rock. "we are in for a deep change." "yes, i think so. a lift of mind and a change of heart, on which to base a chance for a deep change, indeed. a richer, deeper life.... oh, there will be dross enough for a time, tares, detritus, heat and dust and wounds of conflict, babel, cries and counter-cries! and some will think they lose...." "they'll only think so for a while. nothing can be lost." "no--only transmuted.... but i hate the tumult and the shouting while the people are yet bewildered. if that's the brahmin in me, i am going to sacrifice him. i am going where the battle is." "i do not doubt that." more white-suited people appeared, at their heels the black children. "penny, boss!--penny, boss!--penny, boss!" hagar and denny rose and walked back to town through the warm, fragrant ways. he left her at greer's studio--she had promised to come look at the portrait. as they stood a moment in the verandah, medway's golden drawl was heard from within. "well, i've known a good many philosophers--but none that were irreducible. every heroic, every transcendental treads at last the same pavement. 'i love and seek the street called pleasure. i abhor and avoid the street called pain.' therefore the _summum bonum_--" the door opened to hagar. she smiled and waved her hand, and the studio swallowed her up. some days after this they drove one afternoon over the blue hills to the southern beach. long white road--long white road--and on either hand pine and scrub, pine and scrub, and over all a vault of sky achingly blue. it was a lonely road, a road untravelled to-day, and the wind shook in the palmetto scrub. small grey birds flitted before them, or cheeped from the tangled wood. it was a day for silence and they stayed silent so long that the negro driving, who was afraid of silence, broke it himself. he told them about things, and when they awoke and genially answered, he was happy and talked on to himself until they, too, were talking, when he lapsed into silence and contentment. the wind blew, the scrub rustled, the sky was sapphire--oh, sapphire! when they came after a good while to the south beach, they left the surrey and the horse and the driver, in the shade of the trees that fringed the beach, and walked slowly a long way, over the firm sand. it stretched, a silver shore; the sun was westering, the great sea making a hoarse, profound murmur. they walked in silence, thinking their own thoughts. before them, half-sunken in the sand, lay an old boat. when they came to it, they sat down upon its shattered, sun-dried boards, with the sand at their feet and the grave evening light stealing up and mother ocean speaking, speaking.... "in the last analysis it is," said hagar, "a metaphysical adventure--a love-quest if you will. there is a passion of the mind, there is the questing soul, there is the desire that will have union with nothing less than the whole. i will think freely, and largely, and doing that, under pain of being false, i must act freely and largely, live freely and largely. nor must i think one thing and speak another, nor must i be silent when silence betrays the whole.... and so woman no less than man comes into the open." "there is something that broods in this time," said denny. "i do not know what it will hatch. but something vaster, something nobler...." hagar let the warm sand stream through her fingers. "oh, how blue is the sea.... Æons and æons and æons ago, when slowly, slowly life drew itself forth from such a sea as this into upper air--when amphibian began to know two elements, how much richer was life for amphibian, how great was the gain!... when, after æons and æons, there was all manner of warm-blooded life in woods like these behind us, or in richer woods ... and one day, dimly, dimly, some primate thought, and her children and grandchildren a little, little more consciously thought, and it spread.... to that tribe how strange a dawn! 'we are growing away from the four-footed--we are growing away from our sister the gibbon and our brother the chimpanzee--we are growing--we are changing--we feel the heavens over us and a strange new life within us--we are passing out, we are coming in--we need a new word....' and at last they called themselves _human_--æons ago...." "and now?" "and now, on the human plane, it seems to me that we may be immediately above that region." she took a pointed piece of driftwood and drew upon the sand. "here is the human plane--and here above it is another plane." she drew a diagonal line between. "and that is a stairway of growth from one to the other. and we are turning from this plane--the lower plane--and coming upon that stairway, and down it, to meet us, pours like a morning wind, like the first light in the sky, a hint of what may be. like that ancestral tribe, we are growing, we are changing--we feel a strange new life within us--we are passing out, we are coming in--we need a new word." "what would it be?" "i do not know.... after a while, an age hence maybe, when the light is stronger, we will coin it. now there is only intuition of the change.... there is something in a translation i was reading of one of the upanishads, 'but he who discerns all creatures in his self and his self in all creatures, has no disquiet.... what delusion, what grief can be with him in whom all creatures have become the very self of the thinker, discerning their oneness?... he has spread around a thing, bright, bodiless, taking no hurt, sinewless, pure, unsmitten by evil.... that might come after a long, long time, after change upon change." the great sea murmured on, a wild white bird flew across the round of vision, melted into the sunset. "and each change is greater by geometrical progression than was the one before?" "not the change itself, but that into which the change leads us. each time we depart at right angles.... yes, i think so." "and the movement of women toward freedom of field and toward self-recognition--no less than the general movement toward socialization--is part of the change?" "all things are part of it.... yes, it is part." she rose from the sand. "the sun is setting." they walked back to the surrey and took the homeward road. as they came over the blue hills it was first dusk; the town lay, grey-pearl, before them, and above it swam the moon, full and opaline. "how many days have you now?" "just seven." "have you heard from rose darragh?" "yes. she's been doing her work and mine, too. she begs me to stay another two weeks, but i must not. there is no need--i am perfectly well again--it would only be selfish enjoyment." "i wish it were possible--but if it's not, it's not.... oh, how large the moon is! you can almost see it a globe--it is like a beautiful, lighted japanese lantern." "where will we go to-morrow afternoon?" "we cannot go anywhere to-morrow afternoon, for, alas! i have to go to a garden-party at government house. but the next day we might go to old fort. what is that fragrance--those strange lilies? look now at the japanese lantern!" they went to old fort and came back in the warm evening light, driving close to the sounding sea. "five days now," said denny. "well, i have been so happy." that night hagar could not sleep. she rose at last from the bed and paced her moon-flooded room. all the long windows were wide; the night air came in and brought a sighing of the trees. after a while she stepped out upon the gallery that ran along the face of the house. medway's room was down stairs and away from this front; she had the long silvered pathway to herself. she paced it slowly, up and down, wooing calm. each time she reached the end of the gallery, she paused a moment and looked across the sleeping town that lay for the most part below this house and garden, to where she could guess the roof of the small, inexpensive, half hotel, half boarding-house where denny bided. when after a time she discovered that she was doing this, she shook herself away from the action. "no, hagar, no!" going to the other end of the gallery, she found there a low chair and sat down, leaning her head against the railing. it was the middle of the night. something in the place and in the balm of the air brought back to her those days and nights in alexandria, so long ago. there, too, she had had to make choice.... "i could love him here and now--love him--love him in the old immemorial way.... well, i will not!" she put her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. "_rose darragh--rose darragh--rose darragh_"--it struck through her mind, slow and heavily vibrant, like a deep and melancholy music. she rose and paced the gallery again, but when she came to the farther end, she turned without pause or look over the moonlit town. "_rose darragh--rose darragh_"--she made it rhythmic, breathing deeply and quietly, saying the name inwardly, deeply, but without passion now, saying it like a comrade's name. "_rose darragh--rose darragh--rose darragh--_" calm came at last, repose of mind, victory. she sat down again, leaned her arms upon the railing, and followed with her eyes the lonely, silver moon. work was in the world, the all-friend work; and beauty was in the world, the all-friend beauty; and one good put out of reach, mind and spirit must make another and were equal to the task. "rose darragh--rose darragh!--not if i could would i hurt you," said hagar; and took her attention from that matter and put it first upon the stars, and then upon some lines of shelley's that she loved, and then upon the story she had in hand. it was not well to go to bed thinking of a story, and when at last she left the gallery and laid herself straight upon the cool linen, she stilled the waves of the mind-stuff and let the barque of attention drift whither it would. at last she seemed in a deep forest long ago and far away, and there she went to sleep with a feeling of violets under her hand. five days, and denny left nassau. "it's not saying good-bye. in may, when you come to new york--" "yes, in may i'll see you and rose darragh. until may, then--" denny and she clasped hands, both hands. "thank god for friends!" he said with the odd little laugh that she liked, with the catch in the voice at the end of it as though he had started to laugh and then life had come in. his eyes were misty. he brushed his hand across them. "you are dancing before me," he said apologetically. she laughed herself. "and you are dancing before me! good-bye, good-bye, denny gayde! let's be friends always." from the garden she watched the miami steam slowly down the narrow harbour, and, passing the lighthouse, turn to the open sea. she watched it until it was but a black speck with a dark feather of smoke, and then until the feather and all had melted into the sky. "well," she said, "there's work and beauty and high cheer, and time that smooths away most violences!" but she did not see denny and rose darragh in may. that evening at dinner medway was more than usually good company. he had a high colour; his hair and curling beard had been cut just the length that was most becoming; he looked superbly handsome. often he affected hagar as would a very fine canvas, some portrait by titian. to-night was one of these nights. greer dined with them, and he was urging medway as he had urged before to let him paint him. "fortune's smiling on us both--on you as well as me. neither of us may have such a chance again! let me--ah, let me!" "what should i do with it when it was done, and if i liked it--which you know, greer, is not dead certain? you can't hang portraits in a nomad's tent, and i haven't a soul in the world to give it to,--my mother would like a coloured photograph of me, but she wouldn't like greer's picture,--unless gipsy will take it when she sets up her own establishment--" "i will take it with thanks," said hagar. "let mr. greer do it." medway said he would consider it. dinner went off gaily with stories and badinage. afterwards the traveller from the colonial came in, and then the violinist. he played for them--played rhapsodies and fantasias. it was after eleven when the three guests departed. greer's gay voice could be heard down the street-- "'a saint-blaise, à la zuecca, vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise a saint-blaise. a saint blaise, à la zuecca nous étions bien là--'" thomson appeared, with mahomet behind him to put out the lights. "good-night--sleep right!" said medway. "pleasant fellows, aren't they?" toward daylight she was awakened by a knock at her door, followed by thomson's voice. "mr. ashendyne has had some kind of a stroke, miss hagar--" she sprang up, threw on a kimono, opened the door, and ran downstairs with thomson. "i heard him breathing heavily--i've waked mahomet and sent the black boy for the doctor--" it was paralysis. and after months of nassau, she took him back to the mainland and northward by slow stages, not to gilead balm, for he made always "no!" with his head and eyes to that, and not to new york for he seemed impatient of that, too; but at last to washington. there she and thomson found a pleasant residence to let on a tree-embowered avenue, and there they moved him, and there she stayed with him two years and read a vast number of books aloud, and between the readings cultivated a sunny talkativeness. at the end of the two years there came a second stroke which killed him. chapter xxvi gilead balm "it's a foolish piece of idealism," said ralph. "but she's had her way so long i suppose it's impossible now to check her." the colonel's irritation exploded. white-haired, hawk-nosed and eyed, a little stooped now, a good deal shrunken in his black, old-fashioned, aristocratic clothes, he lifted a bloodless hand and made emphasis with a long forefinger. "precisely so! one world mistake lay in ever giving property unqualifiedly into a woman's hands, and another in ever encouraging occupations outside the household, and so breeding this independent attitude--an attitude which i for one find the most intolerable feature of this intolerable latter age! i opposed the married woman's property act in this state, but the people were infatuated and passed it. married or single, the principle is the same. it is folly to give woman control of any considerable sum of money--" mrs. legrand, entering the gilead balm library, caught the last three sentences. she smiled on the two gentlemen and took her seat upon the sofa. "money and women are you talking about? where money comes in," said mrs. legrand, "i always act under advice. women know very little about finance, and their judgment is rarely to be trusted." "just so, my dear friend! it is not in the least," spoke the colonel, "that i am acquisitive or that it will make any great difference to me personally if medway's wealth stays in the family or no. what i am commenting upon is the folly of giving a woman power to do so foolish a thing." "hagar always _could_ do foolish things," said miss serena, looking up from her mexican drawnwork. "i don't quite understand yet," said mrs. legrand. "mrs. ashendyne was telling me in the big room yesterday evening, and then some one came in--dear medway's will left her without proviso all that he had--" "as was quite proper," said ralph, "the colonel to the contrary. well, the principal comes to considerably over a million dollars--the cool million his second wife left him by her will and the settlement she had already made upon their marriage. the investment is gilt-edged. altogether it would make hagar not an extremely rich woman as riches are counted nowadays, but--yes, certainly for the south--a very rich woman. but now comes in your feminine tender conscience--" "hagar refuses to put on black," said miss serena. "i don't see that she's got a tender conscience--" "the entire amount--everything that came from the fortune--she turns back to the fund which the second wife established for workingmen's housing. she states that she agrees with her stepmother's views as to how the fortune was made, and that she does not care to be a beneficiary. she says that her stepmother had evidently given thought to the matter and preferred that form of 'restitution' and that her only duty is simply to return this million and more to the fund already erected, and from which it was diverted for cousin medway's benefit." "duty!" exclaimed mrs. legrand. "i don't see where 'duty' comes in. her 'duty' is to see that her father was wise for her. if he was content there's surely no reason why she should not be so!" "hagar," said miss serena, "never could see proper distinctions between people. i don't see that working-people are housed so badly--" ralph laughed mirthlessly. "yes, they are, cousin serena! scarcely any of them have tiled bathrooms and the best type of porcelain-lined tub, and very few have libraries that'll accommodate more than a thousand volumes, and quite a number do without nurseries papered with scenes from mother goose. and as they're all for that kind of housing, they're preparing to move in--just a little preliminary ousting of a few people with more brains and money and in they go!--cuckoos laying their eggs in abler folks' nests! this is the age of the cuckoo." "how absurd," said miss serena, "gilead balm hasn't a tiled bathroom, nor an extremely large library, and when i was a child the nursery wasn't papered at all. but we are perfectly comfortable at gilead balm. it's a heinous sin--discontent with your lot in life." "do you mean," asked mrs. legrand, "that, against your counsel and advice, hagar is really going headstrongly on to do this silly thing?" "apparently so. she is," said the colonel, "of age. there again was a mistake--to let women come of age. perpetual minors--" mrs. legrand laughed. "colonel, you are not very gallant!" the colonel turned to her. "oh, my dear friend, you're not the modern, unwomanly type that professes to see something degrading in the subordination that god and nature have decreed for woman! gallant! that's just what i am. knights and gallantry were for the type that's vanishing, though"--he bowed to mrs. legrand, who had not a little of her old beauty left--"though here and there is left a shining example!" mrs. legrand used her fan. "oh, colonel, there are many of us who like the old ways best." ralph drummed with his fingers upon the table. "to come back to hagar--" hagar herself entered the room. she was dressed in white; she was a little thin and pale, for the last weeks had been trying ones. habitually she had a glancing way of ranging from an appearance of youth almost girlish to a noble look of young maturity. to-day she looked her thirty-one years, but looked them regally. once the colonel would not have hesitated to hector her, miss serena peevishly to blame what she could not understand, mrs. legrand to attempt smoothly to put her down. all that seemed impossible now. there was about her the glamour of successful work, of a known person. mrs. legrand had recently purchased a "who's who," and had found her there. _ashendyne, hagar, author; b. gilead balm, in virginia_, and so on. from various chronicles of the realm of contemporary literature she had gathered that hagar's name would be found in yet more exclusive lists than "who's who." of course, all in the room had read much of what she had written, and equally, of course, each of the four had, for temperamental reasons, spokenly or unspokenly depreciated it. but all knew that she had--though they could not see the justice of her having--that standing in the world. mrs. legrand always, with patrons, smoothly brought it in that she had been a pupil at eglantine. none of them knew how much she made by her writing; it was to be supposed it was something, seeing that she was coolly throwing away a million dollars. there was likewise the glamour of much absence in foreign lands; the undefined feeling that here were novelties of experience and adventure, ground with which she was familiar and they were not. of experience and adventure in psychical lands they took no account. but it was undeniable that her knowing europe and asia and africa added to the already considerable difficulty in properly expressing to hagar how criminally foolish she was being. added to that, there was something in herself that prevented it. ralph spoke first. "we were talking, hagar, about your idea of what to do with cousin medway's money. here are only kinspeople and old friends, and we all wish that you wouldn't do it, and think that there'll come a day when you'll be sorry--" the colonel, leaning back in his chair, stroked his white imperial. "i should never have said, gipsy, that you were the sentimental, beggar-tending kind--" hagar's kindly eyes that had travelled from her cousin to her grandfather, now went on to mrs. legrand. "and you?" they seemed to say. "why couldn't you," said mrs. legrand, "do both? why couldn't you give a handsome donation--give a really large amount to this charity? and then why not feel that you had, so to speak, the rest in trust, and give liberally, so much a year, to all kinds of worthy enterprises? i don't believe the most benevolent heart could find anything to complain of in that--" hagar's eyes went to miss serena. "you ought to take advice," said miss serena. "how can you know that your judgment is good?" hagar gave her eyes to all in company. "it is right that you should say what you think. we are all too bound together for one not to be ready to listen and give weight to what the others think. but having done it, our own judgment has to determine at last, hasn't it? it seems to me that it is right to do what i am doing--what i have done, for it is practically accomplished. i saw all necessary lawyers and people last week in new york. of course, i hope that you'll come to see it as i do, but if you do not, still i'll hope that you'll believe that i am right in doing what i hold to be right. and now don't let's talk of that any more." "what i want to know," said miss serena, "is how you're going to live, if you don't take your dead father's support--" hagar looked at her in surprise. "live? why, live as i have lived for years--upon what i earn." "i didn't suppose you could do that.--what _do_ you earn?" "it depends. some years more, some years less. i have published a good deal and there is a continuing sale. england and america together, i am good for something more than ten thousand a year." miss serena stared at her. a film seemed to come over her eyes, the muscles of her face slightly worked. "somewhere about thirty years ago," she said painfully, "i thought i'd write a book. i'd thought of a pretty story. i wrote to a printing and publishing company in richmond about it, but they wrote back that i'd have to _pay_ to have it printed." that night in her bedroom, plethoric with small products of needle, crochet-needle, and paint-box, miss serena drew down the shades of all four windows preparatory to undressing. she was upstairs, there was a thick screen of cedars and no house or hill or person who could possibly command her windows, but she would have been horribly uneasy with undrawn shades. ready for bed, she always blew out the lamp before she again bared the windows. some one knocked at the door. "who is it?" called miss serena, her hand upon her dress-waist. "it's hagar. may i come in?" it seemed that hagar just wanted to talk. and she talked, with charm, of twenty things. mostly of happenings about the old place. she asked about the latest panel of garden lilies and cat-tails, and she took the wonderfully embroidered pincushion from the bureau and admired it. "i think that i'm going to have an apartment in new york this winter, and if i do, won't you make me a pincushion? and, aunt serena, you must come sometimes to see me." "you'll be marrying. you ought to marry ralph." "even so, you could come to see me, couldn't you? but i am not going to marry ralph." miss serena stiffened. "the whole family wants you to--" she was upon family authority, and the wooing had to be done all over again.... "i saw thomasine in new york. she's going to live with me as my secretary. you know that she has been a typewriter and stenographer for a long time, and they say she is an excellent one. she has been studying, too, other things at night, after her long hours. she is as pretty and sweet as ever. when you come, the three of us will do wonderful things together--" miss serena's bosom swelled. "i wonder when ashendynes and dales and greens began to 'do things'--by which i suppose you mean going to theatres and concerts and stores and such things--together! the bottom rail's on top with a vengeance in these days! but your mother before you had no sense of blood." hagar sat silent, with a feeling of despair. then she began again, her subject the flower garden, and then, at last--"aunt serena, tell me about the story _you_ wanted to write...." ralph--ralph was too insistent, she thought. he found her the next morning, under the old sycamore by the river, and he proceeded again to be insistent. she stopped him impatiently. "ralph, do you wish still to be friends, or do you wish me to put you one side of the equator and myself on the other? i can do it." "the equator's an imaginary line." "you'll find that an imaginary line can change you into a stranger." "hagar, i'm used to getting what i set my heart and brain upon." "so was a gentleman named napoleon bonaparte. he got it--up to a certain limit." "i don't believe you are in earnest. i don't believe you have ever really considered--and i intend one day to make you see--" "see what? see my enormous advantage in marrying you? oh, you--man!" "see that you love me." "how, you mean, can i help it? oh, you--featherless biped!" ralph broke in two the bit of stick in his hands with a snapping sound. "i'm mad for you, and i'd like to pay you out--" "you are more remotely ancestral than almost any man i know!--come, come! let us stop this and talk as cousins and old playmates. there's wall street left, and who is going to be president, and what are you going to do with hawk nest." "what i wanted to do with hawk nest was to fix it up for you." "oh, ralph, ralph! i should laugh at you, but i feel more like crying. the pattern is so criss-cross!" she rose from beneath the sycamore. "i'm going back to the house now." he walked beside her. "do you remember once i told you i was going to make a great fortune, and you made light of it? well, i'm a wealthy man to-day and i shall be a much wealthier one. it grows now automatically. and that i would be powerful. well, i am powerful to-day, and that, too, grows." "oh, ralph, i wish you well! and if we don't define wealth and power alike, still your definition is your definition. and if that's your heart's desire, and i think it is, be happy in your heart's desire--until it changes, and then be happier in the change!" "i have told you what is my heart's desire." "i will _not_ go back to that. look! the sumach is turning red." "yes, it is very pretty.... you didn't see sylvie maine--sylvie carter--when you were in new york?" "no. i haven't seen sylvie since that one first winter there. i wrote to her when i heard of jack carter's death." "that has been three years ago now. she is a very beautiful woman and much sought after. i saw a good deal of her last winter.... yes, that sumach is getting red. autumn's coming.... hagar! i'm not in the least going to give up." "ralph, i'm going to advise you to use your business acumen and recognize an unprofitable enterprise when you see it.... look at the painted ladies on that thistle!" "i'm old-fashioned enough to believe that a man can _make_ a woman love him--" "are you? be so good as to let me know when you succeed.--i warn you that the equator is getting ready to drop between." when they passed the cedars and came to the porch steps, it was to find old miss sitting in the large chair, her white-stockinged feet firmly planted, her key-basket beside her, and her knitting-needles glinting. "did you have a pleasant walk?" she asked, and looked at them with a certain massive eagerness. "ask hagar, ma'am. she may have," answered ralph; and took himself into the house. they heard his rather heavy footfall upon the stair. hagar sat down on the porch step. "ralph has, doubtless, a great many good qualities, but he is spoiled." now old miss had a favourite project or projects, and that was matings between coltsworths and ashendynes. every few years for perhaps two centuries such matings had occurred. many had occurred in her day. with great intensity she wanted and had wanted for years to see a match made between her granddaughter and so promising, nay, so accomplishing, a coltsworth as ralph. she was proud of ralph--proud of his appearance, of his ability to get on in the world and make money and restore hawk nest, of his judgment and knowledge of public affairs which seemed to her extraordinary. she wanted him to marry hagar, and characteristically she refused to admit the possibility of defeat. but ralph was no longer quite a young man--he ought to have been married years ago. as for hagar--old miss loved her granddaughter, but she had very little patience with her. she was not patient with women generally. she thought that, on the whole, women were a poor lot--_witness maria_. maria lived for old miss, lived on one side in space of her own, core of an atmosphere of smouldering, dull resentment. if maria had been different, medway would have lived at home. if maria had known her duty, there would have been a brood of grandchildren to match with broods of coltsworths and others of rank just under the first. if maria had been different, this one grandchild wouldn't be throwing a million dollars away and failing to love her cousin! if maria hadn't been a wilful piece, hagar might have escaped being a wilful piece. old miss loved her granddaughter, but that was what she was calling her now in her mind--a wilful piece. factors that counted with the others at gilead balm, hagar's very actual detachment and independence, name and prestige and personality, failed to count with old miss. such things counted in other cases; they counted in ralph's case. but hagar was of the younger, therefore rightfully subordinate, generation, and she was female. ralph was of the younger generation, also, and as a boy, while old miss spoiled him when he came to gilead balm, she expected to rule him, too. but ralph had crossed the rubicon. as soon as he grew from young boy to man, some mysterious force placed him without trouble of his own in the conquering superior class whose dicta must be accepted and whose judgment must be deferred to. the halo appeared about his head. he came up equal with and passed ahead of old miss, elder generation to the contrary. but hagar--hagar was yet in the class that was young and couldn't know; she was in the class of the "poor lot." she was a wilful piece. "i do not see that ralph is spoiled," said old miss. "he receives a natural recognition of his ability and success in life. he is a very successful man, a very able man. he is giving new weight to the family name. there was a piece in the paper the other day that said the state ought to be proud of ralph. i cut it out," said old miss, "and put it in my scrapbook. i'll show it to you. you ought to read it. i don't see why you aren't proud of your cousin." "i hope i may be.--what are you knitting, grandmother?" "any woman might be happy to have ralph propose to her. and any woman but your mother's daughter might have some care for family happiness and advantage--" "oh, grandmother, would my unhappiness in truth advantage the family?" "unhappiness! there's no need for unhappiness. that's your mother again! ralph is a splendid man. you ought to feel flattered. i don't believe in marrying without love, certainly not without respect; but when you see it is your duty and make your mind submissive you can manage easily enough to feel both. that's the trouble with you as it was with your mother before you. you don't see your duty and you don't make your mind submissive. i've no patience with you." "grandmother," said hagar, "did you ever realize that you yourself only make your mind submissive when it comes into relation with men, or with ideas advanced by men? i have never seen you humble-minded with a woman." old miss appeared to take this as a startling proposition, and to consider it for a moment; then, "i don't know what you mean." "i mean that outraged nature must be itself somewhere--else there's annihilation." old miss's needles clicked. "i don't pretend to be 'literary,' or to understand literary talk. what moses and st. paul said and the way we've always done in virginia is good enough for me. you're perverse and rebellious as maria was before you. it's simple obstinacy, your not caring for ralph--and as for throwing away medway's million dollars, there ought to be a law to keep you from doing it!--are you going upstairs? my scrapbook is on the fourth shelf of the big closet. get it and read that piece about ralph." chapter xxvii a difference of opinion but the great gilead balm explosion came three days later. it was nearly sunset, and they were all upon the wide, front porch--the colonel, old miss, miss serena, captain bob, mrs. legrand, hagar. ralph was not there, he had ridden to hawk nest, but would return to-night. it had been a beautiful, early september day, the sky high and blue, the air all sunny vigour. gilead balm sat and enjoyed the cool, golden, winey afternoon, the shadows lengthening over the hills, the swallows overhead, the tinkle of the cow-bells. it was not one of your families that were always chattering. the porch held rather silent than otherwise. mrs. legrand could, indeed, keep up a smooth, slow flow of talk, but mrs. legrand had been packing to return to eglantine which would "open" in another week, and she was somewhat fatigued. the colonel, pending the arrival of yesterday's newspaper, was reviewing that of the day before yesterday. captain bob and lisa communed together. old miss knitted. miss serena ran a strawberry emery bag through and through with her embroidery needle. hagar had a book, but she was not reading. it lay face down in her lap; she was hardly thinking; she was dreaming with her eyes upon a vast pearly, cumulus cloud, coming up between the spires of the cedars. a mulatto boy appeared with the mail-bag. "ha!" said the colonel, and stretched out his hand. there was a small table beside him. he opened the bag and turned the contents out upon this, then began to sort them. no one--it was a gilead balm way--claimed letter or paper until the colonel had made as many little heaps as there were individuals and had placed every jot and tittle of mail accruing, ending by shaking out the empty bag. he did all this to-day. captain bob had only a county paper--no letters for old miss--a good deal of forwarded mail for mrs. legrand--the colonel's own--letters and papers for hagar. the colonel handled each piece, glanced at the superscription, put it in the proper heap. he shook out the bag; then, gathering up mrs. legrand's mail, gave it to her with a smile and a small courtly bow. miss serena rose, work in hand, and took hers from the table. lisa walked gravely up, then returned to captain bob with the county paper in her mouth. the colonel's shrunken long fingers took up hagar's rather large amount and held it out to her. "here, gipsy"--the last time for many a day that he called her gipsy. a letter slipped from the packet to the floor. bending, the colonel picked it up, and in doing so for the first time regarded the printing on the upper left-hand corner--_return in five days to the ---- equal suffrage league_. the envelope turned in his hand. on its reverse, across the flap, was boldly stamped--votes for women. colonel argall ashendyne straightened himself with a jerk. "hagar!--what is that? how do you happen to get letters like that?--answer!" his granddaughter, who had risen to take her mail, regarded first the letter and then the colonel with some astonishment. "what do you mean, grandfather? the letter's from my friend, elizabeth eden. i wonder if you don't remember her, that summer long ago at the new springs?" the colonel's forefinger stabbed the three words on the back of the envelope. "you don't have friends and correspondents who are working for _that_?" "why not? i propose presently actively to work for it myself." apoplectic silence on the part of the colonel. the suddenly arisen storm darted an electric feeler from one to the other upon the porch. "what's the matter?" demanded captain bob. "something's the matter!" old miss, who had not clearly caught the colonel's words, yet felt the tension and put in an authoritative foot. "what have you done now, hagar? who's been writing to you? what is it, colonel?" ralph, in his riding-clothes, coming through the hall from the back where he had just dismounted, felt the sultry hush. "what's happened? what's the matter, hagar?" "get me a glass of water, serena!" breathed the colonel. he still held the letter. "my dear friend, let me fan you!" exclaimed mrs. legrand, and moved to where she could see the offending epistle. "votes for--oh, hagar, you surely aren't one of _those_ women!" miss serena, who had flown for the water, returned. the colonel drank and the blood receded from his face. the physical shock passed, there could be seen gathering the mental lightning. miss serena, too, read over his shoulder "votes-- ... oh, _hagar_!" hagar laughed--a cool, gay, rippling sound. "why, how round-eyed you all are! it isn't murder and forgery. is the word 'rebellion' so strange to you? may i have my letter, grandfather?" the colonel released the letter, but not the situation. "either you retire from such a position and such activities, or you cease to be granddaughter of mine--" old miss, enlightened by an aside from mrs. legrand, came into action. "she doesn't mean that she's friends with those brazen women who want to be men? what's that? she says she's going to work with them? i don't believe it! i don't believe that even of maria's daughter. going around speaking and screaming and tying themselves to houses of parliament and interrupting policemen! if i believed it, i don't think i'd ever speak to her again in this life! women righters and abolitionists!--doing their best to drench the country with blood, kill our people and bring the carpetbaggers upon us! wearing bloomers and cutting their hair short and speaking in town-halls and wanting to change the marriage service!--yes, they do wear bloomers! i saw one doing it in new york in , when i was there with your grandfather. and she had short hair--" mrs. legrand, as the principal of a school for young ladies, always recognized her responsibility to truth. she stood up for veracity. "dear mrs. ashendyne, it is not just like that now. there are a great many more suffragists now--so many that society has agreed not to ostracize them. some of them are pretty and dress well and have a good position. i was at a tea in baltimore and there were several there. i've even heard women in virginia--women that you'd think ought to know better--say that they believed in it and that sooner or later we'd have a movement here. of course, you don't hear that kind of talk, but i can assure you there's a good deal of it. of course, i myself think it is perfectly dreadful. woman's place is the home. and we can surely trust _everything_ to the chivalry of our southern men. i am sure hagar has only to think a little--the whole thing seems to me so--so--so _vulgar_!" miss serena broke out passionately. "it's against the bible! i don't see how any _religious_ woman--" hagar, who had gone back to her chair, turned her eyes toward captain bob. "confound it, gipsy! what do you want to put your feet on the table and smoke cigars for?" hagar looked at ralph. he was gazing at her with eyes that were burning and yet sullen and angry. "women, i suppose, have got to have follies and fads to amuse themselves with. at any rate, they have them. suffrage or bridge, it doesn't much matter, so long as it's not let really to interfere. if it begins to do that, we'll have to put a stop to it. woman, i take it, was made for man, and she'll have to continue to recognize that fact. good lord! it seems to me that if we give her our love and pay her bills, she might be satisfied!" all having spoken, hagar spoke. "i should like, if i may, to tell you quietly and reasonably why--" her eyes were upon her grandfather. "i wish to hear neither your excuses nor your reasons," said the colonel. "i want to hear a retraction and a promise." hagar turned slightly, "grandmother--" "don't," said old miss, "talk to me! when you're wrong, you're wrong, and that's all there is to it! maria used to try to explain, and then she stopped and i was glad of it." hagar leaned back in her chair and regarded the circle of her relatives. she felt for a moment more like maria than hagar. she felt trapped. then she realized that she was not trapped, and she smiled. thanks to the evolving whole, thanks to the years and to her eternal self pacing now through a larger moment than those moments of old, she was not by position maria, she was not by position miss serena. before her, quiet and fair, opened her fourth dimension. inner freedom, ability to work, personal independence, courage and sense of humour and a sanguine mind, breadth and height of vision, tenderness and hope, her waiting friends, elizabeth, marie, rachel, molly and christopher, denny, rose darragh, many another--her work, the story now hovering in her brain, what other and different work might rise above the horizon--the passion to help, help largely, lift without thinking if it were or were not her share of the weight--the universe of the mind, the growing spirit and the wings of the morning ... there was her land of escape, real as the hills of gilead balm. she crossed the border with ease; she was not trapped. even now her subtle self was serenely over. and the hagar ashendyne appearing to others upon this porch was not chained there, was not riveted to gilead balm. next week, indeed, she would be gone. a tenderness came over hagar for her people. all her childhood was surrounded by them; they were dear, deep among the roots of things. she wanted to talk to them; she longed that they should understand. "if you'd listen," she said, "perhaps you'd see it a little differently--" the colonel spoke with harshness. "there is no need to see it differently. it is you who should see it differently." "it comes of the kind of things you've always read!" cried miss serena. "books that i wouldn't touch!" "yes, maria was always reading, too," said old miss. for her it _was_ less hagar than maria sitting there.... "if it was anything we didn't know, we would, of course, listen to you, hagar dear," said mrs. legrand. "i should be glad to listen anyhow, just as i listened to those two women in baltimore. but i must say their arguments sounded to me very foolish. ladies in the south certainly don't need to come into contact with the horrors they talked about. and i cannot consider the discussion of such subjects delicate. i should certainly consider it disastrous if my girls at eglantine gained any such knowledge. to talk about their being white slaves and things like that--it was nauseating!" "would you listen, ralph?" asked hagar. "i'll listen to you, hagar, on any other subject but this." mrs. legrand's voice came in again. she was fluttering her fan. "all these theories that you women are advancing nowadays--if they _paid_, if you stood to gain anything by them, if by advancing them you didn't, so it seems to me, always come out at the little end of the horn--people ridiculing you, society raising its eyebrows, men afraid to marry you--! my dear hagar, men, collectively speaking--men don't want women to exhibit mind in all directions. they don't object to their showing it in certain directions, but when it comes to women showing it all around the circle they do object, and from my point of view quite properly! men naturally require a certain complaisance and deference from women. there's no need to overdo it, but a certain amount of physical and mental dependence they certainly do want! well, what's the use of a woman quarrelling with the world as it's made? between doing without independent thinking and doing without an establishment and someone to provide for you--! so you see," said mrs. legrand, smoothly argumentative, "what's the use of stirring up the bottoms of things? and it isn't as though we weren't really fond of the men. we are. i've always been fonder of a man, every time, than of a woman. i must confess i can't see any reason at all for all this strenuous crying out against good old usage! of course a woman with considerable mental power may find it a little limiting, but there are a lot of women, i assure you, who never think of it. if there's a little humbug and if some women suffer, why those things are in the dish, that's all! the dish isn't all poisoned, and a woman who knows what she is about can pick and choose and turn everything to account. i wouldn't know what to do," said mrs. legrand, "with the dish that people like you would set before us. all this crying out about evolution and development and higher forms doesn't touch me in the least! i like the forms we've got. perhaps they're imperfect, but the thing is, i feel at home with imperfection." she leaned back, in good humour. hagar had given her an opportunity to express herself very well. "don't you, too," she asked, "feel at home with the dear old imperfection?" hagar met her eyes. "no," she said. mrs. legrand shrugged. "oh, well!" she said, "i suppose each will fight for the place that is home." hagar looked beyond her, to her kindred. "you're all opponents," she said. "alike you worship god as man, and you worship a static god, never to be questioned nor surpassed. you have shut an iron door upon yourselves.... one day you who shut it, you alone--you will open it, you alone. but i see that the day is somewhat far." she rose. "i was going anyhow you know, grandfather, in four days. but i can take the morning train if you'd rather?" but colonel ashendyne said stiffly that if she had forgotten her duty, he had not his, and that the hospitality of gilead balm would be hers, of course, for the four days. hagar listened to him, and then she looked once more around the circle. a smile hovered on her lips and in her eyes. it broadened, became warm and sweet. "i'll accept for a time the partial estrangement, but i don't ever mean that it shall be complete! it takes two to make an estrangement." she went up to her grandmother and kissed her, then said that she was going for a walk.--"no, ralph, you are not coming with me!" she went down the porch steps, and moved away in the evening glow. the black cedars swallowed her up; then upon the other side, beyond the gate, she was seen mounting the hill to the right. the sun was down, but the hilltop rested against rose-suffused air, and above it swam the evening star. ralph spoke with a certain grim fury. "i wish the old times were back! then a man could do what he wished! then you didn't feel yourself caught in a net like a cobweb that you couldn't break--" mrs. legrand again opened her fan. "i am very fond, of course, of dear hagar, but i must say that she seems to me intensely unwomanly!" chapter xxviii new york again it seemed strange to be back at the maines', staying a fortnight with rachel while the apartment was being looked for. nothing had been moved in that house; it was all just the same, only the tone of time was deeper, the furniture more worn, the prints yellower. she asked for and was given the third-floor back room again, though, indeed, mrs. maine protested that now that she was famous!... bessie had changed as little as the house. more grey hairs, somewhat more flesh, a great many more pounds of chocolate creams to her credit--that seemed all. she was still amiable, sleepily agreeable, comely, and lazy. powhatan, except to grow greyer and leaner, had not altered either. the old servants held on. with some inevitable variations the same people came in the evenings--the bishop's nephew and the st. timothy people, and powhatan's downtown acquaintances, and chance visitors from the other side of mason and dixon's. she noticed a slight difference in the cast of talk. they all seemed uneasily aware that the world was moving. mostly they disapproved and foreboded. she cast her mind back to that winter of ' -' . it had been the terrible winter of unemployment, strikes, widespread discontent. she remembered clearly how powhatan had declaimed then against "upsetters" and what the country was coming to. but now she heard him and the bishop's nephew agree that anti-christ and ruin were modern inventions. they sighed for the halcyon past. "even ten or twelve years ago, sir, men were content enough!" rachel--rachel had not sat still. rachel had climbed. she was the old rachel, but sweetened and broadened. there was left something of her old manner; she had her broodings that to the casual eye seemed half-sullen; at the end of long silences she might flare out, send at table or elsewhere a flaming, unexpected arrow, but her old ways were like old clothes, kept half-negligently, worn from habit, while all the time a fairer, more lately woven garment was in the wardrobe. she looked no older; she was slight and brown and somehow velvety. hagar called her a pansy. she was no longer tragic, or tragedy had become but a dim background, a remembered cloud. and she was the strong, sane, and actual comrade of her children. betty and charley.... charley was blind. charley and betty had changed, changed more than anybody. betty stood a frank, straight young diana, what she said and did ringing true. charley was the student. he had his shelves of braille, and his mother's eyes and voice were his at call. just now they were doing general history together--that was what charley wanted, to be a historian. charley and betty claimed hagar for their own. there were her christmas letters every year--wonderful letters--and her christmas gifts, small choice things from every land. they worshipped her, too, with frankness because she had "done something"--because her name counted. oh, they were very ambitious, betty and charley; filled with ideas, glorious for the new time, ready to push the world with vigour! "oh," cried hagar, "don't they make you feel timid, cautious, and conservative?" she watched with interest to see what effect the two had upon powhatan and bessie. she was forced to the conclusion that they had very little. they angered powhatan sometimes, and he would strike the table and deplore the days of silent reverence. but he was desperately proud of betty's looks, and he had an odd, sneaking pity and fondness for charley, and hagar gathered that he would have sadly missed them out of the house. as for bessie, she only gave her sleepy smile, and said that all children talked foolishly, but that you didn't have to listen. upstairs, at bedtime, now in rachel's room, now in hagar's the two talked together. daytime, they looked for hagar's apartment. they found it at last, high in air, overlooking the great city; roofs and roofs and roofs at a hundred levels; curling streamers of white steam like tossed plumes against the blue sky, bright pennants floating from towering hotel or department store; a clock below a church spire, with a gilt weather-cock far above; blurs of occasional trees seen in some hollow opening; streets far below them, crossing, crossing--percolating rivulets of manikins that were people; roofs and roofs and roofs, and a low perpetual, multitudinous voice; and the sky over all, high and clear and exhilarating the day they found the place. "i am going to utter a bromide," said hagar. "how marvellous is modern life!" they went over it again. "thomasine's room, and a guest-room, and my room, and a fine room for mary magazine who is coming--isham having remarried--to look after us, and two baths and a great big library-study-drawing-room, and a little room for what we please, and plenty of closets, and a quiet and good café away up on the roof--rachel, it's fine!" they sat on a window-seat and rachel produced a pencil and notebook, and together they tinted the walls and laid rugs and hung pictures and ran bookshelves around and furnished the apartment. "there! that's quiet and perfect and not expensive. as thomson would say, 'it's quite _comme il faut_, miss!'" "where is thomson?" "mr. greer, the artist, has taken him over. he wrote me that he was making thousands, throwing the light on millionaires, and especially millionairesses, and that he wanted thomson, oh, so badly! he's the type that thomson likes, and so he joined him two months ago at newport. dear old thomson! mahomet has gone back to alexandria." they looked around the big room. "soft lights at night and all those twinkling stars out there. it's going to be a dear home." "you'll have people coming about you. your own sort--" hagar laughed. "what is my sort? everybody's my sort." "writers--artists--" hagar pondered the mantel-shelf with a view to what should go above it. "i don't know many of them. i know more of them abroad than here. we're a very isolated kind of craftspeople--each of us more or less on a little robinson crusoe island of our own. it may be different in new york, i don't know.... we could do a good deal if we'd put our heads together and push the same wheel." the apartment was not to be furnished in a day. they worked at it in a restful and leisurely manner, and in the midst of operations, hagar went to see the josslyns who had a house up on the sound. that afternoon she and the josslyns walked by the water and watched the white sails gliding by the green and rocky shore, then in the evening sat by a wood fire with cider and apples. monday to friday the children were in town at their grandmother's, going to school; friday afternoon they entered the big living-room like a west wind and danced about with their mother. a little later the whole family would go into town; christopher had had a course of lectures to write and he was doing it better here. the fire crackled and blazed; at night through the open windows came in a dim sound of waves, with passing lights of boats, and the fragrance of the salt sea, beloved by hagar. on monday, when the children had gone, she drove with molly deep into the sweet countryside, and the two talked as the quiet old horse jogged along.... molly had taken the advice of the woman at roger michael's dinner-party three years and more ago. she was an active member of a suffrage organization, deeply interested, beginning to speak. "i'm a good out-of-doors sort. my voice carries and i don't have to strain it. of course, we're just beginning out-of-doors speaking. i haven't half the intellect i wish i had, but i can give them good, plain doctrine. it's so common-sense, after all! and christopher helps so much.... oh, hagar, when you're truly mated, it's _heaven_!" molly could tell much of the practical working, of the everyday effort and propaganda. "in two weeks we'll be back in town, and then if you'll let me take you here and there--and when we get back to the house i'll show you what i have of the literature we use,--pamphlets, leaflets, and so on,--from john stuart mill down to an article christopher wrote the other day. we broadcast a great amount of it in every state, but if we were rich we could make use of a thousand times more. but we're not rich--whether that's to our damnation or our salvation! we have to make devotion do instead. then there are the books that help us, and they are coming out constantly now. and every now and then we gain a bit of the press. a number of the magazines help no end. and, of course, we speak and have meetings and work quietly, each among her own acquaintance. it's to educate--educate--educate! we're just at the beginning of things. there were the early stages and the heroic women who blazed the trail. they're all going,--miss anthony died last march,--and their time is merging into our time, and now the trail's a roadway and there are thousands on it, and still we're just at the beginning--" molly could tell, too, something of the personality of the women eminent in the movement. "the really eminent to-day are not always those whose names the reporters catch, and _vice versa_. and while the papers talk of 'leaders,' i do not think that, in the man's sense, they are leaders at all. we do not hurrah for any woman as the men do for mr. roosevelt or mr. bryan. the movement goes without high priests and autocrats and personifications. we haven't, i suppose, the big chief tradition. perhaps woman's individualism has a value after all. it's like religion when it really is personal; your idea of good remains your idea of good; it doesn't take on a human form. or perhaps we're merely tired of crooking the knee. i don't know. the fact remains." they jogged along by country roads and orchards. "it's the most worth-_while_ thing!" said molly. "nobody can explain it, but every one who takes hold of it _deep_ feels it. i heard a woman say the other day that it was like going out of a close room into ozone and wind and the blue lift of the sky. she said she felt as though she had wings! discouragements? cartloads of them! but somehow they don't matter. nor do mistakes. of course we make them--but the next time we do better." the witching autumn week with the josslyns over, hagar went back to town, and, as she had promised, to the settlement for three days. the settlement! the first day she had seen it came back clearly; the harsh, biting day and the search for thomasine, and omega street, and then how wonderful the old house had seemed to her, going over it with elizabeth. it was shrunken now, of course, in size and marvel, but it was still a grave and pleasant place of fine uses. she had visited it before during this month, and she had marked certain changes. a few of the people in residence years before were here yet, others were gone, others of later years had come in. but it was not only people; other changes appeared. she found exhibited a deep skepticism of certain danaïdes' labours still favoured or tolerated so many years ago. the policies of the place were bolder and larger; every one was at once more radical and more serene. marie caton met her. "elizabeth has a committee meeting, and then she speaks to-night at cooper union: _women in the sweated trades_. i haven't had you to myself hardly ever! now i'm going to." "can't i go to cooper union to-night?" "oh, yes! i'm going, too. it's an important meeting. but i've got you for a whole two hours, and nowadays that's a long and restful sojourn together! get your things off and we'll take possession of elizabeth's sitting-room." in elizabeth's room, with her books, with the psyche and the botticelli judith and the mona lisa and the drawing of the sphinx, they talked of twenty things, finally of the settlement's specific activities, old ones carried on, new ones embarked in; then, "but more and more you get drawn--or i get drawn--into the ocean of china awake." "china awake?" "women awake. it's an ocean all right, with an ocean's possibilities." "i don't think it's women only who are waking, marie. women and men, all of us--" "i agree," said marie. "but it wasn't just natural sleepy-headedness with women. they've been drugged--given knock-out drops, so to speak. they have a long way to wake up." hagar mused, her eyes upon the drawing. "yes, a good, long way.... there must have been a lot of pristine strength." "well, it's coming out. all kinds of things are coming out with an accent on qualities they didn't think she had." "yes. the world _is_ rather in the position of the hen with the duckling--" "the kind of thing we read and hear at this place emphasizes, of course, the economic and sociological side. it's to be the century of fair distribution, of social organization, of humanism--_ergo_, woman also. which, of course, is all right, but i'd put an infinite plus to that." "and elizabeth?" "oh, elizabeth is a saint! what she thinks of is the sweated woman and the little children, and the girl who goes under--most often is pushed under. it's what we see down here; it's the starved bodies and minds, the slow dying of fatigue, the monstrous wrong of the things withheld that's moving her. of course, we all think of that. how can any thinking woman not think of that? she wants the vote to use as a lever, and so do i, and so do you.... but behind all that, in the place where i myself live," said marie, with sudden passion, "i am fighting to be myself! i am fighting for that same right for the other woman! i am fighting for plain recognition of an equal humanity!" there was a crowd that night at cooper union. elizabeth spoke; a grave, strong talk, followed with attention, clapped with sincerity. after her there spoke an a. f. of l. man. "women have got to unionize. they've got to learn to keep step. they've got to learn that the good of one is wrapped up in the good of all. they've got to learn to strike. they've got to learn to strike not only for themselves, but for the others. they've got to get off their little, just-standing-room islands, and think in terms of continents. they've got to get an idea of solidarity--" when he had taken his seat came an announcement, made with evident satisfaction. "we did not know it until a few minutes ago. we thought she was still in the west--but we are so fortunate as to have with us to-night--rose darragh!" applause broke forth at once. chapter xxix rose darragh rose darragh's short speech, at once caustic and passionate, ended--the meeting ended. hagar waited below the platform. rose darragh, at last shaking off the crowd, came toward her. "i've been looking at you. i seem, somehow, to know you--" "and i you. and not--which is strange to me--not through another." "is your name hagar ashendyne?" hagar nodded. "we can't talk well here--" "i'm in new york for two weeks. denny's in chicago and i join him there. let me see--where can we meet? will you come to my flat?" "yes; and in a few days i shall have my own rooms. i want to see you there, too, rose darragh." "i'll come. this is my address. will you come to-morrow at four?" hagar went. denny had written that the two lived "handy to their work," and it was apparent that they did. the flat had the dignity of spartan simplicity. in it rose darragh moved with the fire of the ruby. "denny had to go about the paper. oh, it's doing well, the paper! it's denny's idol. he serves in the temple day and night, and when the idol asks it, he'll give his heart's blood.... you liked denny very much, didn't you?--in nassau, three years ago?" "yes, i did." they were sitting in the plain, bare room, attractive, for it was so clean, the late autumn sunlight streaming in at the curtainless windows. "yes, i did. i liked him so well that ... i had somewhat of a fight with myself.... i am telling you that," said hagar, "because i want your friendship. it is over now, nor do i think it will come again." rose darragh gave her a swift look from heel to head. "that's strength. i like strength.... all right! i'm not afraid." they sat in silence for a moment; then, "i wish you'd tell me," said hagar, "about your work." a very few days after this she took possession of the apartment, and at once made it a home. there was a housewarming with rachel and betty and charley and elizabeth and marie and the josslyns, and two pleasant gentlemen, her publishers, and a fellow-writer or two whom she was by way of knowing and liking, and an artist, and an old scholar and philosopher whom she had known abroad and loved and honoured. and there was thomasine, a little worn and faded, but with happiness stealing over her, and mary magazine busy with the cakes and ale. there couldn't have been a better housewarming. thomasine--thomasine began to bloom afresh. factory and department store and business school and office lay behind her--each a stage upon a somewhat dull and dusty and ambuscade-beset road of life. business school and office, training for mind and fingers alike, a resulting "place" with a fair-dealing firm--all that was hagar's helping, a matter of the last six or seven years. and now hagar had come back and had made thomasine an offer, and thomasine closed with it very simply and gladly. she had from the beginning worked hard and as best she could and had given good value for her pay; and now she was going still to do all that, but to do it with a singing heart and her hunger for beauty and fitness fed. the colour came back into her cheeks; she began to take on a sprite-like beauty. she brought seriously into conversation one day the fact that she had always been good at finding four-leafed clovers.... jim and marietta were doing fairly, still over in new jersey. "fairly" meant a poor house which marietta did her best to keep clean, and two of the children working, and the city for summer and winter, and jim's pay envelope neither larger nor heavier, but the cost of living both. but jim had his "job," and marietta was not so ailing as she used to be, and the two children brought in a little, and thomasine helped each month; so they might be said to be doing much better than many others. there was even talk of being able one day to get--the whole family being fond of music--one of the cheaper phonographs. hagar and thomasine worked through the mornings, hagar thinking, remembering, creating; thomasine taking from her the labour of record; caring also for her letters and the keeping of accounts and all small, recurring business. and thomasine loved to do any shopping that arose to be done,--which was well, for hagar hated shopping,--and loved to keep the apartment "just so." the two lived in quiet, harmonious intercourse, together in working hours, but when working hours were over, each going freely her individual way. thomasine, too, had friends. she wrote to jim and marietta and to maggie at home, taking care of the mother with the spine, that she hadn't been so happy since they used to go to grandmother's at gilead balm.... rose darragh--rose darragh had not been at hagar's housewarming. she was speaking that night in newark. but some days afterwards she came--came late one afternoon with the statement that she had the evening free. she and thomasine and hagar dined in the café together, but thomasine hurried through her dinner, for she was going to the theatre with a fellow-stenographer with whom she had worked for two years downtown, and who was "such a nice girl," and with the stenographer's brother, who looked like a nice brother. hagar and rose darragh, left at the table, sipped their coffee. a quality of rose darragh's came out. she observed and deduced, to the amusement of herself and of others, with the swiftness and accuracy of m. dupin or of mr. sherlock holmes. they had a small corner table commanding the long, bright room. "twenty tables," she said. "men and women and a fair number of children. not proportionately so large a number as once there would have been, and that is well, the bawlers of race-suicide to the contrary!--i'm interested in the women just now. man's had the centre of the stage for so long!--and, of course, we know that this is the century of the child--see cotton-mills, glass-works, and canneries. but woman--woman's just coming out of the wings.... there's rather an interesting collection here to-night. do you know any of them?" "i have spoken casually to several. i have been here, you know, only the shortest time." "there's a woman over there who has a wonderful face--brooding and wise.... a teacher isn't she? i should say she was not married." "yes; she is a teacher, and single." "there's a woman who is a nurse." "yes. there's a sick child in that family. but she is not in uniform to-night." "i know her all the same. she's a good nurse. there are those who are and those who aren't. but she's got strength and poise and knows what she is about and is kind.--those two women over there--" "yes. what do you make of them?" "there's such a glitter of diamonds you can't see the women. poor things!--to be beings of a single element--to live in a world of pure carbon--to be the hardest thing there is, and yet be so brittle too!... the woman next them is good ordinary: nothing remarkable, and yet pleasant enough. the worst that can be said of her is that she doesn't discriminate. if the broth lacks salt, she never knows it." "and the two over there with the stout man?" rose darragh gazed a moment with eyes slightly narrowed. "oh, those!" she said. "those are our adapted women--perilously near adapted, at any rate. that's a sucking wife and daughter. take your premise that in the divine order of things the male opens the folds of his being, surrounds, encloses, 'shelters' and 'protects' and 'provides for' your female in season and out of season, when there is need, and when there is certainly none, and your further premise that the female is willing and ruthlessly logical--and behold the supremely natural conclusion!... daughters of the horse leech--and perfectly respectable members of society as constituted! faugh!--with their mouths glued to that fat man's pocket. he looks haggard, and at the moment he's probably grinding the faces of no end of men and women,--not because he's got a bad heart and really wants to,--but because he's got to 'provide' for those two perfectly strong and healthy persons in jewelry and orchids! he's cowed by tradition into accepting the monstrous position, and he's weak enough to let them define what is 'provision.' he's got to keep filling and filling the pocket because they suck so fast." "do you think they can change?" "they can be forced to change. they don't want to change, any more than the copepod wants to change. and logically, while he persists in his present attitude, the man can't ask them to change. he can't keep his cake and eat it too." she drank her coffee. "that very stout gentleman who is being driven to bankruptcy, or to ways that are queer, is just the kind to strike the table with his fist and violently to assure you that god meant woman, lovely woman! to be dependent upon man, and that it is with deep regret that he sees woman crowding into industry and beating at the doors of the professions--woman, wife and mother, god bless her! do you notice how they always put wife first? if the association opposed to the extension of the franchise to women asked him to-night for a contribution, they'd probably get it." "how numerous do you think are those women?" "the copepods? numerous enough, pity 'tis! but not so numerous as, given the system, you might fairly expect: numerous positively, but not relatively. and a lot of them have simply succumbed to environmental pressure. given a generation or two of rational training and a nobler ideal of what befits a human being, and the copepod will yet succour herself.... denny and i see more of the other kind. the drudges outnumber the copepods, and neither need be.... there's a girl over there i like--the one with the braided hair. many of the young girls of to-day are rather wonderful. it's going to be interesting to see what they'll do when they're older, and what their daughters will do. she's got a fine head--mathematics, i should think." they went down together. in the large and comfortable half study, half drawing-room with the shaded lights, with the sea-like sound of the city without the windows, with the books and pictures, they walked a little to and fro together, and at last paused before a window and looked forth--the firmament studded with lights above and the city studded with lights below. "there's a noble word called work," said rose darragh, "and we have degraded it into toil, on the one hand, and it has a strong enemy called false ideals, on the other. what i ask of life is that i may be one of the helpers to save work from toil and false ideals." they watched the lights in silence, then turned back to the soft glowing room. when each had taken a deep chair on either side of the great library table, they still kept silent. rose darragh sat erect, lithe, strong, embrowned, a wine red in her cheeks. as in the picture that hagar remembered, her strong throat rose clear from a blouse of the simplest make, only a soft dark silk instead of wool in honour of the evening. her skirt was of dark cheviot. she wore no stays, it was evident, and needed none. her hair, of a warm chestnut, wavy and bright, was cut to about the length worn by byron and keats and shelley.... to a marked extent she was interest-provoking; there was felt a powerful nature, rich and indomitable. presently she spoke. "denny will be home next week. don't you want me to take you one day to see the shrine where he keeps his idol and watch him providing acceptable sacrifice? it's rich--the editorial room of 'onward!'" "yes, i should like it very much." "then we'll go down some morning soon. there's a place near the temple where they give you a decent omelette and cheese. we'll all three go there for luncheon.... denny's fine." "i'm very sure of that." "yes, warp and woof, he's sincere--and that's what i worship, sincerity! and he's able. he strikes more narrowly than i do, but he strikes deep. we've lived and worked together now eight years. we've seen hard times together. we've nearly starved together. we've made a name and come out together. and, bigger than our own fates, we've seen our cause bludgeoned and seen it lift its bleeding head. we've known together impersonal sorrow and joy, humbling and pride, fear and faith, despair and hope. denny and i are the best friends. we've been lovers in the flesh, but there's something better than that between us." she turned square to the light and hagar. "that's the truest truth, and yet i want to tell you that i think you've always been to him a kind of unearthly and spiritual romance. he's kept you lifted, moving above him in the clouds, beckoning, with a light about you. and i want to tell you that i have not grudged that--" "i spoke to you as i did the other day," said hagar, "because, somehow, i had that impulse. it was not necessary that i should do so; that of which i spoke had long passed." she rose and walked slowly back and forth in the room. "when i bethought myself, that month in nassau, of where i--not he--was drifting ... i was able then to leave that current, and leave it not to reënter. that was three years ago. i beg you to believe that that temptation, if it was a temptation, is far behind me. my soul will not return that way, cannot return that way.... and now i simply want to be friends." "i'll meet you there. i like you too much not to want to. you seem to me one of those rare ones who find their lamp and refuge in themselves." "and i like you, extraordinarily. i should like to work with you." "there is nothing," said rose darragh, "any easier to arrange than that." chapter xxx an old acquaintance in the year , a certain large gathering of suffragists occurring in new york, permission was sought and obtained for speaking in union square. here and there, beneath the trees, sprang temporary tribunes sheathed with bunting the colour of gold; above them banners and banneroles of the same hue, black-lettered, votes for women. from each tribune now a woman was speaking, now a man. about speakers and tribunes pressed the crowd, good-natured, commenting, earnest in places. each speaker had about ten minutes; time up, he or she stepped down; another took position. sometimes the crowd laughed at a good story or at a barbed shaft skilfully shot; sometimes it applauded; sometimes it indulged in questions. its units continually shifted; one or more speakers at this stand listened to, it went roaming for pastures new and brought up before the next tribune, whose crowd, roaming in its turn, filled the just vacated spaces. it was a still, pearl-grey mid-afternoon, the pale-brown leaves falling from the trees, the roar of the city softened, the square's frontier lines of tall buildings withdrawn, a little blurred, made looming and poetic. all was a picture, lightly shifting with gleams of gold and a woman's voice, earnest, lilting. the crowd increased until there was a great crowd. votes for women--votes for women--said the banners and the banneroles. a man and a woman, leaving a taxicab on the broadway facet of the square, stood a moment upon the pavement. "what a crowd!" said the man. "there is speaking of some kind." he stopped a boy. "what is going on?" "suffragettes! women speaking. want ter vote. ain't got no husbands.--_i_ wouldn't let 'em! say, ain't they gettin' too big for their places?" the boy stuck out his tongue and went away. "young hoodlum!" exclaimed the man with disgust. "let us stay and hear them for a while. i never have." "all right!--i'll pay the cab." he came back to her, and they moved across and under the trees. "are you interested?" "i think i am. i haven't made up my mind. we're so far south that as a movement it's all as yet only a rather distant sound. how do you feel about it?" "why, i think it's an honest proposition. i've never seen why not. we're all human together, aren't we? but building bridges for south american governments has kept me, too, a little out of earshot. i see what the papers say, and they're saying a good deal." "ours chiefly confine themselves to being scandalized by the english militants." "then your papers are very foolish. who ever supposed there weren't jacobins in every historic struggle for liberty? sometimes they help and sometimes they hinder, and sometimes they do both at once. it's rather superficial to see only the 'left,' and not the movement of which it is the 'left.'" they came beneath the trees upon the fringe of the crowd about one of the gold-swathed stands. this was an attentive crowd, not restless but listening, slanted forward. the man from the taxicab touched a young workman upon the arm. "who is it speaking?" the other turned a pale, tense face. "it's one that can hold them. it's rose darragh, speaking for the working-women." the two made their way to where they could see and hear. rose darragh, speaking with a lifted irony and passion, sent her last parthian arrow, paused a moment, then cried with a vibrant voice, "give the working-woman a vote!" and stepped back and down from the stand. "by george!" breathed the man from the cab. the crowd applauded--for such a meeting applauded loudly. the young man to whom the two had appealed cried out also. "give the working-woman a vote! she's working dumb and driven under your factory laws! give her the vote!" a large, bald-headed, stubborn-jawed man who had been making _sotto-voce_ remarks, turned with anger. "and have them striking at the polls as well as striking in the shop! doubling the ignorant vote and getting into the way of business! you'd better listen to what i tell you! woman's place is at home--damn her!" the man next him was a clergyman. "i agree with you, sir, that woman's place is the home, but i object to your expletive!" the bald-headed man was willing to be placatory. "well, reverend, if we're only two words apart--are you going to stay here? i'm not! i don't believe in encouraging them--" "i believe you to be right there, sir. woman's sphere--" they went off together. the man from the cab, john fay by name, with his sister-in-law, lily fay, who had been lily goldwell, moved still nearer the front. they could see rose darragh pausing for a moment beside the stand before she went away to another tribune. a woman dressed in wood-brown spoke to her laughing; then, a hand on her shoulder, mounted to the platform. two women behind lily fay whispered together excitedly, "hagar ashendyne?" "yes. i didn't know she was going to speak to-day--but she and rose darragh often do speak together. they're great friends.... somebody ought to tell them who she is--oh! they know--" "_shh!_" "oh, she's holding them--" lily fay clutched her companion's arm. "hagar ashendyne! i went to school with her--" "the writer?" "yes. how strange it seems.... oh, listen!" hagar's voice came to them, silver clear as a swinging bell. "men and women--i am going to tell you why a woman like myself finds herself to-day under a mental and moral compulsion consciously to further what is called the woman movement--" she spoke for ten minutes. when she ended and stepped from the platform, there followed a moment of silence, then applause broke forth. a dark-eyed, breathless girl, a lettered ribbon across her coat, caught her hand. "hurry! we're waiting for you at the next stand. rose darragh is just through--" the two hastened away together, lithe and free beneath the falling brown leaves. a columbia man was speaking well for the men's league, but a good proportion of the crowd, john and lily fay among them, followed the wood-brown skirt. they followed from stand to stand during the next hour, at the end of which time speaking was over for that day. the crowd broke up; the speakers, after some cheerful talk among themselves, gathered together their banners and pennants and went their several ways; committees looked after the taking-down of the stands. lily went over to hagar ashendyne standing with rose darragh and molly josslyn, talking to a little group of friendly people. "i'm lily goldwell. do you remember?" hagar put her arms about her. "oh, lily, how is your head? have you got that menthol pencil still?" "my head got better and i threw it away. oh, hagar, you are a sight for sair een!... yes, i'm lily fay, now. i'm on my way to england to join my husband. the boat sails next week. i'm at the ----. this is my brother-in-law, john fay." "i've got to be at carnegie hall to-night," said hagar. "and i have something to do to-morrow through the day--but the evening's free. won't you come to dinner with me--both of you? yes, i want you, want you bad! come early--come at six." to-morrow was the serenest autumn day. lily and john fay walked from their hotel through a twilight tinted like a shell. when they came to the apartment house and were carried up, up, and left the elevator and rang at the door before them and it opened and they were admitted by a tidy coloured maid, it was to find themselves a little in advance of their hostess. mary magazine explained with slow, soft courtesy. "miss hagar cert'n'y meant to be home er long time befo' you come, she cert'n'y did. but there's er big strike goin' on--er lot of sewing-women--an' she went with miss elizabeth eden early this mahnin', an' erwhile ago she telephone if you got heah first, you must 'scuse her anyhow an' make yo'selves at home 'cause she'll be heah presently. she had," mary magazine explained further, "to send miss thomasine to see somebody for her in boston, so there isn't anybody to entertain you twel she comes. if you'll just make yo'selves comfortable--" and mary magazine smiled slowly and disappeared. the large room had not greatly altered in appearance since rachel and hagar first arranged it, three years ago. there were more books, a few more prints, more signed photographs, a somewhat richer tone of time. it was a good room, quiet and fine, not lacking an air of nobility. a great bough of red autumn leaves flamed at one end like a stained-glass window. a door opening into a small room showed a typewriter and a desk piled with work. the two visitors, with fifteen minutes of sole possession before them, strolled to the windows and admired the far-flung, grandiose view, twilight beginning to be starred with the city lights; then turned back to the room and its strong charm. "we've lived through the revolution, i think," said john fay. "the senses move more slowly than the event. we're just taking it in, and we call it all to make. but it's really made." "i see what you mean. but they--but we--have all this monstrous amount of hard work yet--" "yes. introducing the revolution to the slow-minded. but i gather it's being done." he moved about the room, looking at the photographs. "artists and thinkers and world-builders, men and women.... those years down there around the equator, i could at least take the magazines, and i got each twelvemonth a box of books. i know all these people. i used to feel quite intimate with them, down there building bridges.... building bridges is great work. i believe in it thoroughly and quite enjoy doing it.... and these are bridge-builders, too, and i had a fraternal feeling. i've cut their pictures, men and women, from the magazines and stuck them up in my hut and said good-morning and good-evening to them." he had the pleasantest, humorous eyes, and now they twinkled. "sometimes i like them so well that i really kow-towed to them. and i've laid a platonic sprig of flowers before more than one of these women's pictures. perhaps i'd better not tell her so, but there was a picture of hagar ashendyne--" the door opened and hagar entered. she wore the wood-brown dress of yesterday--she was somewhat pale, with circles under her eyes. "ah, i am sorry!" she said, "but i could not help it. the strike ... and they send the girls to the island. two or three of us went to the court--oh, the snaky, blind thing we call justice!" her eyes filled. "pardon! but if you had been there--" she caught herself up, dashed the moisture from her eyes and said--and looked--that she was glad to see them. "we'll put the things away that make your heart ache! i'll go and change, and we'll eat our dinner and have a pleasant, pleasant time!" in a very little while she was back, dressed in white, amethysts in an old and curious setting about her throat. they had been maria's, and to-night she looked like maria, lines of the haunted mind about her mouth and between her eyes. only it was not her personal fate that troubled her, but a wider haunting. at dinner, in the café at the corner table, she told them, when they asked her, a little of where she had been and what she had done during the day, told them of this pitiful case and of that. then after a moment's silence she said resolutely, "don't let us talk about these things any more. let us talk about happy things. talk to me about yourself, lily!" "there isn't much to tell," said lily; "i've been quite terribly sheltered. for years i was ill, and then i grew better. i've travelled a little, and i like maeterlinck and vedanta and bergson, and i play the violin not so badly, and robert, my husband, is very good to me. i haven't grown much, i am afraid, since i was at eglantine. but more and more continually i want to grow. do you remember, at eglantine--" dinner was not long. they came down to the grave and fair room with the scarlet autumn leaves and the books, and here mary magazine gave them coffee. they sat in their deep chairs and drank it slowly. the talk dropped; they sat in a thoughtful mood. john fay had a long and easy figure, a bronzed, clean-shaven, humorous face and sea-blue eyes. lily was slender as a willow wand, with colourless, strong features. her eyes were dreamy--hagar remembered how she sat and looked into the fire when they read poetry. like the faintest, faraway strain of a music not altogether welcome, a line went through her mind,-- "where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles miles and miles--" hagar, with her odd, pensive, enigmatical face, drove the strain back to the limbo whence it came. she and lily talked of the girls so long ago at eglantine, of sylvie and francie and all the rest, the living and the dead, and the scattered fates. neither had ever been back to the school, but she could tell lily of mrs. legrand's health and prosperity. "you don't like her," said lily. "i was so ill and homesick, i didn't have energy one way or the other, but she was very smooth, i remember that, ... and we were all to marry, and only to marry--marry money and social position--especially social position." they talked of the teachers. "i liked miss gage," said hagar, "and mrs. lane was a gentle, sweet woman. do you remember m. morel?" "yes, and mr. laydon." lily started. "oh, hagar, i had forgotten that! but perhaps there was nothing in it--" hagar laughed. "if you meant that at eighteen i sincerely thought i loved mr. laydon--and that he, as sincerely, i do believe, thought that he loved me--yes, there was that in it! but we found out with fair promptness that it was false fire.--i have not seen nor heard of him for many years. he taught at eglantine for a while, and then he went, i believe, to some western school.... lily, lily! i have had a long life!" "i have had as long a one in years," said lily. "but yours has been the fuller. you have a wonderful life." "we all have wonderful lives," answered hagar. "one is rich after this fashion, one after that." the bell rang. in another moment denny gayde came into the big room. the six years since the nassau month had wrought little outer change. he was still somewhat thin and worn, with a face at once keen and quiet, a little stern, with eyes that saw away, away--he was more light than heat, but there was warmth, too, and it glowed and deepened all around "onward!" when he said the name of his paper, it was as though he caressed it. he was like a lighthouse-keeper whose whole being had become bent, on a wreck-strewn shore, to tending and heightening the light, to sending the rays streaming across the reefs. chapter xxxi john fay "denny," said hagar, "ask mary magazine to give you a coffee-cup." denny came back with it and she filled it from the silver urn. "rose went to brooklyn to-night?" "yes.--i was to have spoken down on omega street, but at the last moment harding came in and i sent him instead. 'onward!' 's got the strongest kind of stuff this week, and there are some finishing touches--i'm going back to the office in an hour or two. rose said that she asked you for that poem, and that you said you would give it, and she thought you might have it ready. i've got a telling place for it--" "drink your coffee and talk to the others while i copy it out," said hagar. she rose and went to the desk in the smaller room. when she came back, lily was dreaming with her eyes upon the forest bough, and the two men sat discussing syndicalism. she laid a folded piece of paper upon the table beside denny's hand. "there are only three verses." he opened the paper and read them. "thank you, hagar! you've struck it home." he refolded the paper and was about to put it in his pocket when john fay held out his hand. "mayn't i see it, too?" he looked at hagar. "yes, of course, if you wish." fay read it, held the paper in his hand for a moment, then gave it back to denny. "i wish i could write like that," he said. his tone was so oddly humble that hagar laughed. "i wish that i could build great bridges across deep rivers!" she said. they sat and talked, and the poem gave leadings to their talk, though they did not speak of the poem. at first it was fay, answering hagar's questions, telling of the struggle of muscle and brain with the physical earth, of mountain-piercing, river-spanning, harbour-making. he was thirty-nine; he had been engineering, building in strange and desert places since he was a boy; he had a host of memories of struggles, now desperate and picturesque, now patient and drudging, grapples of mind with matter, first-hand encounters with solids and liquids and gases. he had had to manage men in order to manage these; he had had to know how to manage men. born with an enquiring mind, he learned as he went along his governments and peoples, their customs, institutions, motor-faiths, strengths and weaknesses; also he knew the natural history of places, and loved mother earth and a good part of her progeny. he had also a defined, quizzical humour which saved the day for him when it grew too strenuous. he talked well, with a certain drawling fitness of phrase which brought medway into hagar's mind, but not unpleasantly. there had been much in medway which she had liked. fay was no monopolist. the talk went from one to another, and denny drew more into it. he had been listening attentively to fay. "it's your work," he said, "and it's tremendous and basic work. you've been doing it through the ages ever since it first occurred to us that we could lengthen an arm with a stick and crack a nut--or an enemy's head--with a stone. it's tremendous and basic still. and the people who work under your direction, and atom by atom give you power?" "why, one day," said fay, "they'll work as artists. a far day, doubtless, and there are degrees in artists; but i see no other conclusion. and to give the artist component in the mass of humanity a chance to strengthen and come out is, i take it, the tremendous and basic work to which we've all got to devote the next century or two." "oh, you're all right!" said denny. hagar smiled. "my old 'news from nowhere'--" "but with a difference," said denny. "morris's was an over-simplified dream." "yes; we are more complex and flowing than that. but it was lovely. do you remember the harvest home, and the masons, so absorbed and happy in their building ... like children, and yet conscious artists, buoyant, free--" fay looked at her. "what," he said, "is _your_ vision of the country that is coming?" her candid eyes met his. "i have no clear vision," she said. "visions, too, are flowing. the vision of to-day is not that of yesterday and to-morrow's may be different yet. moreover, i don't want to fix a vision, to mount it like a butterfly and keep it with the life gone out. we've done too much of that all along the way behind us. vision grows, and who wishes to say 'lo, the beautiful end!' there is no end. i do not wish a rigid mind, posturing before one altar-piece. pictures dissolve and altars are portable." "yes," said denny, "but--" "lily says she reads vedanta. well, it is the yogi's _neti--neti!_ almost your only possible definition as yet is, 'not this--not this!' the country that is coming--it is not capitalism, though capitalism is among its ancestors. it is not war, though in the past it warred. it is not ecclesiasticism, though ecclesiasticism, too, was an inn on its road. it is not sex-aristocracy, though that, too, is behind it; it is not preoccupation with sex at all. it is not sectionalism, nor nationalism, nor imperialism. it is not racial arrogance. it is not arrogance at all. it is not exploitation. it is not hatred. it is not selfishness. it is not lust. it is not bigotry. it is not ignorance, or pride in ignorance.--_neti, neti!_... it is beauty--and truth.... and always greater.... and it comes by knowledge, out of which grows understanding, and by courage, out of which come great actions." she ceased to speak, and leaned back in her chair, her hand at the amethysts about her throat. fay kept his eyes upon her. he was conscious of a resurgence of a morning of a couple of years before when he had cut from a magazine a page bearing a half-tone portrait and had pinned it above his book-shelf. hagar ashendyne had said the legend below. the rustle of the palms outside his hut came to him, and the mist of early morning above the waters. the clock on hagar's mantel-shelf struck ten with a silvery stroke. denny started. "i've got to go--work's calling!" "i had rather hear you say, at ten o'clock, that sleep was calling," said hagar. "you're working too hard, rose says so, and i say so." she looked at him with friendliness deep and tender, soft and bright. "almost denny's only fault is that he makes his work his god rather than his servant. at times he's perilously near offering it a human sacrifice. why will you, denny?" "there's so much to do and so few are doing it," said denny. his eyes were upon the great forest bough, but he seemed to be looking beyond it, down long, long vistas. "i don't know that i worship work. but i want every prisoner of wrong to rebel. and there's no time to waste when you have to pass the word along to so many cells. sometimes i feel, too, like sitting down and playing, but when i do, i always begin after a little to hear the chains." he laughed. "and i like you and rose preaching _dolce far niente_! if ever there were two who had the power of work--!" "all the same," said hagar, "go to bed before two o'clock, won't you?" he shook hands around and was gone. "what a wonderful face!" said lily; and fay nodded. "a kind of worn, warrior angel--" hagar took lily's hand and kissed it. "you've defined denny to a nicety! 'a kind of worn, warrior angel'--i like that!... no, don't go! it isn't late." "we'll stay, then, just one other half-hour. and now," said lily, "tell me about yourself. we see your name, of course, and what the papers think you are doing. but you yourself--" "but i myself?" said hagar. "ah, if you'll tell me, i'll tell you!" the great bough of red leaves against the wall was repeated in miniature by a spray upon the table, resting in a piece of cloudy venetian glass. hagar took it from the vase and sat studying it, colour and line. she sat at ease in the deep chair, her long, slender limbs composed, her head thrown back against green-bronze, an arm bent and raised, the wine-red spray in her hand. "what," she said, "does a man or woman do in a dusty day's march of every great transit? about that is what i and many others have been doing, in this age as in other ages. millions of minds to reach with a statement that for reasons of weight the column must surmount such a hill and again such a hill, the line of march lying truly on higher levels. the statement did not originate with the messengers of this or any other age; it is social, and the inner urge would send the marchers somehow on, but there is needed interpreting, clarifying, articulation--hence the office that we fill, though we fill it as yet, i know, weakly enough! so it means a preoccupation with communication--ways and means of reaching minds. and that, lacking a developed telepathy, means the spoken and the written word. and that means, seeing we have such great numbers to reach, a continuing endeavour to reach people in congregation. and that means arrangement, going from place to place, much time that you sigh for consumed, some weariness, a great number of petty happenings--and a vast insight into life and the way it is lived and the beings who live it! it means contacts with reality and a feeding the springs of humour and an acquaintance with the truly astonishing forest of human motives. and there is organization work and correspondence, and much of what might be called drudgery unless you can put the glow about it.... and there is the weaving all the time of the web of unity. the human family, and the dying-out before love and understanding of invidious distinctions. the world one home, and men one man, though of an infinite variety, and women one woman, though of an infinite variety, and children one child, and the open road before the three. and back of the three, oneness. the great pulse--out, the many; in, the one.... so i with others speak and write and go about and work." when the clock struck again, lily and john fay said good-night. lily was to come once more before her boat sailed. hagar looked at fay. "you are going to england, too?" he hesitated. "i've said so--" "he's just built a great bridge," said lily, "and he hasn't really taken a holiday for years. robert and i want him just as long as he will travel with us." when they were gone, hagar went to the window and looked out far and wide upon the city settling to its rest. here, to-night, would be deep repose, here fevered tossing, here perhaps no sleep at all. there would be death chambers and birth chambers--a many of each. and spiritual death chambers and spiritual birth chambers and the trodden middle rooms, minds that cried, "light, more light!" and minds that said, "we see as it is." ... and over all, the suns so far away they were but glittering points. hagar's gaze moved across the heavens from host to host. "ah, if you were hieroglyphics, and we could find the key--" she came back to the lamplit table; thomasine away, mary magazine asleep--the place was alone with her. she had been tired, but she did not feel so now. she sat down, put her arms above her head and her eyes upon the forest bough, and began to think.... she thought visually with colour and light and form, luminous images parting the mist, rising in the great "interior sphere." she sat there till the clock struck twelve, then she rose, put out the lights, opened every window. in the east, above the roofs, glittered orion, with aldebaran red and mighty and the glimmering pleiades. hagar stood and gazed. she lifted her eyes toward the zenith--capella and algol and the street whose dust is stars between. her lips moved, she raised her hand. "all hail!" she said; then turning from the window opened the door that led into her bedroom. it was a white and fair and simple place. as she undressed, she was thinking of the october woods at gilead balm. three days later, at the hotel, lily and john fay had a short but momentous conversation. "_do_ you want to go, john? i don't want you to go if you don't want to go, you know." "that's what i came to talk to you about," said fay. "i have my stateroom. the boat sails day after to-morrow. i've written to men i know in london and in paris. i want to see them. they're men i've worked with. i want to see robert. i even want to keep on seeing you, lily! i've been about as eager as a boy for that run over europe with the two of you. and i don't want to disappoint you and robert, if it is the least disappointment. but--" "i don't know that she'll ever marry," said lily. "she'll not, unless she finds some one alike to strengthen and be strengthened by. a lot of the reasons for which women used to marry are out of court with her. even what we call love--she won't feel it now for anything less than something that matches her." fay walked across the floor, stood at the window a moment, then came back. "i won't fence," he said. "it's simple truth, however you divined it. and i'm going to stay. i don't match her, but i've never proposed to stop growing." chapter xxxii ralph fay stayed. lily's farewell note to hagar merely said that after all he was not sailing with her and that she hoped hagar would let him be among her friends. he made a good friend. fay himself wrote to her, stating that he would be much in new york that autumn and winter and asking if he might come to see her. she answered yes, but that she herself was often away; he would have to take the chance of not finding her. he came, and she was away, came again, and she was away; then she wrote and asked him to dine with her on such an evening. he went, and it was an evening to mark with a white stone, to keep a lamp burning before in the mind. he asked how he could find out where she would be, since it was evident that she was speaking here and there. she nodded; she was working hard that autumn, oftenest in company with rose darragh, but often, too, with elizabeth eden and marie caton, with rachel and molly josslyn. she showed him a list of meetings. he thanked her and copied it down. "i see that your book will presently be out." "yes. i hope that you will like it." "i think that i shall. how hard you work!" "not harder than others. the secret is to learn concentration and to fill all the interstices with the balm of leisure. and to work with love of the world to be." that november, together with rose darragh and denny and elizabeth, she was often speaking in the poor and crowded sections of the great city. sometimes they talked to the people in dim, small halls, sometimes in larger, brighter places, sometimes there were street meetings. she grew aware that often fay was present. sometimes, when the meeting was over, he joined her; it began to be no infrequent thing his going uptown upon the car with her. she began to wonder.... once in a street meeting she saw him near her as she spoke. it was a good crowd and interested. as she brought her brief, straight talk to a conclusion, elizabeth whispered to her, "lucien couldn't come. is there any one else who could speak?" hagar's eyes met john fay's. "we lack a speaker," she said. "couldn't you--won't you?" he nodded, stepped upon the box, and made a good speech. his drawling, telling periods, his smiling, sea-blue eyes, a story that he told and a blow or two out from the shoulder caught the fancy and then the good-will of the crowd. an old woman, irish, wrinkled, her hands on her hips, called out to him. "be yez the new man? if yez are, i loike yez foine!" he laughed at and with her. "do you? then you'll have to become a new woman to match me!" the november dusk was closing in when the crowd dispersed. elizabeth with the other woman speaker faced toward the settlement. "can't you come with me, hagar?" "no, not to-night. there are letters and letters--" fay asked if he might go uptown with her. she nodded. "yes, if you like. good-night, elizabeth--good-night, mary ware; good-night, good-night!" they took a surface car. she sat for a minute with her eyes shut. "are you very tired?" she smiled. "no, i am not tired. after all, why should it fatigue more than standing in cathedrals, walking through art galleries? but i was thinking of something.... let us sit quietly for a while." the minutes went by. at last she spoke. "i liked what you said, and the way you said it. thank you." "you do not need to thank me. had i been less convinced, i might have spoken because you asked me to. as it is, i was willing to serve the truth." "ah, good!..." there was another silence; then she began to speak of the light and thunder of the city about them, and then of a book she was reading. when they left the car it was dark--they walked westward together. "have you heard from lily?" "yes. she and robert are going first to the riviera, then to sicily." "both are very lovely. why do you not change your mind and go?" "i like it better here." the evening was dark, clear and windy, with the stars trooping out. "when," asked hagar, "are you going to build another bridge?" he pondered it. "i've been building for a long time and i'm going to build for another long time. do you grudge me this half-year in between?" "i do not. i was only wondering--" she broke off and began to talk about the josslyns whom, it had turned out, he knew and liked. two weeks ago she had dined there with him, and christopher had taken occasion to tell her that john fay was about the rightest all right he knew.... she had not really needed the telling. she had a good deal of insight herself. they came to the great arched door of the apartment house, and there she told fay good-night. when he was gone, she stood for a moment in the paved lobby with its palm or two, her eyes upon the clear darkness without; then she turned to the elevator. upstairs, within her own doors, thomasine met her. "oh, hagar! it's mr. ralph--" "ralph!" ralph had been abroad, and she had not seen him for a long time. "yes!" said thomasine. "his boat came in yesterday evening. and awhile ago he telephoned to ask you if he might come to dinner with you, and i didn't know what to say, and i told him you wouldn't be in till late; and he said did i think you'd mind his coming, and i didn't know what to say, so i said, 'no,' i couldn't think so; and he asked what time you dined--and it's nearly seven now--" "well, you couldn't say anything else," said hagar. "only i devoutly hope--" she moved toward her own room. "i'll dress quickly." "and don't you think," said thomasine, "that i'd better not dine with you--" "i think just the contrary," answered hagar, and vanished. ralph came. he was the ralph of three years ago, of that last autumn week at gilead balm, only with certain things accentuated. he was richer, he had more and more a name in finance; his state was now loudly and perpetually proud of him. there was an indefinable hardening.... he was very handsome, thomasine thought; he looked tremendously somebody. he had been around the world--his physician had sent him off because of a threatened breaking-down. apparently that had been staved off, pushed at least into a closet to stay there a few years. he talked well, with vigorous, clipped sentences, of australia and china and india. hagar, sitting opposite him in a filmy black gown, kept the talk upon travel. she had not seen him for eighteen months, and before then, for a long while, their meetings had been casual, cold and stiff enough, with upon his side an absurd hauteur. the eighteen months had at least dissipated that.... dinner over, they went for coffee back to the apartment, and thomasine determinedly disappeared. old gilead balm talk was in thomasine's mind. ralph coltsworth and hagar ashendyne were to mate--old miss had somehow kept that in the air, even so long, long ago. in the grave and restful room with its shaded lights hagar poured a cup of coffee for her cousin and gave it to him. taking it, he took for a moment also her two hands, long, slender, and very finely made. "ringless!" he said. hagar, withdrawing them, poured her own coffee. "i have never cared to wear jewels. a necklace and an old brooch or two of my mother's are almost the only things i have." ralph looked about the room. the bough of flaming maple was gone and in its place rested a great branch of cone-bearing white pine. her eyes followed his. "i can see the forest through it. do you remember the great pine above the spring?" his gaze still roamed. "and you call this home?" "yes, it is home." "without a man?" she smiled. "do you think there can be no home without a man?" he drank his coffee; then, putting down the cup, rose and moved about the deep and wide place. she watched him from her armchair, long and slim as diana in her black robe. he looked at the walls with their rows of cabined thought and the pictures above, at the great library table with its tokens of work, and then, standing before the wide, clear windows, at the multitudinous lights of the world without. a sound as of a distant sea came through the glass. "and without a child?" her clear voice sounded behind him. "you are mistaken," she said. "my work is my child. one human being serves and expresses in one way and one in another, and i think it is not the office which is higher or lower, but only the mind with which the office is performed. did i ever meet a man whom i loved and who was my comrade, and who loved me and saw in me his comrade, my home would probably open to that man. and we two might say, 'now in cleanliness and joy and awe will we bring a child into our home.' ... i think that would be a happy thing to happen. but if it does not happen, none the less will i have my earthly home as i have my unearthly, and be happy in it, and none the less will i do world-work and rejoice in the doing. and if it happened, it would be but added bliss--it would be by no means all the bliss, or all the world, nor should it be. we grow larger than that.... and now, having answered your question, come! let us sit down and talk about what you are doing and when you are going down to hawk nest. i had a letter from gilead balm last week--from aunt serena." he came and sat down. "the last time i was at gilead balm--two years and a half ago--they said they had ceased to write to you." "they have begun again," said hagar calmly. "dear ralph, we live in the twentieth century. you yourself are here to-night, eating my bread and salt." "have you been to gilead balm?" "yes, i went last summer, and again the summer before. not for long, for a little while. grandfather and grandmother and aunt serena said some hard things, but i think they enjoyed saying them, and i could ramble over the old place, and, indeed, i think, though they would never have said so, that they were glad to have me there. i will not quarrel. they are so feeble--the colonel and old miss. i do not think they can live many years longer." "are you going again this summer?" "yes." they talked again of his journey and recovered health, of new york, of the political and financial condition of the country; or rather he gave his view upon this and she sat studying him, her fine, long hands folded in her lap. what with question and remark she kept him for a long time upon general topics, or upon his increasing part in the subtle machinery behind so much that made general talk;--but at last, skilfully as she fenced, he came back to personal life and to his resentment of all her attitude.... he had thought that time and absence had cured his passion for her. even a month ago he had told himself that there was left only family interest, old boyish memories. he disapproved intensely of the way she thought of things; she was not at all the wife for him. sylvie carter was--he would go to see sylvie just as soon as he reached new york.... and then, upon the boat, coming over, it was of hagar that he dreamed all the time. like a gathering thunderstorm it was all coming back. landing in new york he had only thought of her, all last night and to-day. it was an obsession, he told himself that--he could see that once he had her, possessed her, owned her, he would fight her through life ... or she would fight him ... and all the same the obsession had him, whirling him like a leaf in storm. he spoke with a suddenness startling to himself. "what is between us is all this fog of damnable ideas that has arisen in the last twenty years! if it wasn't for that you would marry me." hagar took the jade buddha from the table and weighed it in her hands. "oh, give me patience--" she murmured. he rose and began to pace the floor. the physical, the passionate side of him was in storm. he was not for nothing a coltsworth. coltsworths were dominating people, they were masterful. they wished to prevail, body and point of view, point of view, perhaps, no less than body. they were not content to have their scheme of life and to allow another a like liberty; their scheme must lie upon and smother under the other's. they wished submissiveness of mind--the other person's mind. they wished it in their relations with men--ralph himself preferred subservient officials, subservient secretaries, subservient boards, subservient legislators. he preferred men to listen in the club, he liked a deferential murmur from his acquaintance. he had followers whom he called friends. a certain number of these truly admired him; he was to them feudal and splendid. he was a coltsworth and coltsworths liked to dominate the minds and fortunes of men. when it came to collective womankind, they might have said that they had really never considered the question--naturally men dominated women. to them god was male. they would have agreed with the kentucky editor that the feminist movement was an audacious attempt to change the sex of deity.... the thing that angered the coltsworths through and through was revolt. political, economic, intellectual, spiritual--revolt was revolt, whatever adjective went before! rage boiled up in the mind of the master. and when the revolted was not perturbed, or anxious or fluttered, but stood aloof and was aloof, when the revolt was successful, when the rebellion had become revolution and the new flag was up and the citadel impregnable--the sense of wrath and injury overflowed like the waves of phlegethon. it overflowed now with ralph. he turned from the window. "all this rebellion of women is unthinkable!" hagar looked at him somewhat dreamily. "however, it has occurred." "things can't change like that--" "the answer to that is that they have changed." she sat and smiled at him, quite eluding him, a long way off. "do you think that only mind in man rebels? mind in woman does it too. and it comes about that there are always more rebels, men and women. we are quite numerous to-day.... but there are women who do not rebel, as there are men. there are many women who will grant you your every premise, who are horrified in company with you, horrified at us others.... why do you not wish to mate among your own kind?" "i wish to mate with _you_!" she shook her head. "that you cannot do.... there is being drawn a line. some men and women are on one side of it, and some men and women are on the other side of it. there is taking place a sorting-out.... in the things that make the difference you are where you were when troy fell. i cannot go back, down all those slopes of time." "i am afire for you." "you wake in me no answering fire." she rose. "i will talk about much with you, but i will talk no longer about love. you may take your choice. stay and talk as my old playmate and cousin, or say good-night and good-bye." "if i go," said ralph hoarsely, "i shall not come again--i shall not ask you again--" "ralph, ralph! do you think i shall weep for that?... you do think that i shall weep for that!... you are mad!" "by god!" said ralph, and quivered, "i wish that we were together in a dark wood--i wish that you were in a captured city, and i was coming through the broken gate--" suddenly he crossed the few feet between them, caught and crushed her in his arms, bruising her lips with his. "just be a woman--you dark, rich thing with wings--" hagar had a physical strength for which he was unprepared. exerting it, she freed herself, and in the same instant and as deliberately as swiftly, struck him across the face with her open hand. "good-bye, to you!" she said in a thrilling voice. they stared at each other for a moment across space. then hagar said quietly. "you had better go, ralph...." he went. when the door had closed behind him, she stood very still for a few moments, her eyes upon the pine bough. the excess of colour slowly ebbed from her face, the anger died in her eyes. "oh, all of us poor, struggling souls!" she said. obeying some inner impulse she first lowered, then extinguished the lights in the room and moved to one of the windows. she threw up the sash and the keen, autumnal night streamed in upon her. the window-seat was low and broad. she sat there with her head thrown back against the frame, and let the night and the high, starry heaven and the moving air absorb and lift her. it was very clear and there seemed depths on depths above. hyades and pleiades, and the charioteer, and andromeda bound, and perseus climbing the steep sky. "we are all bound and limited--we are all on the lower slopes of time--down in the fens with the lower nature. it is only a question of more or less--aspiration born and strengthening, or aspiration yet in the womb. then what room for anger because another is where i have been--because another, coming upward, rests awhile in the dungeon that was also mine, perhaps it was yesterday, perhaps it was ages ago?... where i am to-day will seem dungeon enough to that which one day i shall be.... and so with him, and so with us all...." a month after this she found among her letters one morning four smoothly ecstatic pages from sylvie carter. ralph had asked sylvie to marry him, and sylvie had said yes. sylvie wrote that she expected to be very happy, and that she was going to do her best to make ralph so, too. the next day brought a half-page from ralph. it stated that something hagar had said had set him to thinking. she had said that there was being a line drawn and that some men and some women were finding themselves together on either side. he thought there was truth in it, and that, after all, one should marry within one's class; otherwise a perpetual clash of opinions, fatal to love. there followed a terse announcement of his engagement to sylvie, and he signed himself, "your affectionate cousin, ralph coltsworth." but it was old miss whose letter was wholly aggrieved and indignant.... chapter xxxiii gilead balm the second letter from old miss came in february. the colonel had suddenly failed and taken to his bed. old miss believed that he would get up again,--there was, she said, no reason why he shouldn't,--but in the mean time there he lay. he was a little wandering in his mind, and he had taken to thinking that hagar was in the house, and a little girl still, and demanding to see her. old miss suggested that she should come to gilead balm. she went at once. on the train, thundering south through a snowy night, she lay awake until half of her journey was over. scenes and moments, occurrences of the outer and inner life, went by her mind like some endless, shifting tapestry. childhood, girlhood, womanhood, work and play, the daily, material task and the inner lift, lift, and ever-strengthening knowledge of the impalpable--that last was not tapestry; it was height and breadth and depth, and something more. the old, wide travel came back to her; shifting gleams of eastern cities, deserts, time-broken temples, mountains, vineyards, haunted groves, endless surrounding, azure, murmuring seas.... medway, white-clothed and helmeted, in his rolling chair.... the whistle shrieked; the train stopped with a jar at some lighted station, then, regathering its forces, rushed and roared on through the february night. now it was the last three years and more: they passed in panorama before her. stages and stairways and scaffoldings by which the world-spirit might mount an inch: ferments and leavens: voices telling of democracy and fair play and care for your neighbour's freedom as for your own, your woman-neighbour and your man-neighbour. through her mind ran all the enormous detail of the work being pursued over all the country; countless meetings, speeches, appeals, talks to a dozen gathered together or to two or three; letters and letters and letters, press and magazine utterances, organization, the difficult raising of money, legislative work, petitions, canvassing; drudgery in myriad detail, letters and letters, voice and pen.... and all the opposition--blind bigotry to be met, and a maniac fear of change, inertia, tradition, habit, the dead past's hand, cold and heavy--and all the interested opposition, the things whose book the movement did not suit--and all the lethargy of womankind itself.... and in the very camp, in the huge, chaotic movement itself, as in all the past's vast human movements, recurring frictions, antagonisms, small jealousies, flags set up by individuals, pacifications and smoothings, bringing compatibles together, keeping incompatibles apart.... a contending with outer oppositions and inner weaknesses, resisting discouragement, fighting cynicism, acknowledging the vast road to travel, keeping on.... she knew nothing that was at once so weak and so mighty as the woman movement. one who was deep within it might feel at times a vast weariness, impatience, and despair ... but deep within it you never left it. here you dealt with clay that was so cold and lumpish it seemed that no generous idea could germinate within; here you dealt with stuff so friable, light, and disintegrative that the thought would come that it were better to cast it to the winds ... but you did not; you comforted your soul with the very much that was noble, and you hoped for the other that was not yet noble, and you went on--went on. it was all you yourself--you had within you the intractable clay and the stuff light as chaff, inconsequent; but you went on transmuting, lifting.... there was no other hope, no other course, deep down no other wish. so with the woman movement.... another station. hagar looked out at the lights and the hurrying forms; then, as the train roared into the white countryside, at what could be seen of the fields and hills and storm-bent trees. she was thinking now of gilead balm and her childhood and her mother. she seemed to lie again, close beside maria, on the big, chintz-covered sofa. at last she slept, lying so. captain bob and lisa met her at the station, three miles from gilead balm. captain bob had a doleful mien. "oh, yes, the colonel's better--but i don't think he's so much better. he's getting old--and lisa and i are getting old, too, aren't we old girl?--old like luna and going away pretty soon like luna. well, gipsy, you're looking natural--no, it's been an open winter down here--not much snow." he put her in the carriage, and they drove slowly to gilead balm, over the heavy country road. old miss was well; serena was well; captain bob himself had had rheumatism, but he was better.--the colonel didn't look badly; it was only that he didn't seem to want to get out of bed, and that every little while he set the clock back and rambled on about things and people--"it's creepy to hear him," said captain bob. "he thinks young dr. bude is old dr. bude, and he thinks that maria is alive, and that she won't let you come into the room. and then it'll change like that, and he's just as much himself as he ever was--more so, in fact.--hi, li-sa! let that rooster alone--" the house cedars showed over the brown hills. "dr. bude wanted old miss to get a trained nurse because somebody's got more or less to watch at night. but old miss wouldn't hear to it. she don't approve of women training for nurses, so she's got young phoebe and isham's second wife--and i think myself," said captain bob, "that i wouldn't want a young white woman that i couldn't order round." red brick and brown fields and the black-green of many cedars--here was gilead balm, looking just as it used to look of a february. the air was cold and still, the day a grey one, the smoke from the chimneys moving upward sluggishly. miss serena came down the porch steps and greeted hagar as she stepped from the carriage. "yes, your old room. did you have a tiresome journey?--is your trunk coming? then i'll send it up as soon as they bring it. young phoebe, you take miss hagar's bag up to her room. the fire's lighted, hagar, and mimy shall make you a cup of coffee. we're glad to see you." the old room, her mother's and her own! hagar had not been in it in winter-time for a long while. when phoebe was gone, she sat in the winged chair by the fire and regarded the familiar wall-paper and the old, carved wardrobe and the four-poster bed and the sofa where maria had lain, and, between the dimity curtains at the windows, the winter landscape. the fire was bright and danced in the old mahogany; the old chintz covers were upon the chair and sofa--the old pattern, only the hues faded. hagar rose, took off her travelling dress, bathed and put on a dark, silken dressing-gown. she took the pins from her hair and let it stream; it was like maria's. she stood for a moment, her eyes upon the pallid day, the rusty cedars without the window, then she went to the chintz sofa and lay down in the firelight, piling the pillows behind her head, taking, half-consciously, the posture that oftenest in her memory she saw maria take. her mother was present with her; there came an expression into her face that was her mother's. old miss knocked at the door, and entered without waiting for the "come in!" hagar rose and embraced her grandmother; then old miss sat down in the winged chair and her granddaughter went back to the sofa. the two gazed at each other. hagar did not know that she looked to-day like maria, and old miss did not examine the springs and sources of a mounting anger and sense of injury. she sat very straight, with her knitting in her hand, wearing a cap upon her smoothly parted hair, in which there were yet strands of brown, wearing a black stuff skirt and low-heeled shoes over white stockings; comely yet, and as ever, authoritative. "i am so very sorry about grandfather," said hagar. "uncle bob thinks he is better--" "yes, he is better. he will be well presently. i should not," said old miss coldly, "have written asking you to come but that dr. bude advised it." "i was very glad to come." "dr. bude is by no means the man his father was. the age is degenerate. and so"--said old miss--"sylvie maine has taken the prize right from under your hand." "oh!" said hagar. the corners of her lips rose; her look that had been rather still and brooding broke into sunshine. "if you call it that!--i hope that ralph and sylvie will be very happy." "they will probably be extraordinarily happy. she is not one of your new women. i detest," said old miss grimly, "your new women." silence. hagar lay back against the pillows and she looked more and more to old miss like maria. old miss's needles clicked. "when may i see grandfather?" asked hagar, and she kept her voice friendly and quiet. "he is sleeping now. when he wakes up, if he asks for you you may go in. i wouldn't stay long.--and what have you been doing this winter?" "various things, grandmother. thomasine and i have been working pretty hard. thomasine sent her regards to every one at gilead balm." "if you hadn't thrown away medway's million dollars you wouldn't have had to work," said old miss. "maria was perfectly spendthrift, and of course you take after her.--what kind of work do you mean you have been doing?" "i have been writing, of course. and then other work connected with movements in which i am interested." old miss's needles clicked again! "unsexing women and unsettling the minds of working-people. i saw a piece in a paper. preposterous! but it's just what maria would have liked to have done." silence again; then hagar leaned across and took up her grandmother's work. "what is it? an afghan? it's lovely soft wool." "when," asked old miss, "are you going to marry--and whom?" "i do not know, grandmother, that i am going to marry, or whom." "you should have married ralph.... all these years have you had any other offers?" "yes, grandmother." "while you were with medway?" "yes, grandmother." "have you had any since you set up in this remarkable way for yourself?" hagar laughed. "no, grandmother--unless you except ralph." "ha!" said old miss in grim triumph; "i knew you wouldn't!" miss serena came to the door. "father's awake and he wants to see hagar." but when hagar went down and into the big room and up to the great bed, the colonel declared her to be maria, grew excited, and said that she shouldn't keep his grandchild from him. "i tell you, woman, medway and i are going to use authority! the child's medway's--medway's next of kin by every law in the land! he can take her from you, and, by god! he shall do it!" "father," said miss serena, "this is hagar, grown up." but the colonel grew violently angry. "you are all lying!--a man's family conspiring against him! that woman's my daughter-in-law--my son's wife, dependent on me for her bread and shelter and setting up her will against mine! and now she's all for keeping from me my grandchild--she's hiding gipsy in closets and under the stairs--you have no right. it's not your child, it's medway's child! that's law. you ought to be whipped!" "grandfather," said hagar, "do you remember alexandria and the mosques and the place mahomet ali?" "why, exactly," said the colonel. "well, gipsy, we always wanted to travel, didn't we? that dragoman seems to know his business--we're going down to cairo to-day and out to see the pyramids. want to come along?" day followed day at gilead balm. sometimes the colonel's mind wandered over the seas of creation, with the pilot asleep at the helm; sometimes the pilot suddenly awoke, though it was not apt to be for long. it was eerie when the pilot awoke; when he suddenly sat there, gaunt, with a parchment face and beak-like nose and straying white hair, and in a cool, drawling voice asked intelligent questions about the hour and the season and the plantation happenings. at such times, if hagar were not already in the room, he demanded to see her. she came, sat by him in the great chair, offered to read to him. he was not infrequently willing for her to do this. she read both prose and verse to him this winter. sometimes he did not wish her to read; he wanted to talk. when this was the case--the pilot being awake--it was her life away from gilead balm that he oftenest chose to comment upon. that he knew the content of her life hardly at all mattered, as little to the colonel as it mattered to old miss and miss serena. they were going to let fly their arrows; if there was no target in the direction in which they shot, at least they were in sublime ignorance of the fact. hagar let them talk. not only the colonel--gilead balm was dying.... in the middle of a sarcastic sentence the pilot would drop asleep again; in a moment the barque was at the mercy of every wandering wind. hagar became maria and he gibbered at her. young dr. bude came and went. february grew old and passed into march; march, cold and sunny, with high winds, wheeled by; april came with tender light, with judas trees and bloodroot, and the white cherry trees in a mist of bloom; and still the colonel lay there, and now the pilot waked and now the pilot slept. may came. dr. bude stayed in the house. one evening at dusk the colonel suddenly opened his eyes upon his family gathered about his bed. old miss was sitting, upright and still, in the great chair at the bed-head. miss serena had a low chair at the foot, and captain bob was near, his old, grey head buried in his hands. there was also an ashendyne close kinsman, and a coltsworth--not ralph. dr. bude waited in the background. hagar stood behind miss serena. colonel argall ashendyne looked out from his pillow. "wasn't the canal good enough? who wants their railroad--damn them! and after the railroad there'll be something else.... public schools, too!... this country's getting too damnably democratic!" his eyes closed, his face seemed to sink together. dr. bude came from the hearth and, bending over, laid his finger upon the pulse. the colonel again opened his eyes. they were fastened now on hagar, standing behind miss serena. "well, gipsy!" he said with cheerfulness, "it's a pretty comfortable boat, eh? we'll make the voyage before we know it." his hands touched the bed. "steamer chairs! i don't think i was ever in one before. lean back and see the wide ocean stretch before you! the wide ocean ... the wide ocean ... "'roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!' "that's byron, you know, gipsy.... the wide ocean...." his eyes glazed. he sank back. dr. bude touched the wrist again; then, straightening himself, turned and spoke to old miss. chapter xxxiv brittany "she hasn't had a holiday for nearly four years," said molly. "i'm glad she's gone for this summer. she wouldn't take thomasine--she said she wanted to be all, all alone, just for three months. then she would come back to work." "brittany--" "yes. a little place on the coast that she knew. she said she wanted the sea. i thought perhaps that she had written to you--" "not since may," said john fay. "there was a proposed extension of a piece of work of mine in the west. i was called out there to see about it, and i had to go. i was kept for weeks. i tried to get back, but i couldn't--i was in honour bound. then when i came her boat had sailed. and now i--" he measured the table with his fingers. "do you think she would hate me if i turned up in that place in brittany?" molly considered it. "she's a reasonable being. brittany isn't for the benefit of just one person." "ah, but you see i should want to talk to her." molly pondered that, too. "well, i should try, i think. if she doesn't want to talk she will tell you so...." hagar's village was a small village, a grey patch of time-worn houses, set like a lichen against a cliff with a heath above. before it ran a great and far stretch of brown sands. there was a tiny harbour where the fishing-boats came in, and all beyond the thundering sea. the place boasted a small inn, but she did not stay there. the widow of the curé had to let a clean large room, overlooking a windy garden, and the widow and her one servant set a table with simple, well-cooked fare. hagar stayed here, though most of the time, indeed, she stayed out upon the brown, shell-strewn, far-stretching sands. she walked for miles, or, down with the women at evening, she watched the boats come one by one to haven, or, far from the village, beneath some dune-like heap of sand, she sat with her hands about her knees and watched the shifting colour of the sea. she had a book with her; sometimes she read in it, and sometimes it lay unopened. all the colours went over the sea, the surf murmured, the sea-birds flew, the salt wind bent the sparse grass at the top of the dune. on such an afternoon, after long, motionless dreaming, she changed her posture, turning her eyes toward the distant village. a man was walking toward her, over the firm sand. she watched him at first dreamily, then, suddenly, with a quickened breath. while the distance between them was yet great, she knew it to be fay. he came up to her and held out his hand. she put hers in it. "did i startle you?" he said. "if you don't want me, i will go away." "i thought you were bridge-building in the west." "i could get away at last. i crossed the atlantic because i wanted to see you. do you mind, very much?" "do i mind seeing you here, in brittany? no, i do not know that i mind that.... sit down and tell me about america. america has seemed so far away, these still, still days ... farther away than the sun and the moon." long and clean-limbed, with his sea-blue eyes and quizzical look, fay threw himself down upon the sand beside her. they talked that day of people at home, of the work he had been doing and of her long absence at gilead balm. she made him see the place--the old man who had died--and old miss and miss serena and captain bob and the servants and lisa. "they are going to live on there?" "yes. just as they have done, until they, too, die.... oh, gilead balm!" late in the afternoon, the sun making a red path across the waters, and the red-sailed boats growing larger, coming toward the land, they walked back to the village together. he left her at the door of the curé's house. he himself was staying at the inn. she did not ask him how long he would stay, or if he was on his way to other, larger places. the situation accepted itself. there followed some days of wandering together, through the little grey town, or over the green headland to a country beyond of pine trees and druid stones, or, in the evening light, along the sands. they found a sailboat, with an old, hale boatman, for hire, and they went out in this boat. sometimes the wind carried them along, swift as a leaf; sometimes they went as in a sea-revery, so dreamily. the boatman knew all the legends of the sea; he told them stories of the king of ys and the false ahés, and then he talked of the pardons of his youth. sometimes they skirted the coast, sometimes they went so far out that the land was but an eastward-lying shadow. the next day, perhaps, they wandered inland, over the heath among dolmens and menhirs, or, seated on old wreckage upon the sands, the dark blue sea before them, now they talked and now they kept company with silence. they talked little rather than much. the place was taciturn, and her mood made for quiet. it was not until the fourth day that he told her for what he had come. "but you know for what i came." "yes, i know." "if you could--" "i want," said hagar, "more time. will you let it all rest for a little longer? i don't think i could tell you truly to-day." "as long as you wish," he said, "if only, in the end--" two days after this they went out in the afternoon in the boat. it had been a warm day, with murk in the air. at the little landing-place fay, after a glance at the dim, hot arch of the sky, asked the boatman if bad weather might be brewing. but the breton was positive. "nothing to-day--nothing to-day! to-morrow, perhaps, m'sieu." they went sailing far out, until the land sunk from sight. an hour or two passed, pleasantly, pleasantly. then suddenly the wind, where they were, dropped like a stone. they lay for an hour with flapping sail and watched the blue sky grow pallid and then darken. a puff of wind, hot and heavy, lifted the hair from their brows. it increased; the sky darkened yet more; with an appalling might and swiftness the worst storm of the half-year burst upon them. the wind blew a hurricane; the sea rose; suddenly the mast went. fay and the breton battled with the wreckage, cut it loose--the boat righted. but she had shipped water and her timbers were straining and creaking. the wind was whipping her away to the open sea, and the waves, continually mounting, battered her side. there was a perceptible list. night was oncoming, and the fury above increasing. hagar braided her long hair that the wind had loosened from its fastening. "we are in danger," she said to fay. "yes. can you swim?" "yes. but there would be no long swimming in this sea." they sat in the darkness of the storm. when the lightnings flashed each had a vision of the other's face, tense and still. there was nothing that could be done. the sailor, who was hardy enough, now muttered prayers and now objurgations upon the faithless weather. he tried to assure his passengers that not st. anne herself could have foreseen what was going to occur that afternoon. certainly jean gouillou had not. "that's understood," said hagar, smiling at him in a flash of lightning; and, "just do your best now," said fay. the wild storm continued. wind and wave tossed and drove the helpless boat. now it laboured in the black trough of the waves, now it staggered upon the summits; and always it laboured more heavily, and always it was more laggard in rising. the breton and fay took turns in bailing the water out. it was now, save for the lightning, dark night. at last it was seen--though still they worked on--that there was little use in bailing. the boat grew heavier, more distressed. the sea was running high. "some wave will swamp us?" "yes. it is a matter of time--and not long time, i think." hagar put out her hands to him. "then i will tell you now--" he took her hands. "is it your answer?" "yes, my dear.... yes, my dear." they bent toward each other--their lips met. "now, whether we live or whether we die--" the wild storm continued. the slow sands of the night ran on, and still the boat lived, though always more weakly, with the end more certainly before her. the breton crossed himself and prayed. hagar and fay sat close together, hand in hand. after midnight the storm suddenly decreased in force. the lightning and thunder ceased, the clouds began to part. in another hour there would be a sky all stars. the wind that had been so loud and wild sank to a lingering, steady moaning. there was left the tumultuous, lifted sea, and the boat sunken now almost to her gunwales. fay spoke in a low voice. "are you afraid of death?" "no.... you cannot kill life." "it will not be painful, going as we shall go--if it is to happen. and to go together--" "i am glad that we are going together--seeing that we are to go." "do you believe that--when it is over--we shall be together still?" "consciously together?" "yes." "i do not know. no one knows. no one can know--yet. but i have faith that we shall persist, and that intelligently. i do not think that we shall forget or ignore our old selves. and if we wish to be together--and we do wish it--then i think we may have power to compass it." "it has sometimes seemed to me," said fay, "that after death may prove to be just life with something like fourth dimensional powers. all this life a memory as of childhood, and a power and freedom and scope undreamed of now--" "it is possible. all things are possible--save extinction.--i think, too, it will be higher, more spiritual.... at any rate, i do not fear. i feel awe as before something unknown and high." "and i the same." off in the east the stars were paling, there was coming a vague and mournful grey. the boat was sinking. the two men had torn away the thwarts and with a piece of rope lashed them together. it would be little more than a straw to cling to, in the turbulent wide ocean, miles from land. all were cold and numbed with the wind and the rain and the sea. purple streaks came into the east, a chill and solemn lift to all the sea and air and the roofless ether. hagar and fay looked at the violet light, at the extreme and ghostly calm of the fields of dawn. "it is coming now," said fay, and put his arm around her. the boat sank. the three, clinging to the frail raft they had provided, were swung from wave to wave beneath the glowing dawn.... the wind was stilled now, the water, under the rising sun, smoothed itself out. they drifted, drifted; and now the sun was an hour high.... "look! look!" cried the breton, and they looked and saw a red sail coming toward them. a day or two later hagar and fay met at the gate of the curé's widow, and climbing through the grey town came out upon the heath above. it was a high, clear afternoon, with a marvellous blue sky. they walked until they came to a circle of stones, raised there in the immemorial, dark past. when they had wandered among them for a while, they rested, leaning against the greatest menhir, looking out over the grey-green, far-stretching heath to a line of sapphire sea. "it grows like a dream," said hagar. "death, life--life, death.... i think we are growing into something that transcends both ... as we have known both." "hagar, do you love me?" "yes, i love you.... it's a quiet love, but it's deep." they sat down in the warm grass by the huge stone, and now they talked and now they were silent and content. little by little they laid their plans. "let us go to london. i will go to roger michael's. we will marry quietly there." "lily and robert will want to come from scotland." "well, we'll let them." hagar laughed, a musical, sweet laugh. "thomson is in london with mr. greer. dear old thomson! i think he'll have to come." "couldn't we have," said fay, "a month in some old, green, still, english country place?" "with roses to the eaves and a sunken lane to wander in and at night a cricket chirping on the hearth.... we'll try." "and in october sail for home." "and in october sail for home." she looked at him with eyes that smiled and yet were grave. "you're aware that you're marrying a working-woman, who intends to continue to work?" "i'm aware." her candid eyes continued to meet his. "i wish a child. while it needs me and when it needs me, i shall be there." his hand closed over hers. "is it as though i did not know that--" she kissed him on the lips. "and you're aware that i shall work on through life for the fairer social order? and that, generally speaking, the woman movement has me for keeps?" "i'm aware. i'm going to help you." "south america--" "i'm not wedded," said fay, "to south american governments. there are a plenty of bridges to be built in the united states." the grey-green silent heath stretched away to the shining sea. the grasses waved around and between the grey altars of the past, and the sky vaulted all, azure and splendid. two sea-birds passed overhead with a long, clarion cry. two butterflies hung poised upon a thistle beside them. the salt wind blew from the sea as it had blown against man and woman when these stones were raised. they sat and talked until the sun was low in the west, and then, hand in hand, walked back toward the village. the end the riverside press cambridge . massachusetts u. s. a transcriber's notes obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired. inconsistent hyphenation fixed. p. : older women -> older woman. p. : englantine -> eglatine. p. : others changes appeared -> other changes appeared. p. : left at table -> left at the table. p. : duplicate line removed: "yes, and mr. laydon." mind amongst the spindles. a miscellany, wholly composed by the factory girls. selected from the lowell offering. with an introduction by the english editor, and a letter from harriet martineau. boston: jordan, swift & wiley. . [illustration: dow and jackson's press] contents. introduction. by the english editor abby's year in lowell the first wedding in salmagundi "bless, and curse not" ancient poetry the spirit of discontent the whortleberry excursion the western antiquities the fig tree village pastors the sugar-making excursion prejudice against labor joan of arc susan miller scenes on the merrimac the first bells evening before pay-day the indian pledge the first dish of tea leisure hours of the mill girls the tomb of washington life among farmers a weaver's reverie our duty to strangers elder isaac townsend harriet greenough fancy the widow's son witchcraft cleaning up visits to the shakers the lock of gray hair lament of the little hunchback this world is not our home dignity of labor the village chronicle ambition and contentment a conversation on physiology [illustration: decoration] introduction, by the english editor. in the american state of massachusetts, one of the new england states, which was colonized by the stern puritans who were driven from our country by civil and religious persecution, has sprung up within the last thirty years the largest manufacturing town of the vast republic. lowell is situated not a great distance from boston, at the confluence of the rivers merrimac and concord. the falls of these rivers here afford a natural moving power for machinery; and at the latter end of the year a small cotton manufacture was here set up, where the sound of labor had not been heard before. the original adventure was not a prosperous one. but in the works were bought by a company or corporation; and from that time lowell has gone on so rapidly increasing that it is now held to be "the greatest manufacturing city in america." according to mr. buckingham, there are now ten companies occupying or working thirty mills, and giving employment to more than , operatives, of whom , are females. the situation of the female population is, for the most part, a peculiar one. unlike the greater number of the young women in our english factories, they are not brought up to the labor of the mills, amongst parents who are also workers in factories. they come from a distance; many of them remain only a limited time; and they live in boarding houses expressly provided for their accommodation. miss martineau, in her "society in america," explains the cause not only of the large proportion of females in the lowell mills, but also of their coming from distant parts in search of employment: "manufactures can to a considerable degree be carried on by the labor of women; and there is a great number of unemployed women in new england, from the circumstance that the young men of that region wander away in search of a settlement on the land, and after being settled find wives in the south and west." again, she says, "many of the girls are in the factories because they have too much pride for domestic service." in october, , appeared the first number of a periodical work entitled "the lowell offering." the publication arose out of the meetings of an association of young women called "the mutual improvement society." it has continued at intervals of a month or six weeks, and the first volume was completed in december, . a second volume was concluded in . the work was under the direction of an editor, who gives his name at the end of the second volume,--abel c. thomas. the duties which this gentleman performed are thus stated by him in the preface to the first volume:-- "the two most important questions which may be suggested shall receive due attention. " st. are all the articles, in good faith and exclusively the productions of females employed in the mills? we reply, unhesitatingly and without reserve, that they are, the verses set to music excepted. we speak from personal acquaintance with all the writers, excepting four; and in relation to the latter (whose articles do not occupy eight pages in the aggregate) we had satisfactory proof that they were employed in the mills. " d. have not the articles been materially amended by the exercise of the editorial prerogative? we answer, they have not. we have taken _less liberty_ with the articles than editors usually take with the productions of other than the most experienced writers. our corrections and additions have been so slight as to be unworthy of special note." of the merits of the compositions contained in these volumes their editor speaks with a modest confidence, in which he is fully borne out by the opinions of others:-- "in estimating the talent of the writers for the 'offering,' the fact should be remembered, that they are actively employed in the mills for more than twelve hours out of every twenty-four. the evening, after eight o'clock, affords their only opportunity for composition; and whoever will consider the sympathy between mind and body, must be sensible that a day of constant manual employment, even though the labor be not excessive, must in some measure unfit the individual for the full development of mental power. yet the articles in this volume ask no unusual indulgence from the critics--for, in the language of 'the north american quarterly review,'--'many of the articles are such as satisfy the reader at once, that if he has only taken up the "offering" as a phenomenon, and not as what may bear criticism and reward perusal, he has but to own his error, and dismiss his condescension, as soon as may be.'" the two volumes thus completed in were lent to us by a lady whose well-earned literary reputation gave us the assurance that she would not bestow her praise upon a work whose merit merely consisted in the remarkable circumstance that it was written by young women, not highly educated, during the short leisure afforded by their daily laborious employments. she told us that we should find in those volumes some things which might be read with pleasure and improvement. and yet we must honestly confess that we looked at the perusal of these closely-printed eight hundred pages as something of a task. we felt that all literary productions, and indeed all works of art, should, in a great degree, be judged without reference to the condition of the producer. when we take up the poems of burns, we never think that he was a ploughman and an exciseman; but we have a painful remembrance of having read a large quarto volume of verses by ann yearsly, who was patronized in her day by horace walpole and hannah more, and to have felt only the conviction that the milkwoman of bristol, for such was their authoress, had better have limited her learning to the score and the tally. but it was a duty to read the "lowell offering." the day that saw us begin the first paper was witness to our continued reading till night found us busy at the last page, not for a duty, but a real pleasure. the qualities which most struck us in these volumes were chiefly these: _first_--there is an entire absence of all pretension in the writers to be what they are not. they are factory girls. they always call themselves "girls." they have no desire to be fine ladies, nor do they call themselves "ladies," as the common fashion is of most american females. they have no affectations of gentility; and by a natural consequence they are essentially free from all vulgarity. they describe the scenes amongst which they live, their labors and their pleasures, the little follies of some of their number, the pure tastes and unexpensive enjoyments of others. they feel, and constantly proclaim without any effort, that they think it an honor to labor with their hands. they recognize the real dignity of all useful employments. they know that there is no occupation really unworthy of men or women, but the selfish pursuits of what is called pleasure, without the desire to promote the good of others by physical, intellectual, or moral exertions. _secondly_--many of these papers clearly show under what influences these young women have been brought up. an earnest feeling of piety pervades their recollections of the past, and their hopes for the future. the thoughts of home, too, lie deep in their hearts. they are constantly describing the secluded farm-house where they were reared, the mother's love, the father's labors. sometimes a reverse of fortune falling upon a family has dispersed its once happy members. sometimes we see visions of past household joy through the orphan's tears. not unfrequently the ardent girl, happy in the confirmed affection of some equal in rank, looks exultingly towards the day when she may carry back from the savings' bank at lowell a little dower to furnish out their little farm on the hill side, where the barberries grew, so deliciously red and sour, in her remembrance of childhood. _thirdly_--there is a genuine patriotism in the tone of many of these productions, which is worthy the descendants of the stern freemen who, in the new england solitudes, looked tearfully back upon their father-land. the institutions under which these young women live are different from our own; but there is scarcely a particle of what we have been too apt to call republican arrogance. the war of independence is spoken of as it ought to be by every american, with feelings of honest exultation. but that higher sentiments than those of military triumph mingle with the memory of that war, and render patriotism something far nobler than mere national pride, may be seen in the little poem which we gladly reprint, "the tomb of washington." the paper called "the lock of gray hair" is marked by an honest nationality, which we would be ashamed not to reverence.--_fourthly_--like all writers of good natural taste, who have not been perverted into mere imitators of other writers, they perceive that there is a great source of interest in describing, simply and correctly, what they have witnessed with their own eyes. thus, some of the home pictures of these volumes are exceedingly agreeable, presenting to us manners and habits wholly different from our own, and scenes which have all the freshness of truth in their delineations.--the old stories, too, which they sometimes tell of past life in america, are equally interesting; and they show us how deeply in all minds is implanted the love of old things, which are tenderly looked back upon, even though they may have been swept away by what is real improvement.--_lastly_--although there are necessarily in these volumes, as in every miscellany, some things which are tedious, and some puerile, mock sentimentalities and labored efforts at fine writing, we think it would be difficult upon the whole for a large body of contributors, writing under great indulgence, to produce so much matter with so little bad taste. of pedantry there is literally none. the writers are familiar with good models of composition; they know something of ancient and modern history; the literature of england has reached them, and given a character and direction to their thoughts. but there is never any attempt to parade what they know; and we see they have been readers, only as we discover the same thing in the best educated persons, not in a display of their reading, but in a general tone which shows that cultivation has made them wiser and better. such were the opinions we had formed of "the lowell offering," before we were acquainted with the judgment pronounced upon the same book by a writer whose original and brilliant genius is always under the direction of kindly feelings towards his fellow-creatures, and especially towards the poor and lowly of his human brethren. mr. dickens, in his "american notes," thus mentions "the lowell offering," of which he says, "i brought away from lowell four hundred good solid pages, which i have read from beginning to end:"--"of the merits of 'the lowell offering,' as a literary production, i will only observe, putting entirely out of sight the fact of the articles having been written by these girls after the arduous labors of the day, that it will compare advantageously with a great many english annuals. it is pleasant to find that many of its tales are of the mills and of those who work in them; that they inculcate habits of self-denial and contentment, and teach good doctrines of enlarged benevolence. a strong feeling for the beauties of nature, as displayed in the solitudes the writers have left at home, breathes through its pages like wholesome village air; and though a circulating library is a favorable school for the study of such topics, it has very scant allusion to fine clothes, fine marriages, fine houses, or fine life. some persons might object to the papers being signed occasionally with rather fine names, but this is an american fashion. one of the provinces of the state legislature of massachusetts is to alter ugly names into pretty ones, as the children improve upon the tastes of their parents." if the separate articles in "the lowell offering" bear signatures which represent distinct writers, we have, in our selection of thirty-seven articles, given the productions of twenty-nine individual contributors. it is this circumstance which leads us to believe that many of the papers are faithful representations of individual feelings. tabitha, from whose pen we have given four papers, is a simple, unpretending narrator of old american scenes and customs. ella, from whom we select three papers, is one of the imaginative spirits who dwell on high thoughts of the past, and reveries of the future--one who has been an earnest thinker as well as a reader. jemima prettily describes two little home-scenes. susanna, who to our minds exhibits natural powers and feelings, that by cultivation might enable her to become as interesting an historian of the old times of america in the days before the revolution as an irving or a cooper, furnishes us with two papers. the rest are lisettas, and almiras, and ethelindas, and annettes, and theresas; with others who are contented with simple initials. they have all afforded us much pleasure. we have read what they have written with a deep interest. may the love of letters which they enjoy, and the power of composition which they have attained, shed their charms over their domestic life, when their days of mill service are ended. may their epistles to their friends be as full of truthfulness and good feeling as their contributions to "the lowell offering." may the success of this their remarkable attempt at literary composition not lead them to dream too much of the proud distinctions of authorship--uncertain prizes, won, if won at all, by many a weary struggle and many a bitter disappointment. the efforts which they have made to acquire the practice of writing have had their own reward. they have united themselves as familiar friends with high and gentle minds, who have spoken to them in books with love and encouragement. in dwelling upon the thoughts of others, in fixing their own thoughts upon some definite object, they have lifted themselves up into a higher region than is attained by those, whatever be their rank, whose minds are not filled with images of what is natural and beautiful and true. they have raised themselves out of the sphere of the partial and the temporary into the broad expanse of the universal and the eternal. during their twelve hours of daily labor, when there were easy but automatic services to perform, waiting upon a machine--with that slight degree of skill which no machine can ever attain--for the repair of the accidents of its unvarying progress, they may, without a neglect of their duty, have been elevating their minds in the scale of being by cheerful lookings-out upon nature, by pleasant recollections of books, by imaginary converse with the just and wise who have lived before them, by consoling reflections upon the infinite goodness and wisdom which regulates this world, so unintelligible without such a dependence. these habits have given them cheerfulness and freedom amidst their uninterrupted toils. we see no repinings against their twelve hours' labor, for it has had its solace. even during the low wages of , which they mention with sorrow but without complaint, the same cultivation goes on; "the lowell offering" is still produced. to us of england these things ought to be encouraging. to the immense body of our factory operatives the example of what the girls of lowell have done should be especially valuable. it should teach them that their strength, as well as their happiness, lies in the cultivation of their minds. to the employers of operatives, and to all of wealth and influence amongst us, this example ought to manifest that a strict and diligent performance of daily duties, in work prolonged as much as in our own factories, is no impediment to the exercise of those faculties, and the gratification of those tastes, which, whatever the world may have thought, can no longer be held to be limited by station. there is a contest going on amongst us, as it is going on all over the world, between the hard imperious laws which regulate the production of wealth and the aspirations of benevolence for the increase of human happiness. we do not deplore the contest; for out of it must come a gradual subjection of the iron necessity to the holy influences of love and charity. such a period cannot, indeed, be rashly anticipated by legislation against principles which are secondary laws of nature; but one thing, nevertheless, is certain--that such an improvement of the operative classes, as all good men,--and we sincerely believe amongst them the great body of manufacturing capitalists,--ardently pray for and desire to labor in their several spheres to attain, will be brought about in a parallel progression with the elevation of the operatives themselves in mental cultivation, and consequently in moral excellence. we believe that this great good may be somewhat advanced by a knowledge diffused in every building throughout the land where there is a mule or a loom, of what the factory girls of lowell have done to exhibit the cheering influences of "mind amongst the spindles." * * * * * we had written thus far when we received the following most interesting and valuable letter from miss martineau. we have the greatest pleasure in printing this admirable account of the factory girls at lowell, from the pen of one who has labored more diligently and successfully than any writer of our day, to elevate the condition of the operative classes. to miss martineau we are deeply indebted for the ardent zeal with which she has recommended the compilation, and for the sound judgment with which she has assisted us in arranging the details of a plan which mainly owes its origin to her unwearied solicitude for the good of her fellow-creatures. _letter from miss martineau to the editor._ _tynemouth, may , ._ my dear friend,--your interest in this lowell book can scarcely equal mine; for i have seen the factory girls in their lyceum, and have gone over the cotton-mills at waltham, and made myself familiar on the spot with factory life in new england; so that in reading the "offering," i saw again in my memory the street of houses built by the earnings of the girls, the church which is their property, and the girls themselves trooping to the mill, with their healthy countenances, and their neat dress and quiet manners, resembling those of the tradesman class of our country. my visit to lowell was merely for one day, in company with mr. emerson's party,--he (the pride and boast of new england as an author and philosopher) being engaged by the lowell factory people to lecture to them, in a winter course of historical biography. of course the lectures were delivered in the evening, after the mills were closed. the girls were then working seventy hours a week, yet, as i looked at the large audience (and i attended more to them than to the lecture) i saw no sign of weariness among any of them. there they sat, row behind row, in their own lyceum--a large hall, wainscoted with mahogany, the platform carpeted, well lighted, provided with a handsome table, desk, and seat, and adorned with portraits of a few worthies, and as they thus sat listening to their lecturer, all wakeful and interested, all well-dressed and lady-like, i could not but feel my heart swell at the thought, of what such a sight would be with us. the difference is not in rank, for these young people were all daughters of parents who earn their bread with their own hands. it is not in the amount of wages, however usual that supposition is, for they were then earning from one to three dollars a-week, besides their food; the children one dollar ( _s._ _d._), the second rate workers two dollars, and the best three: the cost of their dress and necessary comforts being much above what the same class expend in this country. it is not in the amount of toil; for, as i have said, they worked seventy clear hours per week. the difference was in their superior culture. their minds are kept fresh, and strong, and free by knowledge and power of thought; and this is the reason why they are not worn and depressed under their labors. they begin with a poorer chance for health than our people; for the health of the new england women generally is not good, owing to circumstances of climate and other influences; but among the women and girls in the lowell mills when i was there, the average of health was not lower than elsewhere; and the disease which was most mischievous was the same that proves most fatal over the whole country--consumption; while there were no complaints peculiar to mill life. at waltham, where i saw the mills, and conversed with the people, i had an opportunity of observing the invigorating effects of mind in a life of labor. twice the wages and half the toil would not have made the girls i saw happy and healthy, without that cultivation of mind which afforded them perpetual support, entertainment, and motive for activity. they were not highly educated, but they had pleasure in books and lectures, in correspondence with home; and had their minds so open to fresh ideas, as to be drawn off from thoughts of themselves and their own concerns. when at work they were amused with thinking over the last book they had read, or with planning the account they should write home of the last sunday's sermon, or with singing over to themselves the song they meant to practise in the evening; and when evening came, nothing was heard of tired limbs and eagerness for bed, but, if it was summer, they sallied out, the moment tea was over, for a walk, and if it was winter, to the lecture-room or to the ball-room for a dance, or they got an hour's practice at the piano, or wrote home, or shut themselves up with a new book. it was during the hours of work in the mill that the papers in the "offering" were meditated, and it was after work in the evenings that they were penned. there is, however, in the case of these girls, a stronger support, a more elastic spring of vigor and cheerfulness than even an active and cultivated understanding. the institution of factory labor has brought ease of heart to many; and to many occasion for noble and generous deeds. the ease of heart is given to those who were before suffering in silent poverty, from the deficiency of profitable employment for women, which is even greater in america than with us. it used to be understood there that all women were maintained by the men of their families; but the young men of new england are apt to troop off into the west, to settle in new lands, leaving sisters at home. some few return to fetch a wife, but the greater number do not, and thus a vast over proportion of young women remains; and to a multitude of these the opening of factories was a most welcome event, affording means of honorable maintenance, in exchange for pining poverty at home. as for the noble deeds, it makes one's heart glow to stand in these mills, and hear of the domestic history of some who are working before one's eyes, unconscious of being observed or of being the object of any admiration. if one of the sons of a new england farmer shows a love for books and thought, the ambition of an affectionate sister is roused, and she thinks of the glory and honor to the whole family, and the blessing to him, if he could have a college education. she ponders this till she tells her parents, some day, of her wish to go to lowell, and earn the means of sending her brother to college. the desire is yet more urgent if the brother has a pious mind, and a wish to enter the ministry. many a clergyman in america has been prepared for his function by the devoted industry of sisters; and many a scholar and professional man dates his elevation in social rank and usefulness from his sister's, or even some affectionate aunt's entrance upon mill life, for his sake. many girls, perceiving anxiety in their fathers' faces, on account of the farm being incumbered, and age coming on without release from the debt, have gone to lowell, and worked till the mortgage was paid off, and the little family property free. such motives may well lighten and sweeten labor; and to such girls labor is light and sweet. some, who have no such calls, unite the surplus of their earnings to build dwellings for their own residence, six, eight, or twelve living together with the widowed mother or elderly aunt of one of them to keep house for, and give countenance to the party. i saw a whole street of houses so built and owned, at waltham; pretty frame houses, with the broad piazza, and the green venitian blinds, that give such an air of coolness and pleasantness to american village and country abodes. there is the large airy eating-room, with a few prints hung up, the piano at one end, and the united libraries of the girls, forming a good-looking array of books, the rocking chairs universal in america, the stove adorned in summer with flowers, and the long dining-table in the middle. the chambers do not answer to our english ideas of comfort. there is a strange absence of the wish for privacy; and more girls are accommodated in one room than we should see any reason for in such comfortable and pretty houses. in the mills the girls have quite the appearance of ladies. they sally forth in the morning with their umbrellas in threatening weather, their calashes to keep their hair neat, gowns of print or gingham, with a perfect fit, worked collars or pelerines, and waistbands of ribbon. for sundays and social evenings they have their silk gowns, and neat gloves and shoes. yet through proper economy,--the economy of educated and thoughtful people,--they are able to lay by for such purposes as i have mentioned above. the deposits in the lowell savings' bank were, in , upwards of , dollars, the number of operatives being , of whom were women and girls. i thank you for calling my attention back to this subject. it is one i have pleasure in recurring to. there is nothing in america which necessitates the prosperity of manufactures as of agriculture, and there is nothing of good in their factory system that may not be emulated elsewhere--equalled elsewhere, when the people employed are so educated as to have the command of themselves and of their lot in life, which is always and everywhere controlled by mind, far more than by outward circumstances. i am very truly yours, h. martineau. [illustration: decoration] mind amongst the spindles. abby's year in lowell. chapter i. "mr. atkins, i say! husband, why can't you speak? do you hear what abby says?" "any thing worth hearing?" was the responsive question of mr. atkins; and he laid down the new hampshire patriot, and peered over his spectacles, with a look which seemed to say, that an event so uncommon deserved particular attention. "why, she says that she means to go to lowell, and work in the factory." "well, wife, let her go;" and mr. atkins took up the patriot again. "but i do not see how i can spare her; the spring cleaning is not done, nor the soap made, nor the boys' summer clothes; and you say that you intend to board your own 'men-folks' and keep two more cows than you did last year; and charley can scarcely go alone. i do not see how i can get along without her." "but you say she does not assist you any about the house." "well, husband, she _might_." "yes, she might do a great many things which she does not think of doing; and as i do not see that she means to be useful here; we will let her go to the factory." "father, are you in earnest? may i go to lowell?" said abby; and she raised her bright black eyes to her father's, with a look of exquisite delight. "yes, abby, if you will promise me one thing, and that is, that you will stay a whole year without visiting us, excepting in case of sickness, and that you will stay but one year." "i will promise anything, father, if you will only let me go; for i thought you would say that i had better stay at home, and pick rocks, and weed the garden, and drop corn, and rake hay; and i do not want to do such work any longer. may i go with the slater girls next tuesday? for that is the day they have set for their return." "yes, abby, if you will remember that you are to stay a year, and only a year." abby retired to rest that night with a heart fluttering with pleasure; for ever since the visit of the slater girls, with new silk dresses, and navarino bonnets trimmed with flowers and lace veils, and gauze handkerchiefs, her head had been filled with visions of fine clothes; and she thought if she could only go where she could dress like them, she would be completely happy. she was naturally very fond of dress, and often, while a little girl, had she sat on the grass bank by the road-side, watching the stage which went daily by her father's retired dwelling; and when she saw the gay ribbons and smart shawls, which passed like a bright phantom before her wondering eyes, she had thought that when older she too would have such things; and she looked forward to womanhood as to a state in which the chief pleasure must consist in wearing fine clothes. but as years passed over her, she became aware that this was a source from which she could never derive any enjoyment, while she remained at home, for her father was neither able nor willing to gratify her in this respect, and she had begun to fear that she must always wear the same brown cambric bonnet, and that the same calico gown would always be her "go-to-meeting dress." and now what a bright picture had been formed by her ardent and uncultivated imagination.--yes, she would go to lowell, and earn all that she possibly could, and spend those earnings in beautiful attire; she would have silk dresses,--one of grass green, and another of cherry red, and another upon the color of which she would decide when she purchased it; and she would have a new navarino bonnet; far more beautiful than judith slater's; and when at last she fell asleep, it was to dream of satin and lace, and her glowing fancy revelled all night in a vast and beautiful collection of milliners' finery. but very different were the dreams of abby's mother; and when she awoke the next morning, her first words to her husband were, "mr. atkins, were you serious last night when you told abby that she might go to lowell? i thought at first that you were vexed because i interrupted you, and said it to stop the conversation." "yes, wife, i was serious, and you did not interrupt me, for i had been listening to all that you and abby were saying. she is a wild, thoughtless girl, and i hardly know what it is best to do with her; but perhaps it will be as well to try an experiment, and let her think and act a little while for herself. i expect that she will spend all her earnings in fine clothes, but after she has done so she may see the folly of it; at all events, she will be more likely to understand the value of money when she has been obliged to work for it. after she has had her own way for one year, she may possibly be willing to return home, and become a little more steady, and be willing to devote her active energies (for she is a very capable girl) to household duties, for hitherto her services have been principally out of doors, where she is now too old to work. i am also willing that she should see a little of the world, and what is going on in it; and i hope that, if she receives no benefit, she will at least return to us uninjured." "o, husband, i have many fears for her," was the reply of mrs. atkins, "she is so very giddy and thoughtless, and the slater girls are as hair-brained as herself, and will lead her on in all sorts of folly. i wish you would tell her that she must stay at home." "i made a promise," said mr. atkins, "and i will keep it; and abby, i trust, will keep _hers_." abby flew round in high spirits to make the necessary preparations for her departure, and her mother assisted her with a heavy heart. chapter ii. the evening before she left home her father called her to him, and fixing upon her a calm, earnest, and almost mournful look, he said, "abby, do you ever think?"--abby was subdued, and almost awed, by her father's look and manner. there was something unusual in it--something in his expression which was unexpected in him, which reminded her of her teacher's look at the sabbath school, when he was endeavoring to impress upon her mind some serious truth. "yes, father," she at length replied, "i have thought a great deal lately about going to lowell." "but i do not believe, my child, that you have had one serious reflection upon the subject, and i fear that i have done wrong in consenting to let you go from home. if i was too poor to maintain you here, and had no employment about which you could make yourself useful, i should feel no self-reproach, and would let you go, trusting that all might yet be well; but now i have done what i may at some future time severely repent of; and, abby, if you do not wish to make me wretched, you will return to us a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl." that night abby reflected more seriously than she had ever done in her life before. her father's words, rendered more impressive by the look and tone with which they were delivered, had sunk into her heart as words of his had never done before. she had been surprised at his ready acquiescence in her wishes, but it had now a new meaning. she felt that she was about to be abandoned to herself, because her parents despaired of being able to do anything for her; they thought her too wild, reckless, and untameable, to be softened by aught but the stern lessons of experience. i will surprise them, said she to herself; i will show them that i have some reflection; and after i come home, my father shall never ask me if i _think_. yes, i know what their fears are, and i will let them see that i can take care of myself, and as good care as they have ever taken of me. i know that i have not done as well as i might have done; but i will begin _now_, and when i return, they shall see that _i am_ a better, milder, and more thoughtful girl. and the money which i intended to spend in fine dress shall be put into the bank; i will save it all, and my father shall see that i can earn money, and take care of it too. o, how different i will be from what they think i am; and how very glad it will make my father and mother to see that i am not so very bad, after all. new feelings and new ideas had begotten new resolutions, and abby's dreams that night were of smiles from her mother, and words from her father, such as she had never received nor deserved. when she bade them farewell the next morning, she said nothing of the change which had taken place in her views and feelings, for she felt a slight degree of self-distrust in her own firmness of purpose. abby's self-distrust was commendable and auspicious; but she had a very prominent development in that part of the head where phrenologists locate the organ of firmness; and when she had once determined upon a thing, she usually went through with it. she had now resolved to pursue a course entirely different from that which was expected of her, and as different from the one she had first marked out for herself. this was more difficult, on account of her strong propensity for dress, a love of which was freely gratified by her companions. but when judith slater pressed her to purchase this beautiful piece of silk, or that splendid piece of muslin, her constant reply was, "no, i have determined not to buy any such things, and i will keep my resolution." before she came to lowell, she wondered, in her simplicity, how people could live where there were so many stores, and not spend all their money; and it now required all her firmness to resist being overcome by the tempting display of beauties which met her eye whenever she promenaded the illuminated streets. it was hard to walk by the milliners' shops with an unwavering step; and when she came to the confectionaries, she could not help stopping. but she did not yield to the temptation; she did not spend her money in them. when she saw fine strawberries, she said to herself, "i can gather them in our own pasture next year;" when she looked upon the nice peaches, cherries, and plums which stood in tempting array behind their crystal barriers, she said again, "i will do without them _this_ summer;" and when apples, pears, and nuts were offered to her for sale, she thought that she would eat none of them till she went home. but she felt that the only safe place for her earnings was the savings' bank, and there they were regularly deposited, that it might be out of her power to indulge in momentary whims. she gratified no feeling but a newly-awakened desire for mental improvement, and spent her leisure hours in reading useful books. abby's year was one of perpetual self-contest and self-denial; but it was by no means one of unmitigated misery. the ruling desire of years was not to be conquered by the resolution of a moment; but when the contest was over, there was for her the triumph of victory. if the battle was sometimes desperate, there was so much more merit in being conqueror. one sabbath was spent in tears, because judith slater did not wish her to attend their meeting with such a dowdy bonnet; and another fellow-boarder thought her gown must have been made in "the year one." the color mounted to her cheeks, and the lightning flashed from her eyes, when asked if she had "_just come down_;" and she felt as though she should be glad to be away from them all, when she heard their sly innuendoes about "bush-wackers." still she remained unshaken. it is but a year, said she to herself, and the time and money that my father thought i should spend in folly, shall be devoted to a better purpose. chapter iii. at the close of a pleasant april day, mr. atkins sat at his kitchen fire-side, with charley upon his knees. "wife," said he to mrs. atkins, who was busily preparing the evening meal, "is it not a year since abby left home?" "why, husband, let me think: i always clean up the house thoroughly just before _fast-day_, and i had not done it when abby went away. i remember speaking to her about it, and telling her that it was wrong to leave me at such a busy time, and she said, 'mother, i will be at home to do it all next year.' yes, it is a year, and i should not be surprised if she should come this week." "perhaps she will not come at all," said mr. atkins, with a gloomy look; "she has written us but few letters, and they have been very short and unsatisfactory. i suppose she has sense enough to know that no news is better than bad news, and having nothing pleasant to tell about herself, she thinks she will tell us nothing at all. but if i ever get her home again, i will keep her here. i assure you, her first year in lowell shall also be her last." "husband, i told you my fears, and if you had set up your authority, abby would have been obliged to stay at home; but perhaps she is doing pretty well. you know she is not accustomed to writing, and that may account for the few and short letters we have received; but they have all, even the shortest, contained the assurance that she would be at home at the close of the year." "pa, the stage has stopped here," said little charley, and he bounded from his father's knee. the next moment the room rang with the shout of "abby has come! abby has come!" in a few moments more, she was in the midst of the joyful throng. her father pressed her hand in silence, and tears gushed from her mother's eyes. her brothers and sisters were clamorous with delight, all but little charley, to whom abby was a stranger, and who repelled with terror all her overtures for a better acquaintance. her parents gazed upon her with speechless pleasure, for they felt that a change for the better had taken place in their once wayward girl. yes, there she stood before them, a little taller and a little thinner, and, when the flush of emotion had faded away, perhaps a little paler; but the eyes were bright in their joyous radiance, and the smile of health and innocence was playing around the rosy lips. she carefully laid aside her new straw bonnet, with its plain trimming of light blue ribbon, and her dark merino dress showed to the best advantage her neat symmetrical form. there was more delicacy of personal appearance than when she left them, and also more softness of manner; for constant collision with so many young females had worn off the little asperities which had marked her conduct while at home. "well, abby, how many silk gowns have you got?" said her father, as he opened a large new trunk. "_not one_, father," said she; and she fixed her dark eyes upon him with an expression which told all. "but here are some little books for the children, and a new calico dress for mother; and here is a nice black silk handkerchief for you to wear around your neck on sundays; accept it, dear father, for it is your daughter's first gift." "you had better have bought me a pair of spectacles, for i am sure i cannot see anything." there were tears in the rough farmer's eyes, but he tried to laugh and joke, that they might not be perceived. "but what did you do with all your money?" "i thought i had better leave it there," said abby, and she placed her bank-book in her father's hand. mr. atkins looked a moment, and the forced smile faded away. the surprise had been too great, and tears fell thick and fast from the father's eyes. "it is but a little," said abby. "but it was all you could save," replied her father, "and i am proud of you, abby; yes, proud that i am the father of such a girl. it is not this paltry sum which pleases me so much, but the prudence, self-command, and real affection for us which you have displayed. but was it not sometimes hard to resist temptation?" "yes, father, _you_ can never know how hard; but it was the thought of _this_ night which sustained me through it all. i knew how you would smile, and what my mother would say and feel; and though there have been moments, yes, hours, that have seen me wretched enough, yet this one evening will repay for all. there is but one thing now to mar my happiness, and that is the thought that this little fellow has quite forgotten me;" and she drew charley to her side. but the new picture-book had already effected wonders, and in a few moments he was in her lap, with his arms around her neck, and his mother could not persuade him to retire that night until he had given "sister abby" a hundred kisses. "father," said abby, as she arose to retire, when the tall clock struck eleven, "may i not sometime go back to lowell? i should like to add a little to the sum in the bank, and i should be glad of _one_ silk gown!" "yes, abby, you may do anything you wish. i shall never again be afraid to let you spend a year in lowell." lucinda. the first wedding in salmagundi. i have often heard this remark, "if their friends can give them nothing else, they will surely give them a wedding." as i have nothing else to present at this time, i hope my friends will not complain if i give them an account of the first wedding in our town. the ceremony of marriage being performed by his excellency the governor, it would not be amiss to introduce him first of all. let me then introduce john wentworth (the last governor of new hampshire while the colonies were subject to the crown of great britain), whose country seat was in salmagundi. the wedding which i am about to describe was celebrated on a romantic spot, by the side of lake winnipiseogee. all the neighbors within ten miles were invited, and it was understood that all who came were expected to bring with them some implements of husbandry, such as ploughs, harrows, yokes, bows, wheelbarrows, hods, scythe-snaths, rakes, goads, hay-hooks, bar-pins, &c. these articles were for a fair, the product of which was to defray the expenses of the wedding, and also to fit out the bride with some household furniture. all these implements, and a thousand and one besides, being wanted on the farm of wentworth, he was to employ persons to buy them for his own especial use. johnny o'lara, an old man, who used to chop wood at my father's door, related the particulars of the wedding one evening, while i sat on a block in the chimney-corner (the usual place for the greatest rogue in the family), plying my knitting-needles, and every now and then, when the eyes of my step-mother were turned another way, playing slyly with the cat. and once, when we yonkers went upon a whortleberry excursion, with o'lara for our pilot, he showed us the spot where the wedding took place, and described it as it was at the time. on the right was a grove of birches; on the left a grove of bushy pines, with recesses for the cows and sheep to retire from the noon-day sun. the background was a forest of tall pines and hemlocks, and in front were the limpid waters of the "smile of the great spirit." these encircled about three acres of level grass-land, with here and there a scattering oak. "under yonder oak," said o'lara, "the ceremony was performed; and here, on this flat rock, was the rude oven constructed, where the good wives baked the lamb; and there is the place where crotched stakes were driven to support a pole, upon which hung two huge iron kettles, in which they boiled their peas. and on this very ground," said o'lara, "in days of yore, the elfs and fairies used to meet, and, far from mortal ken, have their midnight gambols." the wedding was on a fine evening in the latter part of the month of july, at a time when the moon was above the horizon for the whole night. the company were all assembled, with the exception of the governor and his retinue. to while away the time, just as the sun was sinking behind the opposite mountains, they commenced singing an ode to sunset. they had sung, "the sunset is calm on the face of the deep, and bright is the last look of sol in the west; and broad do the beams of his parting glance sweep, like the path that conducts to the land of the blest," when the blowing of a horn announced the approach of the governor, whose barge was soon seen turning a point of land. the company gave a salute of nineteen guns, which was returned from the barge, gun for gun. the governor and retinue soon landed, and the fair was quickly over. the company being seated on rude benches prepared for the occasion, the blowing of a horn announced that it was time for the ceremony to commence; and, being answered by a whistle, all eyes were turned toward the right, and issuing from the birchen grove were seen three musicians, with a bagpipe, fife, and a scotch fiddle, upon which they were playing with more good nature than skill. they were followed by the bridegroom and grooms-man, and in the rear were a number of young men in their holiday clothes. these having taken their places, soft music was heard from the left; and from a recess in the pines, three maidens in white, with baskets of wild flowers on the left arm, came forth, strewing the flowers on the ground, and singing a song, of which i remember only the chorus: "lead the bride to hymen's bowers, strew her path with choicest flowers." the bride and bridesmaid followed, and after them came several lasses in gala dresses. these having taken their places, the father of the bride arose, and taking his daughter's hand and placing it in that of clifford, gave them his blessing. the governor soon united them in the bonds of holy matrimony, and as he ended the ceremony with saying, "what god hath joined let no man put asunder," he heartily saluted the bride. clifford followed his example, and after him she was saluted by every gentleman in the company. as a compensation for this "rifling of sweets," clifford had the privilege of kissing every lady present, and beginning with madame wentworth, he saluted them all, from the gray-headed matron, to the infant in its mother's arms. the cake and wine were then passed round. being a present from madame wentworth, they were no doubt excellent. after this refreshment, and while the good matrons were cooking their peas, and making other preparations, the young folks spent the time in playing "blind-man's-buff," and "hide and go seek," and in singing "jemmy and nancy," "barbara allen," "the friar with orders grey," "the lass of richmond hill," "gilderoy," and other songs which they thought were appropriate to the occasion. at length the ringing of a bell announced that dinner was ready. "what, dinner at that time of night?" perhaps some will say. but let me tell you, good friends (in johnny o'lara's words), that "the best time for a wedding dinner, is when it is well cooked, and the guests are ready to eat it." the company were soon arranged around the rude tables, which were rough boards, laid across poles that were supported by crotched stakes driven into the ground. but it matters not what the tables were, as they were covered with cloth white as the driven snow, and well loaded with plum puddings, baked lamb, and green peas, with all necessary accompaniments for a well ordered dinner, which the guests complimented in the best possible manner, that is, by making a hearty meal. dinner being ended, while the matrons were putting all things to rights, the young people made preparation for dancing; and a joyous time they had. the music and amusement continued until the "blushing morn" reminded the good people that it was time to separate. the rising sun had gilded the sides of the opposite mountains, which were sending up their exhalations, before the company were all on their way to their respective homes. long did they remember the first wedding in our town. even after the frost of seventy winters had whitened the heads of those who were then boys, they delighted to dwell on the merry scenes of that joyful night; and from that time to the present, weddings have been fashionable in salmagundi, although they are not always celebrated in quite so romantic a manner. tabitha. "bless, and curse not." the athenians were proud of their glory. their boasted city claimed pre-eminence in the arts and sciences; even the savage bowed before the eloquence of their soul-stirring orators; and the bards of every nation sang of the glory of athens. but pre-eminent as they were, they had not learned to be merciful. the pure precepts of kindness and love were not taught by their sages; and their noble orators forgot to inculcate the humble precepts of forgiveness, and the "charity which hopeth all things." they told of patriotism, of freedom, and of that courage which chastises wrong or injury with physical suffering; but they told not of that nobler spirit which "renders good for evil," and "blesses, but curses not." alcibiades, one of their own countrymen, offended against their laws, and was condemned to expiate the offence with his life. the civil authorities ordered his goods to be confiscated, that their value might swell the riches of the public treasury; and everything that pertained to him, in the way of citizenship, was obliterated from the public records. to render his doom more dreary and miserable,--to add weight to the fearful fulness of his sentence,--the priests and priestesses were commanded to pronounce upon him their curse. one of them, however, a being gentle and good as the principles of mercy which dwelt within her heart--timid as the sweet songsters of her own myrrh and orange groves, and as fair as the acacia-blossom of her own bower--rendered courageous by the all-stimulating and powerful influence of kindness, dared alone to assert the divinity of her office, by refusing to curse her unfortunate fellow-being--asserting that she was "priestess to bless, and not to curse." lisetta. [illustration: decoration] ancient poetry. i love old poetry, with its obscure expressions, its obsolete words, its quaint measure, and rough rhyme. i love it with all these, perhaps _for_ these. it is because it is different from modern poetry, and not that i think it better, that it at times affords me pleasure. but when one has been indulging in the perusal of the smooth and elegant productions of later poets, there is at least the charm of variety in turning to those of ancient bards. this is pleasant to those who love to exercise the imagination--for if we would understand our author, we must go back into olden times; we must look upon the countenances and enter into the feelings of a long-buried generation; we must remember that much of what we know was then unknown, and that thoughts and sentiments which may have become common to us, glowed upon these pages in all their primal beauty. much of which our writer may speak has now been wholly lost; and difficult, if not impossible, to be understood are many of his expressions and allusions. but these difficulties present a "delightful task" to those who would rather push on through a tangled labyrinth, than to walk with ease in a smooth-rolled path. their self-esteem is gratified by being able to discover beauty where other eyes behold but deformity: and a brilliant thought or glowing image is rendered to them still more beautiful, because it shines through a veil impenetrable to other eyes. they are proud of their ability to perceive this beauty, or understand that oddity, and they care not for the mental labor which they have been obliged to perform. when i turn from modern poetry to that of other days, it is like leaving bright flowery fields to enter a dark tangled forest. the air is cooler, but damp and heavy. a sombre gloom reigns throughout, occasionally broken by flitting sunbeams, which force their way through the thick branches which meet above me, and dance and glitter upon the dark underwood below. they are strongly contrasted with the deep shade around, and my eye rests upon them with more pleasure than it did upon the broad flood of sunshine which bathes the fields without. my searching eye at times discovers some lonely flower, half hidden by decayed leaves and withered moss, yet blooming there in undecaying beauty. there are briers and thistles and creeping vines around, but i heedlessly press on, for i must enjoy the fragrance and examine the structure of these unobtrusive plants. i enjoy all this for a while, but at length i grow chilled and weary, and am glad to leave the forest for a less fatiguing resort. but there is one kind of old poetry to which these remarks may not apply--i mean the poetry of the bible.--and how much is there of this! there are songs of joy and praise, and those of woe and lamentation; there are odes and elegies; there are prophecies and histories; there are descriptions of nature and narratives of persons, and all written with a fervency of feeling which embodies itself in lofty and glowing imagery. and what is this but poetry? yet not that which can be compared to some dark, mazy forest, but rather like a sacred grove, such as "were god's first temples." there is no gloom around, neither is there bright sunshine; but a calm and holy light pervades the place. the tall trees meet not above me, but through their lofty boughs i can look up and see the blue heavens bending their perfect dome above the hallowed spot, while now and then some fleecy cloud sails slowly on, as though it loved to shadow the still loneliness beneath. there are soft winds murmuring through the high tree-tops, and their gentle sound is like a voice from the spirit-land. there are delicate white flowers waving upon their slight stems, and their sweet fragrance is like the breath of heaven. i feel that i am in god's temple. the spirit above waits for the sacrifice. i can now erect an altar, and every selfish worldly thought should be laid thereon, a free-will offering. but when the rite is over, and i leave this consecrated spot for the busy path of life, i should strive to bear into the world a heart baptized in the love of beauty, holiness, and truth. i have spoken figuratively--perhaps too much so to please the pure and simple tastes of some--but he who made my soul and placed it in the body which it animates, implanted within it a love of the beautiful in literature, and this love was first awakened and then cherished by the words of holy writ. i have, when a child, read my bible, from its earliest book to its latest. i have gone in imagination to the plains of uz, and have there beheld the pastoral prince in all his pride and glory. i have marked him; too, when in the depth of his sorrow he sat speechless upon the ground for seven days and seven nights; but when he opened his mouth and spake, i listened with eagerness to the heart-stirring words and startling imagery which poured forth from his burning lips! but my heart has thrilled with a delightful awe when "the lord answered job out of the whirlwind," and i listened to words of more simplicity than uninspired man may ever conceive. i have gone, too, with the beloved disciple into that lonely isle where he beheld those things of which he was commanded to write. my imagination dared not conceive of the glorious throne, and of him who sat upon it; but i have looked with a throbbing delight upon the new jerusalem coming down from heaven in her clear crystal light, "as a bride adorned for her husband." i have gazed upon the golden city, flashing like "transparent glass," and have marked its pearly gates and walls of every precious stone. in imagination have i looked upon all this, till my young spirit longed to leave its earthly tenement and soar upward to that brighter world, where there is no need of sun or moon, for "the lamb is the light thereof." i have since read my bible for better purposes than the indulgence of taste. there must i go to learn my duty to god and my neighbor. there should i look for precepts to direct the life that now is, and for the promise of that which is to come; yet seldom do i close that sacred volume without a feeling of thankfulness, that the truths of our holy religion have been so often presented in forms which not only reason and conscience will approve, but also which the fancy can admire and the heart must love. ella. [illustration: decoration] the spirit of discontent. "i will not stay in lowell any longer; i am determined to give my notice this very day," said ellen collins, as the earliest bell was tolling to remind us of the hour for labor. "why, what is the matter, ellen? it seems to me you have dreamed out a new idea! where do you think of going? and what for?" "i am going home, where i shall not be obliged to rise so early in the morning, nor be dragged about by the ringing of a bell, nor confined in a close noisy room from morning till night. i will not stay here; i am determined to go home in a fortnight." such was our brief morning's conversation. in the evening, as i sat alone, reading, my companions having gone out to public lectures or social meetings, ellen entered. i saw that she still wore the same gloomy expression of countenance, which had been manifested in the morning; and i was disposed to remove from her mind the evil influence, by a plain common-sense conversation. "and so, ellen," said i, "you think it unpleasant to rise so early in the morning, and be confined in the noisy mill so many hours during the day. and i think so, too. all this, and much more, is very annoying, no doubt. but we must not forget that there are advantages, as well as disadvantages, in this employment, as in every other. if we expect to find all sunshine and flowers in any station in life, we shall most surely be disappointed. we are very busily engaged during the day; but then we have the evening to ourselves, with no one to dictate to or control us. i have frequently heard you say, that you would not be confined to household duties, and that you dislike the millinery business altogether, because you could not have your evenings for leisure. you know that in lowell we have schools, lectures, and meetings of every description, for moral and intellectual improvement." "all that is very true," replied ellen, "but if we were to attend every public institution, and every evening school which offers itself for our improvement, we might spend every farthing of our earnings, and even more. then if sickness should overtake us, what are the probable consequences? here we are, far from kindred and home; and if we have an empty purse, we shall be destitute of _friends_ also." "i do not think so, ellen. i believe there is no place where there are so many advantages within the reach of the laboring class of people, as exist here; where there is so much equality, so few aristocratic distinctions, and such good fellowship, as may be found in this community. a person has only to be honest, industrious, and moral, to secure the respect of the virtuous and good, though he may not be worth a dollar; while on the other hand, an immoral person, though he should possess wealth, is not respected." "as to the morality of the place," returned ellen, "i have no fault to find. i object to the constant hurry of everything. we cannot have time to eat, drink, or sleep; we have only thirty minutes, or at most three-quarters of an hour, allowed us, to go from our work, partake of our food, and return to the noisy chatter of machinery. up before day, at the clang of the bell--and out of the mill by the clang of the bell--into the mill, and at work, in obedience to that ding-dong of a bell--just as though we were so many living machines. i will give my notice to-morrow: go, i will--i won't stay here and be a white slave." "ellen," said i, "do you remember what is said of the bee, that it gathers honey even in a poisonous flower? may we not, in like manner, if our hearts are rightly attuned, find many pleasures connected with our employment? why is it, then, that you so obstinately look altogether on the dark side of a factory life? i think you thought differently while you were at home, on a visit, last summer--for you were glad to come back to the mill in less than four weeks. tell me, now--why were you so glad to return to the ringing of the bell, the clatter of the machinery, the early rising, the half-hour dinner, and so on?" i saw that my discontented friend was not in a humor to give me an answer--and i therefore went on with my talk. "you are fully aware, ellen, that a country life does not exclude people from labor--to say nothing of the inferior privileges of attending public worship--that people have often to go a distance to meeting of any kind--that books cannot be so easily obtained as they can here--that you cannot always have just such society as you wish--that you"-- she interrupted me, by saying, "we have no bell, with its everlasting ding-dong." "what difference does it make?" said i, "whether you shall be awakened by a bell, or the noisy bustle of a farm-house? for, you know, farmers are generally up as early in the morning as we are obliged to rise." "but then," said ellen, "country people have none of the clattering of machinery constantly dinning in their ears." "true," i replied, "but they have what is worse--and that is, a dull, lifeless silence all around them. the hens may cackle sometimes, and the geese gabble, and the pigs squeal"---- ellen's hearty laugh interrupted my description--and presently we proceeded, very pleasantly, to compare a country life with a factory life in lowell. her scowl of discontent had departed, and she was prepared to consider the subject candidly. we agreed, that since we must work for a living, the mill, all things considered, is the most pleasant, and best calculated to promote our welfare; that we will work diligently during the hours of labor; improve our leisure to the best advantage, in the cultivation of the mind,--hoping thereby not only to increase our own pleasure, but also to add to the happiness of those around us. almira. the whortleberry excursion. about a dozen of us, lads and lasses, had promised friend h. that on the first lowery day we would meet him and his family on the top of moose mountain, for the purpose of picking whortleberries, and of taking a view of the country around. we had provided the customary complement of baskets, pails, dippers, &c.; and one morning, which promised a suitable day for our excursion, we piled ourselves into a couple of waggons, and rode to the foot of the mountain and commenced climbing it on foot. a beaten path and spotted trees were our guides. a toilsome way we found it--some places being so steep that we were obliged to hold by the twigs, to prevent us from falling. three-quarters of an hour after we left our horses, we found ourselves on the whortleberry ground--some of us singing, some chatting, and all trying to see who could pick the most berries. friend h. went from place to place among the young people, and with his social conversation gave new life to the party--while his chubby boys and rosy girls by their nimbleness plainly told that they did not intend that any one should beat them in picking berries. towards noon, friend h. conducted us to a spring, where we made some lemonade, having taken care to bring plenty of lemons and sugar with us, and also bread and cheese for a lunch. seated beneath a wide-spreading oak, we partook of our homely repast; and never in princely hall were the choicest viands eaten with a keener relish. after resting a while, we recommenced picking berries, and in a brief space our pails and baskets were all full. about this time, the clouds cleared away, the sun shone out in all the splendor imaginable, and bright and beautiful was the prospect. far as the eye could reach, in a north and north-easterly direction, were to be seen fields of corn and grain, with new mown grass-land, and potato flats, farm-houses, barns, and orchards--together with a suitable proportion of wood-land, all beautifully interspersed; and a number of ponds of water, in different places, and of different forms and sizes--some of them containing small islands, which added to the beauty of the scenery. the little village at wakefield corner, which was about three miles distant, seemed to be almost under our feet; and with friend h.'s spy-glass, we could see the people at work in their gardens, weeding vegetables, picking cherries, gathering flowers, &c. but not one of our number had the faculty that the old lady possessed, who, in the time of the revolution, in looking through a spy-glass at the french fleet, brought the frenchmen so near, that she could hear them chatter; so we had to be content with ignorance of their conversation. south-westerly might be seen cropple-crown mountain; and beyond it, merry-meeting pond, where, i have been told, elder randall, the father of the free-will baptist denomination, first administered the ordinance of baptism. west, might be seen tumble-down-dick mountain; and north, the ossipee mountains; and far north, might be seen the white mountains of new hampshire, whose snow-crowned summits seemed to reach the very skies. the prospect in the other directions was not so grand, although it was beautiful--so i will leave it, and take the shortest route, with my companions, with the baskets and pails of berries, to the house of friend h. on our way, we stopped to view the lot of rock maples, which, with some little labor, afforded a sufficient supply of sugar for the family of friend h., and we promised that in the season of sugar-making the next spring, we would make it convenient to visit the place, and witness the process of making maple-sugar. our descent from the mountain was by a different path--our friends having assured us, that although our route would be farther, we should find it more pleasant; and truly we did--for the pathway was not so rough as the one in which we travelled in the morning. and besides, we had the pleasure of walking over the farm of the good quaker, and of hearing from his own lips many interesting circumstances of his life. the country, he told us, was quite a wilderness when he first took up his abode on the mountain; and bears, he said, were as plenty as woodchucks, and destroyed much of his corn. he was a bachelor, and lived alone for a number of years after he first engaged in clearing his land. his habitation was between two huge rocks, at about seventy rods from the place where he afterwards built his house.--he showed us this ancient abode of his; it was in the midst of an old orchard. it appeared as if the rocks had been originally one; but by some convulsion of nature it had been sundered, midway, from top to bottom. the back part of this dwelling was a rock wall, in which there was a fire-place and an oven. the front was built of logs, with an aperture for a door-way; and the roof was made of saplings and bark. in this rude dwelling, friend h. dressed his food, and ate it; and here, on a bed of straw, he spent his lonely nights. a small window in the rock wall admitted the light by day; and by night, his solitary dwelling was illuminated with a pitch-pine torch. on being interrogated respecting the cause of his living alone so long as he did, he made answer, by giving us to understand, that if he was called "the bear," he was not so much of a brute as to marry until he could give his wife a comfortable maintenance; "and moreover, i was resolved," said he, "that hannah should never have the least cause to repent of the ready decision which she made in my favor." "then," said one of our company, "your wife was not afraid to trust herself with the bear?" "she did not hesitate in the least," said friend h.; "for when i 'popped the question,' by saying, 'hannah, will thee have me?' she readily answered, 'yes, to----;' she would have said, 'tobias, i will;' but the words died on her lips, and her face, which blushed like the rose, became deadly pale; and she would have fallen on the floor, had i not caught her in my arms. after hannah got over her faintness, i told her that we had better not marry, until i was in a better way of living; to which she also agreed. and," said he, "before i brought home my bird, i had built yonder cage"--pointing to his house; "and now, neighbors, let us hasten to it; for hannah will have her tea ready by the time we get there." when we arrived at the house we found that tea was ready; and the amiable mrs. h., the wife of the good quaker, was waiting for us, with all imaginable patience. the room in which we took tea was remarkably neat. the white floor was nicely sanded, and the fire-place filled with pine-tops and rose-bushes; and vases of roses were standing on the mantel-piece. the table was covered with a cloth of snowy whiteness, and loaded with delicacies; and here and there stood a little china vase, filled with white and damask roses. "so-ho!" said the saucy henry l., upon entering the room; "i thought that you quakers were averse to every species of decoration; but see! here is a whole flower-garden!" friend h. smiled and said, "the rose is a favorite with hannah; and then it is like her, with one exception." "and what is that exception?" said henry.--"oh," said our friend, "hannah has no thorns to wound." mrs. h.'s heightened color and smile plainly told us, that praise from her husband was "music to her ear." after tea, we had the pleasure of promenading through the house; and mrs. h. showed us many articles of domestic manufacture, being the work of her own and her daughters' hands. the articles consisted of sheets, pillow-cases, bed-quilts, coverlets of various colors, and woven in different patterns,--such as chariot wheels, rose-of-sharon, ladies' delight, federal constitution--and other patterns, the names of which i have forgotten. the white bed-spreads and the table-covers, which were inspected by us, were equal, if not superior, to those of english manufacture; in short, all that we saw proclaimed that order and industry had an abiding place in the house of friend h. mrs. h. and myself seated ourselves by a window which overlooked a young and thrifty orchard. a flock of sheep were grazing among the trees, and their lambs were gambolling from place to place. "this orchard is more beautiful than your other," said i; "but i do not suppose it contains anything so dear to the memory of friend h. as his old habitation." she pointed to a knoll, where was a small enclosure, and which i had not before observed. "there," said she, "is a spot more dear to tobias; for there sleep our children." "your cup has then been mingled with sorrow?" said i. "but," replied she, "we do not sorrow without hope; for their departure was calm as the setting of yonder sun, which is just sinking from sight; and we trust that we shall meet them in a fairer world, never to part." a tear trickled down the cheek of mrs. h., but she instantly wiped it away, and changed the conversation. friend h. came and took a seat beside us, and joined in the conversation, which, with his assistance, became animated and amusing. here, thought i, dwell a couple, happily united. friend h., though rough in his exterior, nevertheless possesses a kindly affectionate heart; and he has a wife whose price is above rubies. the saucy henry soon came to the door, and bawled out, "the stage is ready." we obeyed the summons, and found that henry and friend h.'s son had been for our vehicles. we were again piled into the waggons--pails, baskets, whortleberries, and all; and with many hearty shakes of the hand, and many kind farewells, we bade adieu to the family of friend h., but not without renewing the promise, that, in the next sugar-making season, we would revisit moose mountain. jemima. the western antiquities. in the valley of the mississippi, and the more southern parts of north america, are found antique curiosities and works of art, bearing the impress of cultivated intelligence. but of the race, or people, who executed them, time has left no vestige of their existence, save these monuments of their skill and knowledge. not even a tradition whispers its _guess-work_, who they might be. we only know _they were_. what proof and evidence do we gather from their remains, which have withstood the test of time, of their origin and probable era of their existence? that they existed centuries ago, is evident from the size which forest trees have attained, which grow upon the mounds and fortifications discovered. that they were civilized and understood the arts, is apparent from the manner of laying out and erecting their fortifications, and from various utensils of gold, copper, and iron which have occasionally been found in digging below the earth's surface. if i mistake not, i believe even glass has been found, which, if so, shows them acquainted with chemical discoveries, which are supposed to have been unknown until a period much later than the probable time of their existence. that they were not the ancestors of the race which inhabited this country at the time of its discovery by columbus, appears conclusive from the total ignorance of the indian tribes of all knowledge of arts and civilization, and the non-existence of any tradition of their once proud sway. that they were a mighty people is evident from the extent of territory where these antiquities are scattered. the banks of the ohio and mississippi tell they once lived; and even to the shore where the vast pacific heaves its waves, there are traces of their existence. who were they? in what period of time did they exist? in a cave in one of the western states, there is carved upon the walls a group of people, apparently in the act of devotion; and a rising sun is sculptured above them. from this we should infer that they were pagans, worshipping the sun and the fabulous gods. but what most strikingly arrests the antiquarian's observation, and causes him to repeat the inquiry, "who were they?" is the habiliments of the group. one part of their habit is of the grecian costume, and the remainder is of the phoenicians. were they a colony from greece? did they come from that land in the days of its proud glory, bringing with them a knowledge of arts, science, and philosophy? did they, too, seek a home across the western waters, because they loved liberty in a strange land better than they loved slavery at home? or what may be as probable, were they the descendants of some band who managed to escape the destruction of ill-fated troy?--the descendants of a people who had called greece a mother-country, but were sacrificed to her vindictive ire, because they were prouder to be trojans than the descendants of grecians? ay, who were they? might not america have had its hector, its paris, and helen? its maidens who prayed, and its sons who fought? all this might have been. but their historians and their poets alike have perished. they _have been_; but the history of their existence, their origin, and their destruction, all, all are hidden by the dark chaos of oblivion. imagination alone, from inanimate landmarks, voiceless walls, and soulless bodies, must weave the record which shall tell of their lives, their aims, origin, and final extinction. recently, report says, in mexico there have been discovered several mummies, embalmed after the manner of the ancient egyptians. if true, it carries the origin of this fated people still farther back; and we might claim them to be contemporaries with moses and joshua. still, if i form my conclusions correctly from what descriptions i have perused of these western relics of the past, i should decide that they corresponded better with the ancient grecians, phoenicians, or trojans, than with the egyptians. i repeat, i may be incorrect in my premises and deductions, but as imagination is their historian, it pleases me better to fill a world with heroes and beauties of homer's delineations, than with those of "pharaoh and his host." lisette. [illustration: decoration] the fig-tree. it was a cold winter's evening. the snow had fallen lightly, and each tree and shrub was bending beneath its glittering burden. here and there was one, with the moonbeams gleaming brightly upon it, until it seemed, with its many branches, touched by the ice-spirit, or some fairy-like creation, in its loveliness and beauty. every thing was hushed in dridonville. situated at a little distance, was a large white house, surrounded with elm-trees, in the rear of which, upon an eminence, stood a summer-house; and in the warm season might have been seen many a gay lady reclining beneath its vine-covered roof. no pains had been spared to make the situation desirable. it was the summer residence of captain wilson. but it was now mid-winter, and yet he lingered in the country. many were the questions addressed by the villagers to the old gardener, who had grown grey in the captain's service, as to the cause of the long delay; but he could not, or would not, answer their inquiries. the shutters were closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and the astral lamp throwing its soft mellow light upon the crimson drapery and rich furniture of one of the parlors. in a large easy chair was seated a gentleman, who was between fifty and sixty years of age. he was in deep and anxious thought; and ever and anon his lip curled, as if some bitter feeling was in his heart. standing near him was a young man. his brow was open and serene; his forehead high and expansive; and his eyes beamed with an expression of benevolence and mildness. his lips were firmly compressed, denoting energy and decision of character. "you may be seated," said capt. wilson, for it was he who occupied the large chair, the young man being his only son. "you may be seated, augustus," and he cast upon him a look of mingled pride and scorn. the young man bowed profoundly, and took a seat opposite his father. there was a long pause, and the father was first to break silence. "so you intend to marry a beggar, and suffer the consequences. but do you think your love will stand the test of poverty, and the sneer of the world? for i repeat, that not one farthing of my money shall you receive, unless you comply with the promise which i long since made to my old friend, that our families should be united. she will inherit his vast possessions, as there is no other heir. true, she is a few years your senior; but that is of no importance. your mother is older than i am. but i have told you all this before. consider well ere you choose between wealth and poverty." "would that i could conscientiously comply with your request," replied augustus, "but i have promised to be protector and friend to emily summerville. she is not rich in this world's goods; but she has what is far preferable--a contented mind; and you will allow that, in point of education, she will compare even with miss clarkson." in a firm voice he continued, "i have made my choice, i shall marry emily;" and he was about to proceed, but his father stamped his foot, and commanded him to quit his presence. he left the house, and as he walked rapidly towards mr. grant's, the uncle of miss summerville, he thought how unstable were all earthly possessions, "and why," he exclaimed, "why should i make myself miserable for a little paltry gold? it may wound my pride at first to meet my gay associates; but that will soon pass away, and my father will see that i can provide for my own wants." emily summerville was the daughter of a british officer, who for many years resided in the pleasant village of dridonville. he was much beloved by the good people for his activity and benevolence. he built the cottage occupied by mr. grant. on account of its singular construction, it bore the name of the "english cottage." after his death it was sold, and mr. grant became the purchaser. there emily had spent her childhood. on the evening before alluded to, she was in their little parlor, one corner of which was occupied by a large fig-tree. on a stand were geraniums, rose-bushes, the african lily, and many other plants. at a small table sat emily, busily engaged with her needle, when the old servant announced mr. wilson. "oh, augustus, how glad i am you are come!" she exclaimed, as she sprung from her seat to meet him; "but you look sad and weary," she added, as she seated herself by his side, and gazed inquiringly into his face, the mirror of his heart. "what has happened? you look perplexed." "nothing more than i have expected for a long time," was the reply; and it was with heartfelt satisfaction that he gazed on the fair creature by his side, and thought she would be a star to guide him in the way of virtue. he told her all. and then he explained to her the path he had marked out for himself. "i must leave you for a time, and engage in the noise and excitement of my profession. it will not be long, if i am successful. i must claim one promise from you, that is, that you will write often, for that will be the only pleasure i shall have to cheer me in my absence." she did promise; and when they separated at a late hour, they dreamed not that it was their last meeting on earth. * * * * * "oh, uncle," said emily, as they entered the parlor together one morning, "do look at my fig-tree; how beautiful it is. if it continues to grow as fast as it has done, i can soon sit under its branches." "it is really pretty," replied her uncle; and he continued, laughing and patting her cheek, "you must cherish it with great care, as it was a present from ---- now don't blush; i do not intend to speak his name, but was merely about to observe, that it might be now as in olden times, that as _he_ prospers, the tree will flourish; if he is sick, or in trouble, it will decay." "if such are your sentiments," said emily, "you will acknowledge that thus far his path has been strewed with flowers." many months passed away, and there was indeed a change. the tree that had before looked so green, had gradually decayed, until nothing was left but the dry branches. but she was not superstitious: "it might be," she said, "that she had killed it with kindness." her uncle never alluded to the remark he had formerly made; but emily often thought there might be some truth in it. she had received but one letter from augustus, though she had written many. summer had passed, and autumn was losing itself in winter. augustus wilson was alone in the solitude of his chamber.--there was a hectic flush upon his cheek, and the low hollow cough told that consumption was busy. was that the talented augustus wilson? he whose thrilling eloquence had sounded far and wide? his eyes were riveted upon a withered rose. it was given him by emily, on the eve of his departure, with these words, "such as i am, receive me. would i were of more worth, for your sake." "no," he musingly said; "it is not possible she has forgotten me. i will not, cannot believe it." he arose, and walked the room with hurried steps, and a smile passed over his face, as he held communion with the bright images of the past. he threw himself upon his couch, but sleep was a stranger to his weary frame. three weeks quickly passed, and augustus wilson lay upon his death-bed. calm and sweet was his slumber, as the spirit took its flight to the better land. and o, it was a sad thing to see that father, with the frost of many winters upon his head, bending low over his son, entreating him to speak once more; but all was silent. he was not there; nought remained but the beautiful casket; the jewel which had adorned it was gone. and deep was the grief of the mother; but, unlike her husband, she felt she had done all she could to brighten her son's pathway in life. she knew not to what extent capt. w. had been guilty. augustus was buried in all the pomp and splendor that wealth could command. the wretched father thought in this way to blind the eyes of the world. but he could not deceive himself. it was but a short time before he was laid beside his son at mount auburn. several letters were found among his papers, but they had not been opened. probably he thought that by detaining them, he should induce his son to marry the rich miss clarkson, instead of the poor emily summerville. * * * * * emily summerville firmly stood amidst the desolation that had withered all her bright hopes in life. she had followed her almost idolized uncle to the grave; she had seen the cottage, and all the familiar objects connected with her earliest recollections, pass into the hands of strangers; but there was not a sigh, nor a quiver of the lip, to tell of the anguish within. she knew not that augustus wilson had entered the spirit-land, until she saw the record of his death in a boston paper. "o, if he had only sent me one word," she said; "even if it had been to tell me that i was remembered no more, it would have been preferable to this." the light which had shone so brightly on her pathway was withdrawn, and the darkness of night closed around her. long and fearful was the struggle between life and death; but when she arose from that sick bed, it was with a chastened spirit. "i am young," she thought, "and i may yet do much good." and when she again mingled in society, it was with a peace that the world could neither give nor take away. she bade adieu to her native village, and has taken up her abode in lowell. she is one of the class called "factory girls." she recently received the letters intercepted by capt. wilson, and the melancholy pleasure of perusing them is hallowed by the remembrance of him who is "gone, but not lost." ione. village pastors. the old village pastor of new england was "a man having authority." his deacons were _under_ him, and not, as is now often the case, his tyrannical rulers; and whenever his parishioners met him, they doffed their hats, and said "your reverence." whatever passed his lips was both law and gospel; and when too old and infirm to minister to his charge, he was not turned away, like an old worn-out beast, to die of hunger, or gather up, with failing strength, the coarse bit which might eke out a little longer his remaining days; but he was still treated with all the deference, and supported with all the munificence which was believed due to him whom they regarded as "god's vicegerent upon earth." he deemed himself, and was considered by his parishioners, if not infallible, yet something approaching it. those were indeed the days of glory for new england clergymen. perhaps i am wrong. the present pastor of new england, with his more humble mien and conciliatory tone, his closer application and untiring activity, may be, in a wider sphere, as truly glorious an object of contemplation. many are the toils, plans and enterprises entrusted to him, which in former days were not permitted to interfere with the duties exclusively appertaining to the holy vocation; yet with added labors, the modern pastor receives neither added honors, nor added remuneration. perhaps it is well--nay, perhaps it is _better_; but i am confident that if the old pastor could return, and take a bird's-eye view of the situations of his successors, he would exclaim, "how has the glory departed from israel, and how have they cast down the sons of levi!" i have been led to these reflections by a contemplation of the characters of the first three occupants of the pulpit in my native village. our old pastor was settled, as all then were, for life. i can remember him but in his declining years, yet even then was he a hale and vigorous old man. honored and beloved by all his flock, his days passed undisturbed by the storms and tempests which have since then so often darkened and disturbed the theological world. the opinions and creeds, handed down by his pilgrim fathers, he carefully cherished, neither adding thereto, nor taking therefrom; and he indoctrinated the young in all the mysteries of the true faith, with an undoubting belief in its infallibility. there was much of the patriarch in his look and manner; and this was heightened by the nature of his avocations, in which pastoral labors were mingled with clerical duties. no farm was in better order than that of the parsonage; no fields looked more thriving, and no flocks were more profitable than were those of the good clergyman. indeed he sometimes almost forgot his spiritual field, in the culture of that which was more earthly. one saturday afternoon the minister was very busily engaged in hay-making. his good wife had observed that during the week he had been unusually engrossed in temporal affairs, and feared for the well-being of his flock, as she saw that he could not break the earthly spell, even upon this last day of the week. she looked, and looked in vain for his return; until, finding him wholly lost to a sense of his higher duties, she deemed it her duty to remind him of them. so away she went to the haying field, and when she was in sight of the reverend haymaker, she screamed out, "mr. w., mr. w." "what, my dear?" shouted mr. w. in return. "do you intend to feed your people with hay to-morrow?" this was a poser--and mr. w. dropped his rake; and, repairing to his study, spent the rest of the day in the preparation of food more meat for those who looked so trustfully to him for the bread of life. his faithful companion was taken from him, and those who knew of his strong and refined attachment to her, said truly, when they prophesied, that he would never marry again. she left one son--their only child--a boy of noble feelings and superior intellect; and his father carefully educated him with a fond wish that he would one day succeed him in the sacred office of a minister of god. he hoped indeed that he might even fill the very pulpit which he must at some time vacate; and he prayed that his own life might be spared until this hope had been realized. endicott w. was also looked upon as their future pastor by many of the good parishioners; and never did a more pure and gentle spirit take upon himself the task of preparing to minister to a people in holy things. he was the beloved of his father, the only child who had ever blessed him--for he had not married till late in life, and the warm affections which had been so tardily bestowed upon one of the gentler sex, were now with an unusual fervor lavished upon this image of her who was gone. when endicott w. returned home, having completed his studies at the university, he was requested by our parish to settle as associate pastor with his father, whose failing strength was unequal to the regular discharge of his parochial duties. it was indeed a beautiful sight to see that old man, with bending form and silvery locks, joining in the public ministrations with his young and gifted son--the one with a calm expression of trusting faith; the countenance of the other beaming with that of enthusiasm and hope. endicott was ambitious. he longed to see his own name placed in the bright constellation of famed theologians; and though he knew that years must be spent in toil for the attainment of that object, he was willing that they should be thus devoted. the midnight lamp constantly witnessed the devotions of endicott w. at the shrine of science; and the wasting form and fading cheek told what would be the fate of the infatuated worshipper. it was long before our young pastor, his aged father, and the idolizing people, who were so proud of his talents, and such admirers of his virtues,--it was long ere these could be made to believe he was dying; but endicott w. departed from life, as a bright cloud fades away in a noon-day sky--for his calm exit was surrounded by all which makes a death-bed glorious. his aged father said, "the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the lord." and then he went again before his flock, and endeavored to reconcile them to their loss, and dispense again the comforts and blessings of the gospel, trusting that his strength would still be spared, until one, who was even then preparing, should be ready to take his place. * * * * * shall i tell you now of my own home? it was a rude farm-house, almost embowered by ancient trees, which covered the sloping hill-side on which it was situated; and it looked like an old pilgrim, who had crawled into the thicket to rest his limbs, and hide his poverty. my parents were poor, toiling, care-worn beings, and in a hard struggle for the comforts of this life had almost forgotten to prepare for that which is to come. it is true, the outward ordinances of religion were never neglected; but the spirit, the feeling, the interest, in short all that is truly deserving the name of piety, was wanting. my father toiled through the burning heat of summer, and the biting frost of winter, for his loved ones; and my mother also labored, from the first dawn of day till a late hour at night in behalf of her family. she was true to her duties as wife and mother, but it was from no higher motive than the instincts which prompt the fowls of the air to cherish their brood; and though she perhaps did not believe that "labor was the end of life," still her conduct would have given birth to that supposition. i had been for some time the youngest of the family, when a little brother was born. he was warmly welcomed by us, though we had long believed the family circle complete.--we were not then aware at how dear a price the little stranger was to be purchased. from the moment of his birth, my mother never knew an hour of perfect health. she had previously injured her constitution by unmitigated toil, and now were the effects to be more sensibly felt. she lived very many years; but it was the life of an invalid. reader, did you ever hear of the "thirty years' consumption?" a disease at present unknown in new england--for that scourge of our climate will now complete in a few months the destruction which it took years of desperate struggle to perform upon the constitutions of our more hardy ancestors. my mother was in such a consumption--that disorder which comes upon its victim like the aurorean flashes in an arctic sky, now vivid in its pure loveliness, and then shrouded in a sombre gloom. now we hoped, nay, almost believed, she was to be again quite well, and anon we watched around a bed from which we feared she would never arise. it was strange to us, who had always seen her so unremitting in her toilsome labors, and so careless in her exposure to the elements, to watch around her now--to shield her from the lightest breeze, or the slightest dampness of the air--to guard her from all intrusion, and relieve her from all care--to be always reserving for her the warmest place by the fire-side, and preparing the choicest bit of food--to be ever ready to pillow her head and bathe her brow--in short, to be never unconscious of the presence of disease.--our steps grew softer, and our voices lower, and the stillness of our manners had its influence upon our minds. the hush was upon our spirits; and there can surely be nothing so effectual in carrying the soul before its maker, as disease; and it may truly be said to every one who enters the chamber of sickness, "the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." my little brother was to us an angel sent from heaven.--he possessed a far more delicate frame and lofty intellect than any other member of the family; and his high, pale brow, and brilliant eyes, were deemed sure tokens of uncommon genius. my mother herself watched with pleasure these indications of talent, although the time had been when a predilection for literary pursuits would have been thought inconsistent with the common duties which we were all born to fulfil. we had always respected the learned and talented, but it was with a feeling akin to the veneration we felt for the inhabitants of the spiritual world. they were far above us, and we were content to bow in reverence. our thoughts had been restricted to the narrow circle of every-day duties, and our highest aspirations were to be admitted at length, as spectators, to the glory of a material heaven, where streets of gold and thrones of ivory form the magnificence of the place. it was different now.--with a nearer view of that better world, to which my mother had received her summons, came also more elevated spiritual and blissful views of its glory and perfection. it was another heaven, for she was another being; and she would have been willing at any moment to have resigned the existence which she held by so frail a tenure, had it not been for the sweet child which seemed to have been sent from that brighter world to hasten and prepare her for departure. our pastor was now a constant visitant. hitherto he had found but little to invite him to our humble habitation. he had been received with awe and constraint, and the topics upon which he loved to dwell touched no chord in the hearts of those whom he addressed. but now my mother was anxious to pour into his ears all the new-felt sentiments and emotions with which her heart was filled. she wished to share his sympathy, and receive his instructions; for she felt painfully conscious of her extreme ignorance. it was our pastor who first noticed in my little brother the indications of mental superiority; and we felt then as though the magical powers of some favored order of beings had been transferred to one in our own home-circle; and we loved the little winthrop (for father had named him after the old governor) with a stronger and holier love than we had previously felt for each other. and in these new feelings how much was there of happiness! though there was now less health, and of course less wealth, in our home, yet there was also more pure joy. i have sometimes been out upon the barren hill-side, and thought that there was no pleasure in standing on a spot so desolate. i have been again in the same bare place, and there was a balmy odor in the delicious air, which made it bliss but to inhale the fragrance. some spicy herb had carpeted the ground, and though too lowly and simple to attract the eye, yet the charm it threw around the scene was not less entrancing because so viewless and unobtrusive. such was the spell shed around our lowly home by the presence of religion. it was with us the exhalation from lowly plants, and the pure fragrance went up the more freely because they had been bruised. in our sickness and poverty we had joy in the present, and bright hopes for the future. it was early decided that winthrop should be a scholar.--our pastor said it must be so, and endicott, who was but a few years older, assisted him in his studies. they were very much together, and excepting in their own families, had no other companion. but when my brother returned from the pastor's study with a face radiant with the glow of newly-acquired knowledge, and a heart overflowing in its desire to impart to others, he usually went to his pale, emaciated mother to give vent to his sensations of joy, and came to me to bestow the boon of knowledge. i was the nearest in age. i had assisted to rear his infancy, and been his constant companion in childhood; and now our intercourse was to be continued and strengthened, amidst higher purposes and loftier feelings. i was the depository of all his hopes and fears, the sharer of all his plans for the future; and his aim was then to follow in the footsteps of endicott w. if he could only be as good, as kind and learned, he should think himself one of the best of mankind. when endicott became our pastor, my brother was ready to enter college, with the determination to consecrate himself to the same high calling. it seemed hardly like reality to us, that one of our own poor household was to be an educated man. we felt lifted up--not with pride--for the feeling which elevated us was too pure for that; but we esteemed ourselves better than we had ever been before, and strove to be more worthy of the high gift which had been bestowed upon us. when my brother left home, it was with the knowledge that self-denial was to be practised, for his sake, by those who remained; but he also knew that it was to be willingly, nay, joyously performed. still he did not know _all_. even things which heretofore, in our poverty, we had deemed essential to comfort, were now resigned.--we did not even permit my mother to know how differently the table was spread for her than for our own frugal repast. neither was she aware how late and painfully i toiled to prevent the hire of additional service upon our little farm. the joy in the secret depths of my heart was its own reward; and never yet have i regretted an effort or a sacrifice made then. it was a discipline like the refiner's fire, and but for my brother, i should never have been even as, with all my imperfections, i trust i am now. my brother returned from college as the bright sun of endicott w.'s brief career was low in a western sky. he had intended to study with him for the same vocation--and with him he _did_ prepare. o, there could have been no more fitting place to imbue the mind with that wisdom which cometh from above, than the sick room at our pastor's. "the chamber where the good man meets his fate, is privileged beyond the common walks of life,"-- and endicott's was like the shelter of some bright spirit from the other world, who, for the sake of those about him, was delaying for a while his return to the home above.--my brother was with him in his latest hours, and received as a dying bequest the charge of his people. the parish also were anxious that he should be endicott's successor; and in the space requested for farther preparation, our old pastor returned to his pulpit. but he had overrated his own powers; and besides, he was growing blind. there were indeed those who said that, notwithstanding his calmness in the presence of others, he had in secret wept his sight away; and that while a glimmer of it remained, the curtain of his window, which overlooked the grave-yard, had never been drawn. he ceased his labors, but a temporary substitute was easily found--for, as old deacon s. remarked, "there are many ministers _now_, who are glad to go out to day's labor." my mother had prayed that strength might be imparted to her feeble frame, to retain its rejoicing inhabitant until she could see her son a more active laborer in the lord's vineyard; "and then," said she, "i can depart in peace." for years she had hoped the time would come, but dared not hope to see it. but life was graciously spared; and the day which was to see him set apart as peculiarly a servant of his god, dawned upon her in better health than she had known for years. perhaps it was the glad spirit which imparted its renewing glow to the worn body, but she went with us that day to the service of ordination. the old church was thronged; and as the expression of thankfulness went up from the preacher's lips, that one so worthy was then to be dedicated to his service, my own heart was subdued by the solemn joy that he was one of us. my own soul was poured out in all the exercises; but when the charge was given, there was also an awe upon all the rest. our aged pastor had been led into his pulpit, that he might perform this ceremony; and when he arose with his silvery locks, thinned even since he stood there last, and raised his sightless eyes to heaven, i freely wept. he was in that pulpit where he had stood so many years, to warn, to guide, and to console; and probably each familiar face was then presented to his imagination. he was where his dear departed son had exercised the ministerial functions, and the same part of the service which he had performed at his ordination, he was to enact again for his successor. the blind old man raised his trembling hand, and laid it upon the head of the young candidate; and as the memories of the past came rushing over him, he burst forth in a strain of heart-stirring eloquence. there was not a tearless eye in the vast congregation; and the remembrance of that hour had doubtless a hallowing influence upon the young pastor's life. my brother was settled for five years, and as we departed from the church, i heard deacon s. exclaim, in his bitterness against modern degeneracy in spiritual things, that "the old pastor was settled _for life_." "so is the new one," said a low voice in reply; and for the first time the idea was presented to my mind that winthrop was to be, like endicott w., one of the early called. but the impression departed in my constant intercourse with him in his home--for our lowly dwelling was still the abode of the new pastor. he would never remove from it while his mother lived, and an apartment was prepared for him adjoining hers. they were pleasant rooms, for during the few past years he had done much to beautify the place, and the shrubs which he had planted were already at their growth. the thick vines also which had struggled over the building, were now gracefully twined around the windows, and some of the old trees cut down, that we might be allowed a prospect. still all that could conduce to beauty was retained; and i have often thought how easily and cheaply the votary of true taste can enjoy its pleasures. winthrop was now so constantly active and cheerful, that i could not think of death as connected with him. but i knew that he was feeble, and watched and cherished him, as i had done when he was but a little child. though in these respects his guardian, in others i was his pupil. i sat before him, as mary did at the messiah's feet, and gladly received his instructions. my heart went out with him in all the various functions of his calling. i often went with him to the bed-side of the sick, and to the habitations of the wretched. none knew better than he did, how to still the throbbings of the wrung heart, and administer consolation. i was present also, when, for the first time, he sprinkled an infant's brow with the waters of consecration; and when he had blessed the babe, he also prayed that we might all become even as that little child. i was with him, too, when for the first time he joined in holy bands, those whom none but god should ever put asunder; and if the remembrance of the fervent petition which went up for them, has dwelt as vividly in their hearts as it has in mine, that prayer must have had a holy influence upon their lives. i have said that i remember his first baptism and wedding; but none who were present will forget his first funeral. it was our mother's. she had lived so much beyond our expectations, and been so graciously permitted to witness the fulfilment of her dearest hope, that when at length the spirit winged its flight, we all joined in the thanksgiving which went up from the lips of her latest-born, that she had been spared so long. it was a beautiful sabbath--that day appointed for her funeral--but in the morning a messenger came to tell us that the clergyman whom we expected was taken suddenly ill. what could be done? our old pastor was then confined to his bed, and on this day all else were engaged. "i will perform the services myself," said winthrop. "i shall even be happy to do it." "nay," said i, "you are feeble, and already spent with study and watching. it must not be so." "do not attempt to dissuade me, sister," he replied. "there will be many to witness the interment of her who has hovered upon the brink of the grave so long; and has not almost every incident of her life, from my very birth, been a text from which important lessons may be drawn?" and then, fixing his large mild eyes full upon me, as though he would utter a truth which duty forbade him longer to suppress, he added, "i dare not misimprove this opportunity. this first death in _my_ parish may also be the last. nay, weep not, my sister, because i may go next. the time at best is short, and i must work while the day lasts." i did not answer. my heart was full, and i turned away. that day my brother ascended his pulpit to conduct the funeral services, and in them he _did_ make of her life a lesson to all present. but when he addressed himself particularly to the young, the middle-aged and the old, his eyes kindled, and his cheeks glowed, as he varied the subject to present the "king of terrors" in a different light to each. then he turned to the mourners. and who were _they?_ his own aged father, the companion for many years of her who was before them in her shroud. his own brothers and sisters, and the little ones of the third generation, whose childish memories had not even yet forgotten her dying blessing. he essayed to speak, but in vain. the flush faded from his cheek till he was deadly pale. again he attempted to address us, and again in vain. he raised his hand, and buried his face in the folds of his white handkerchief. i also covered my eyes, and there was a deep stillness throughout the assembly. at that moment i thought more of the living than of the dead; and then there was a rush among the great congregation, like the sudden bursting forth of a mighty torrent. i raised my eyes, but could see no one in the pulpit. the next instant it was filled. i also pressed forward, and unimpeded ascended the steps, for all stood back that i might pass. i reached him as he lay upon the seat where he had fallen, and the handkerchief, which was still pressed to his lips, was wet with blood. they bore him down, and through the aisle; and when he passed the coffin, he raised his head, and gazed a moment upon that calm, pale face. then casting upon all around a farewell glance, he sunk gently back, and closed his eyes. * * * * * a few evenings after, i was sitting by his bed-side. the bright glow of a setting sun penetrated the white curtains of his windows, and fell with softened lustre upon his face. the shadows of the contiguous foliage were dancing upon the curtains, the floor, and the snowy drapery of his bed; and as he looked faintly up, he murmured, "it is a beautiful world; but the other is glorious! and my mother is there, and endicott. see! they are beckoning to me, and smiling joyfully!--mother, dear mother, and endicott, i am coming!" his voice and looks expressed such conviction of the reality of what he saw, that i also looked up to see these beautiful spirits. my glance of disappointment recalled him; and he smiled as he said, "i think it was a dream; but it will be reality soon.--do not go," said he, as i arose to call for others. "do not fear, sister. the bands are very loose, and the spirit will go gently, and perhaps even before you could return." i reseated myself, and pressing his wasted hand in mine, i watched,-- "as through his breast, the wave of life heaved gently to and fro." a few moments more, and i was alone with the dead. we buried winthrop by the side of endicott w., and the old pastor was soon laid beside them. * * * * years have passed since then, and i still love to visit those three graves. but other feelings mingle with those which once possessed my soul. i hear those whose high vocation was once deemed a sure guarantee for their purity, either basely calumniated, or terribly condemned. their morality is questioned, their sincerity doubted, their usefulness denied, and their pretensions scoffed at. it may be that unholy hands are sometimes laid upon the ark, and that change of times forbids such extensive usefulness as was in the power of the clergymen of new england in former days. but when there comes a muttering cry of "down with the priesthood!" and a denial of the good which they have effected, my soul repels the insinuation, as though it were blasphemy. i think of the first three pastors of our village, and i reverence the ministerial office and its labors, "if i but remember only, that such as these have lived, and died." susanna. [illustration: decoration] the sugar-making excursion. it was on a beautiful morning in the month of march, (one of those mornings so exhilarating that they make even age and decrepitude long for a ramble), that friend h. called to invite me to visit his sugar-lot--as he called it--in company with the party which, in the preceding summer, visited moose mountain upon the whortleberry excursion. it was with the pleasure generally experienced in revisiting former scenes, in quest of novelty and to revive impressions and friendships, that our party set out for this second visit to moose mountain. a pleasant sleigh-ride of four or five miles, brought us safely to the domicile of friend h., who had reached home an hour previously, and was prepared to pilot us to his sugar-camp. "before we go," said he, "you must one and all step within doors, and warm your stomachs with some gingered cider." we complied with his request, and after a little social chat with mrs. h., who welcomed us with a cordiality not to be surpassed, and expressed many a kind wish that we might spend the day agreeably, we made for the sugar-camp, preceded by friend h., who walked by the side of his sleigh, which appeared to be well loaded, and which he steadied with the greatest care at every uneven place in the path. arrived at the camp, we found two huge iron kettles suspended on a pole, which was supported by crotched stakes, driven in the ground, and each half full of boiling syrup. this was made by boiling down the sap, which was gathered from troughs that were placed under spouts which were driven into rock-maple trees, an incision being first made in the tree with an auger. friend h. told us that it had taken more than two barrels of sap to make what syrup each kettle contained. a steady fire of oak bark was burning underneath the kettles, and the boys and girls, friend h.'s sons and daughters, were busily engaged in stirring the syrup, replenishing the fire, &c. abigail, the eldest daughter, went to her father's sleigh, and taking out a large rundlet, which might contain two or three gallons, poured the contents into a couple of pails. this we perceived was milk, and as she raised one of the pails to empty the contents into the kettles, her father called out, "ho, abigail! hast thee strained the milk?" "yes, father," said abigail. "well," said friend h., with a chuckle, "abigail understands what she is about, as well as her mother would; and i'll warrant hannah to make better maple-sugar than any other woman in new england, or in the whole united states--and you will agree with me in that, after that sugar is turned off and cooled." abigail turned to her work, emptied her milk into the kettles, and then stirred their contents well together, and put some bark on the fire. "come, jemima," said henry l., "let us try to assist abigail a little, and perhaps we shall learn to make sugar ourselves; and who knows but what she will give us a 'gob' to carry home as a specimen to show our friends; and besides, it is possible that we may have to make sugar ourselves at some time or other; and even if we do not, it will never do us any harm to know how the thing is done." abigail furnished us each with a large brass scummer, and instructed us to take off the scum as it arose, and put it into the pails; and henry called two others of our party to come and hold the pails. "but tell me, abigail," said henry, with a roguish leer, "was that milk really intended for whitening the sugar?" "yes," said abigail with all the simplicity of a quakeress, "for thee must know that the milk will all rise in a scum, and with it every particle of dirt or dust which may have found its way into the kettles." abigail made a second visit to her father's sleigh, accompanied by her little brother, and brought from thence a large tin baker, and placed it before the fire. her brother brought a peck measure two-thirds full of potatoes, which abigail put into the baker, and leaving them to their fate, returned to the sleigh, and with her brother's assistance carried several parcels, neatly done up in white napkins, into a little log hut of some fifteen feet square, with a shed roof made of slabs. we began to fancy that we were to have an irish lunch. henry took a sly peep into the hut when we first arrived, and he declared that there was nothing inside, save some squared logs, which were placed back against the walls, and which he supposed were intended for seats. but he was mistaken in thinking that seats were every convenience which the building contained,--as will presently be shown. abigail and her brother had been absent something like half an hour, and friend h. had in the mean time busied himself in gathering sap, and putting it in some barrels hard by. the kettles were clear from scum, and their contents were bubbling like soap. the fire was burning cheerfully, the company all chatting merrily, and a peep into the baker told that the potatoes were cooked. abigail and her brother came, and taking up the baker, carried it inside the building, but soon returned, and placed it again before the fire. then she called to her father, who came and invited us to go and take dinner. we obeyed the summons; but how were we surprised, when we saw how neatly arranged was every thing. the walls of the building were ceiled around with boards, and side tables fastened to them, which could be raised or let down at pleasure, being but pieces of boards fastened with leather hinges and a prop underneath. the tables were covered with napkins, white as the driven snow, and loaded with cold ham, neat's tongue, pickles, bread, apple-sauce, preserves, dough-nuts, butter, cheese, and _potatoes_--without which a yankee dinner is never complete. for beverage, there was chocolate, which was made over a fire in the building--there being a rock chimney in one corner. "now, neighbors," said friend h., "if you will but seat yourselves on these squared logs, and put up with these rude accommodations, you will do me a favor. we might have had our dinner at the house, but i thought that it would be a novelty, and afford more amusement to have it in this little hut, which i built to shelter us from what stormy weather we might have in the season of making sugar." we arranged ourselves around the room, and right merry were we, for friend h.'s lively chat did not suffer us to be otherwise. he recapitulated to us the manner of his life while a bachelor; the many bear-fights which he had had; told us how many bears he had killed; how a she-bear denned in his rock dwelling the first winter after he commenced clearing his land--he having returned home to his father's to attend school; how, when he returned in the spring, he killed her two cubs, and afterwards the old bear, and made his hannah a present of their skins to make a muff and tippet; also his courtship, marriage, &c. in the midst of dinner, abigail came in with some hot mince-pies, which had been heating in the baker before the fire out of doors, and which said much in praise of mrs. h.'s cookery. we had finished eating, and were chatting as merrily as might be, when one of the little boys called from without, "father, the sugar has grained." we immediately went out, and found one of the boys stirring some sugar in a bowl to cool it. the fire was raked from beneath the kettles, and abigail and her eldest brother were stirring their contents with all haste. friend h. put a pole within the bail of one of the kettles, and raised it up, which enabled two of the company to take the other down, and having placed it in the snow, they assisted friend h. to take down the other; and while we lent a helping hand to stir and cool the sugar, friend h.'s children ate their dinners, cleared away the tables, put what fragments were left into their father's sleigh, together with the dinner-dishes, tin baker, rundlet, and the pails of scum, which were to be carried home for the swine. a firkin was also put into the sleigh; and after the sugar was sufficiently cool, it was put into the firkin, and covered up with great care. after this we spent a short time promenading around the rock-maple grove, if leafless trees can be called a grove. a large sap-trough, which was very neatly made, struck my fancy, and friend h. said he would make me a present of it for a cradle. this afforded a subject for mirth. friend h. said that we must not ridicule the idea of having sap-troughs for cradles; for that was touching quality, as his eldest child had been rocked many an hour in a sap-trough, beneath the shade of a tree, while his wife sat beside it knitting, and he was hard by, hoeing corn. soon we were on our way to friend h.'s house, which we all reached in safety; and where we spent an agreeable evening, eating maple sugar, apples, beech-nuts, &c. we also had tea about eight o'clock, which was accompanied by every desirable luxury--after which we started for home. as we were about taking leave, abigail made each of us a present of a cake of sugar, which was cooled in a tin heart.--"heigh ho!" said henry l., "how lucky! we have had an agreeable visit, a bountiful feast--have learned how to make sugar, and have all got sweethearts!" we went home, blessing our stars and the hospitality of our quaker friends. i cannot close without telling the reader, that the sugar which was that day made, was nearly as white as loaf sugar, and tasted much better. jemima. prejudice against labor. chapter i. mrs. k. and her daughter emily were discussing the propriety of permitting martha to be one of the party which was to be given at mr. k.'s the succeeding tuesday evening, to celebrate the birth-day of george, who had lately returned from college. martha was the niece of mr. k. she was an interesting girl of about nineteen years of age, who, having had the misfortune to lose her parents, rather preferred working in a factory for her support, than to be dependent on the charity of her friends. martha was a favorite in the family of her uncle; and mrs. k., notwithstanding her aristocratic prejudices, would gladly have her niece present at the party, were it not for fear of what people might say, if mr. and mrs. k. suffered their children to appear on a level with factory operatives. "mother," said emily, "i do wish there was not such a prejudice against those who labor for a living; and especially against those who work in a factory; for then martha might with propriety appear at george's party; but i know it would be thought disgraceful to be seen at a party with a factory girl, even if she is one's own cousin, and without a single fault. and besides, the miss lindsays are invited, and if martha should be present, they will be highly offended, and make her the subject of ridicule. i would not for my life have martha's feelings wounded, as i know they would be, if either of the miss lindsays should ask her when she left lowell, or how long she had worked in a factory." "well, emily," said mrs. k., "i do not know how we shall manage to keep up appearances, and also spare martha's feelings, unless we can persuade your father to take her with him to acton, on the morrow, and leave her at your uncle theodore's. i do not see any impropriety in this step, as she proposes to visit acton before she returns to lowell." "you will persuade me to no such thing," said mr. k., stepping to the door of his study, which opened from the parlor, and which stood ajar, so that the conversation between his wife and daughter had been overheard by mr. k., and also by the hon. mr. s., a gentleman of large benevolence, whose firmness of character placed him far above popular prejudice. these gentlemen had been in the study unknown to mrs. k. and emily. "you will persuade me to no such thing," mr. k. repeated, as he entered the parlor accompanied by mr. s.; "i am determined that my niece shall be at the party. however loudly the public opinion may cry out against such a measure, i shall henceforth exert my influence to eradicate the wrong opinions entertained by what is called good society, respecting the degradation of labor; and i will commence by placing my children and niece on a level. the occupations of people have made too much distinction in society. the laboring classes, who are in fact the wealth of a nation, are trampled upon; while those whom dame fortune has placed above, or if you please, _below_ labor, with some few honorable exceptions, arrogate to themselves all of the claims to good society. but in my humble opinion, the rich and the poor ought to be equally respected, if virtuous; and equally detested, if vicious." "but what will our acquaintances say?" said mrs. k. "it is immaterial to me what 'they say' or think," said mr. k., "so long as i know that i am actuated by right motives." "but you know, my dear husband," replied his wife, "that the world is censorious, and that much of the good or ill fortune of our children will depend on the company which they shall keep. for myself, i care but little for the opinion of the world, so long as i have the approbation of my husband, but i cannot bear to have my children treated with coldness; and besides, as george is intended for the law, his success will in a great measure depend on public opinion; and i do not think that even esq. s. would think it altogether judicious, under existing circumstances, for us to place our children on a level with the laboring people." "if i may be permitted to express my opinion," said mr. s. "i must say, in all sincerity, that i concur in sentiment with my friend k.; and, like him, i would that the line of separation between good and bad society was drawn between the virtuous and the vicious; and to bring about this much-to-be-desired state of things, the affluent, those who are allowed by all to have an undisputed right to rank with good society, must begin the reformation, by exerting their influence to raise up those who are bowed down. your fears, mrs. k., respecting your son's success, are, or should be, groundless; for, to associate with the laboring people, and strive to raise them to their proper place in the scale of being, should do more for his prosperity in the profession which he has chosen, than he ought to realize by a contrary course of conduct; and, i doubt not, your fears will prove groundless. so, my dear lady, rise above them; and also above the opinions of a gainsaying multitude--opinions which are erroneous, and which every philanthropist, and every christian, should labor to correct." the remarks of esq. s. had so good an effect on mrs. k., that she relinquished the idea of sending martha to acton. chapter ii. the following evening emily and martha spent at esq. s.'s, agreeably to an earnest invitation from mrs. s. and her daughter susan, who were anxious to cultivate an acquaintance with the orphan. these ladies were desirous to ascertain the real situation of a factory girl, and if it was as truly deplorable as public fame had represented, they intended to devise some plan to place martha in a more desirable situation. mrs. s. had a sister, who had long been in a declining state of health; and she had but recently written to mrs. s. to allow susan to spend a few months with her, while opportunity should offer to engage a young lady to live with her as a companion. this lady's husband was a clerk in one of the departments at washington; and, not thinking it prudent to remove his family to the capital, they remained in p.; but the time passed so heavily in her husband's absence, as to have a visible effect on her health. her physician advised her not to live so retired as she did, but to go into lively company to cheer up her spirits; but she thought it would be more judicious to have an agreeable female companion to live with her; and mrs. s. concluded, from the character given her by her uncle, that martha would be just such a companion as her sister wanted; and she intended in the course of the evening to invite martha to accompany susan on a visit to her aunt. the evening passed rapidly away, for the lively and interesting conversation, in the neat and splendid parlor of esq. s., did not suffer any one present to note the flight of time. martha's manners well accorded with the flattering description which her uncle had given of her. she had a good flow of language, and found no difficulty in expressing her sentiments on any subject which was introduced. her description of "life in lowell" convinced those who listened to the clear, musical tones of her voice, that the many reports which they had heard, respecting the ignorance and vice of the factory operatives, were the breathings of ignorance, wafted on the wings of slander, and not worthy of credence. "but with all your privileges, martha," said mrs. s., "was it not wearisome to labor so many hours in a day?" "truly it was at times," said martha, "and fewer hours of labor would be desirable, if they could command a proper amount of wages; for in that case there would be more time for improvement." mrs. s. then gave martha an invitation to accompany her daughter to p., hoping that she would accept the invitation, and find the company of her sister so agreeable that she would consent to remain with her, at least for one year; assuring her that if she did, her privileges for improvement should be equal, if not superior to those she had enjoyed in lowell; and also that she should not be a loser in pecuniary matters. martha politely thanked mrs. s. for the interest she took in her behalf, but wished a little time to consider the propriety of accepting the proposal. but when mrs. s. explained how necessary it was that her sister should have a female companion with her, during her husband's absence, martha consented to accompany susan, provided that her uncle and aunt k. gave their consent. "what an interesting girl!" said esq. s. to his lady, after the young people had retired. "amiable and refined as emily k. appears, martha's manners show that her privileges have been greater, or that her abilities are superior to those of emily. how cold and calculating, and also unjust, was her aunt k., to think that it would detract aught from the respectability of her children for martha to appear in company with them! i really hope that mr. k. will allow her to visit your sister. i will speak to him on the subject." "she _must_ go with susan," said mrs. s.; "i am determined to take no denial. her sprightly manners and delightful conversation will cheer my sister's spirits, and be of more avail in restoring her health than ten physicians." mr. k. gave the desired consent, and it was agreed by all parties concerned that some time in the following week the ladies should visit p.; and all necessary preparations were immediately made for the journey. chapter iii. it was tuesday evening, and a whole bevy of young people had assembled at mr. k.'s. beauty and wit were there, and seemed to vie with each other for superiority. the beaux and belles were in high glee. all was life and animation. the door opened, and mr. k. entered the room. a young lady, rather above the middle height, and of a form of the most perfect symmetry, was leaning on his arm. she was dressed in a plain white muslin gown; a lace 'kerchief was thrown gracefully over her shoulders, and a profusion of auburn hair hung in ringlets down her neck, which had no decoration save a single string of pearl; her head was destitute of ornament, with the exception of one solitary rosebud on the left temple; her complexion was a mixture of the rose and the lily; a pair of large hazel eyes, half concealed by their long silken lashes, beamed with intelligence and expression, as they cast a furtive glance at the company. "ladies and gentlemen," said mr. k., "this is my niece, miss croly;" and as with a modest dignity she courtesied, a beholder could scarce refrain from applying to her milton's description of eve when she first came from the hand of her creator. mr. k. crossed the room with his niece, seated her by the side of his daughter, and, wishing the young people a pleasant evening, retired. the eyes of all were turned towards the stranger, eager to ascertain whether indeed she was the little girl who once attended the same school with them, but who had, for a number of years past, been employed in a "lowell factory." "oh, it is the same," said the miss lindsays. "how presumptuous," said caroline lindsay to a gentleman who sat near her, "thus to intrude a factory girl into our company! unless i am very much mistaken, i shall make her sorry for her impudence, and wish herself somewhere else before the party breaks up." "indeed, miss caroline, you will not try to distress the poor girl; you cannot be so cruel," said the gentleman, who was no other than the eldest son of esq. s., who had on the preceding day returned home, after an absence of two years on a tour through europe. "cruel!" said caroline, interrupting him, "surely, mr. s., you cannot think it cruel to keep people where they belong; or if they get out of the way, to set them right; and you will soon see that i shall direct miss presumption to her proper place, which is in the kitchen,"--and giving her head a toss, she left mr. s., and seating herself by emily and martha, inquired when the latter left lowell, and if the factory girls were as ignorant as ever. martha replied by informing her when she left the "city of spindles;" and also by telling her that she believed the factory girls, considering the little time they had for the cultivation of their minds, were not, in the useful branches of education, behind any class of females in the union. "what chance can they have for improvement?" said caroline: "they are driven like slaves to and from their work, for fourteen hours in each day, and dare not disobey the calls of the factory bell. if they had the means for improvement, they have not the time; and it must be that they are quite as ignorant as the southern slaves, and as little fitted for society." martha colored to the eyes at this unjust aspersion; and emily, in pity to her cousin, undertook to refute the charge. mr. s. drew near, and seating himself by the cousins, entered into conversation respecting the state of society in lowell. martha soon recovered her self-possession, and joined in the conversation with more than her usual animation, yet with a modest dignity which attracted the attention of all present. she mentioned the evening schools for teaching penmanship, grammar, geography, and other branches of education, and how highly they were prized, and how well they were attended by the factory girls. she also spoke of the lyceum and institute, and other lectures; and her remarks were so appropriate and sensible, that even those who were at first for assisting caroline lindsay in directing her to her "proper place," and who even laughed at what they thought to be miss lindsay's wit,--became attentive listeners, and found that even one who "had to work for a living" could by her conversation add much to the enjoyment of "good society." all were now disposed to treat martha with courtesy, with the exception of the miss lindsays, who sat biting their lips for vexation; mortified to think that in trying to make martha an object of ridicule, they had exposed themselves to contempt. mr. s. took upon himself the task (if task it could be called, for one whose feelings were warmly enlisted in the work) of explaining in a clear and concise manner the impropriety of treating people with contempt for none other cause than that they earned an honest living by laboring with their hands. he spoke of the duty of the rich, with regard to meliorating the condition of the poor, not only in affairs of a pecuniary nature, but also by encouraging them in the way of well-doing, by bestowing upon them that which would cost a good man or woman nothing,--namely, kind looks, kind words, and all the sweet courtesies of life. his words were not lost; for those who heard him have overcome their prejudices against labor and laboring people, and respect the virtuous whatever may be their occupation. chapter iv. bright and unclouded was the morning which witnessed the departure of the family coach from the door of the hon. mr. s. henry accompanied by his sister and the beautiful martha, whose champion he had been at the birth-night party of george k. arrived at p., they found that they were not only welcome, but expected visitors; for esq. s. had previously written to his sister-in-law, apprising her of henry's return, and his intention of visiting her in company with his sister susan, and a young lady whom he could recommend as being just the companion of which she was in need. in a postscript to his letter he added, "i do not hesitate to commend this lovely orphan to your kindness, for i know you will appreciate her worth." when henry s. took leave of his aunt and her family, and was about to start upon his homeward journey, he found that a two days' ride, and a week spent in the society of martha, had been at work with his heart. he requested a private interview, and what was said, or what was concluded on, i shall leave the reader to imagine, as best suits his fancy. i shall also leave him to imagine what the many billets-doux contained which henry sent to p., and what were the answers he received, and read with so much pleasure.--as it is no part of my business to enter into any explanation of that subject, i will leave it and call the reader's attention to the sequel of my story, hoping to be pardoned if i make it as short as possible. * * * * it was a lovely moonlight evening. the hon. mr. s. and lady, mr. and mrs. k., and caroline lindsay, were seated in the parlor of mr. k.--caroline had called to inquire for martha, supposing her to be in lowell. caroline's father had been deeply engaged in the eastern land speculation, the result of which was a total loss of property. this made it absolutely necessary that his family should labor for their bread; and caroline had come to the noble resolution of going to lowell to work in a factory, not only to support herself, but to assist her parents in supporting her little brother and sisters. it was a hard struggle for caroline to bring her mind to this; but she had done it, and was now ready to leave home. dreading to go where all were strangers, she requested mr. k. to give her directions where to find martha, and to honor her as the bearer of a letter to his niece. "i know," said she, "that martha's goodness of heart will induce her to secure me a place of work, notwithstanding my former rudeness to her--a rudeness which has caused me to suffer severely, and of which i heartily repent." mr. k. informed caroline that he expected to see his niece that evening; and he doubted not she would recommend miss lindsay to the overseer with whom she had worked while in lowell; and also introduce her to good society, which she would find could be enjoyed, even in the "city of spindles," popular prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding. esquire and mrs. s. approved of caroline's resolution of going to lowell, and spoke many words of encouragement, and also prevailed on her to accept of something to assist in defraying the expenses of her journey, and to provide for any exigency which might happen. they were yet engaged in conversation, when a coach stopped at the door, and presently george and emily entered the parlor! they were followed by a gentleman and lady in bridal habiliments. george stepped back, and introduced mr. henry s. and lady. "yes," said henry laughingly, "i have brought safely back the factory pearl, which a twelvemonth since i found in this room, and which i have taken for my own." the lady threw back her veil, and miss lindsay beheld the countenance of martha croly. i shall omit the apologies and congratulations of caroline and the assurance of forgiveness and proffers of friendship of martha. the reader must also excuse me from delineating the joy with which martha was received by her uncle and aunt k.; and the heartfelt satisfaction which esquire and mrs. s. expressed in their son's choice of a wife. it is enough to state that all parties concerned were satisfied and happy, and continue so to the present time. to sum up the whole they are happy themselves, and diffuse happiness all around them. caroline lindsay was the bearer of several letters from martha, now mrs. s., to her friends in lowell. she spent two years in a factory, and enjoyed the friendship of all who knew her; and when she left lowell her friends could not avoid grieving for the loss of her company, although they knew that a bright day was soon to dawn upon her. she is now the wife of george k., and is beloved and respected by all who know her. well may she say, "sweet are the uses of adversity," for adversity awoke to energy virtues which were dormant, until a reverse of fortune. her father's affairs are in a measure retrieved; and he says that he is doubly compensated for his loss of property in the happiness he now enjoys. i will take leave of the reader, hoping that if he has hitherto had any undue prejudice against labor, or laboring people, he will overcome it, and excuse my freedom and plainness of speech. ethelinda. joan of arc. when, in the perusal of history, i meet with the names of females whom circumstances, or their own inclinations, have brought thus openly before the public eye, i can seldom repress the desire to know more of them. was it choice, or necessity, which led them to the battle-field, or council-hall? had the woman's heart been crushed within their breasts? or did it struggle with the sterner feelings which had then found entrance there? were they recreant to their own sex? or were the deed which claim the historian's notice but the necessary results of the situations in which they had been placed? these are questions which i often ask, and yet i love not in old and musty records to meet with names which long ere this should have perished with the hearts upon which love had written them; for happier, surely, is woman, when in _one_ manly heart she has been "shrined a queen," than when upon some powerful throne she sits with an untrembling form, and an unquailing eye, to receive the homage, and command the services of loyal thousands. i love not to read of women transformed in all, save outward form, into one of the sterner sex; and when i see, in the memorials of the past, that this has apparently been done, i would fain overleap the barriers of bygone time, and know how it has been effected. imagination goes back to the scenes which must have been witnessed then, and perhaps unaided portrays the minute features of the sketch, of which history has preserved merely the outlines. but i sometimes read of woman, when i would not know more of the places where she has rendered herself conspicuous; when there is something so noble and so bright in the character i have given her, that i fear a better knowledge of trivial incidents might break the spell which leads me to love and admire her; where, perhaps, the picture which my fancy has painted, glows in colors so brilliant, that a sketch by truth would seem beside it but a sombre shadow. joan of arc is one of those heroines of history, who cannot fail to excite an interest in all who love to contemplate the female character. from the gloom of that dark age, when woman was but a plaything and a slave, she stands in bold relief, its most conspicuous personage. not, indeed, as a queen, but as more than a queen, even the preserver of her nation's king; not as a conqueror, but as the savior of her country; not as a man, urged in his proud career by mad ambition's stirring energies, but as a woman, guided in her brilliant course by woman's noblest impulses--so does she appear in that lofty station which for herself she won. though high and dazzling was the eminence to which she rose, yet "'twas not thus, oh 'twas not thus, her dwelling-place was found." low in the vale of humble life was the maiden born and bred; and thick as is the veil which time and distance have thrown over every passage of her life yet that which rests upon her early days is most impenetrable. and much room is there here for the interested inquirer, and imagination may rest almost unchecked amid the slight revelations of history. joan is a heroine--a woman of mighty power--wearing herself the habiliments of man, and guiding armies to battle and to victory; yet never to my eye is "the warrior-maid" aught but _woman_. the ruling passion, the spirit which nerved her arm, illumed her eye, and buoyed her heart, was woman's faith. ay, it was _power_--and call it what ye may--say it was enthusiasm, fanaticism, madness--or call it, if ye will, what those _did_ name it who burned joan at the stake,--still it was power, the power of woman's firm, undoubting faith. i should love to go back into joan's humble home--that home which the historian has thought so little worthy of his notice; and in imagination i _must_ go there, even to the very cradle of her infancy, and know of all those influences which wrought the mind of joan to that fearful pitch of wild enthusiasm, when she declared herself the inspired agent of the almighty. slowly and gradually was the spirit trained to an act like this; for though, like the volcano's fire, its instantaneous bursting forth was preceded by no prophet-herald of its coming--yet joan of arc was the same joan ere she was maid of orleans; the same high-souled, pure and imaginative being, the creature of holy impulses, and conscious of superior energies. it must have been so; _a superior mind may burst upon the world, but never upon itself_: there must be a feeling of sympathy with the noble and the gifted, a knowledge of innate though slumbering powers. the neglected eaglet may lie in its mountain nest, long after the pinion is fledged; but it will fix its unquailing eye upon the dazzling sun, and feel a consciousness of strength in the untried wing; but let the mother-bird once call it forth, and far away it will soar into the deep blue heavens, or bathe and revel amidst the tempest-clouds--and henceforth the eyrie is but a resting place. as the diamond is formed, brilliant and priceless, in the dark bowels of the earth, even so, in the gloom of poverty, obscurity, and toil, was formed the mind of joan of arc.--circumstances were but the jeweller's cutting, which placed it where it might more readily receive the rays of light, and flash them forth with greater brilliancy. i have said, that i must in imagination go back to the infancy of joan, and note the incidents which shed their silent, hallowed influence upon her soul, until she stands forth an inspired being, albeit inspired by naught but her own imagination. the basis of joan's character is religious enthusiasm: this is the substratum, the foundation of all that wild and mighty power which made _her_, the peasant girl, the savior of her country. but the flame must have been early fed; it was not merely an elementary portion of her nature, but it was one which was cherished in infancy, in childhood and in youth, until it became the master-passion of her being. joan, the child of the humble and the lowly, was also the daughter of the fervently religious. the light of faith and hope illumes their little cot; and reverence for all that is good and true, and a trust which admits no shade of fear or doubt, is early taught the gentle child. though "faith in god's own promises" was mingled with superstitious awe of those to whom all were then indebted for a knowledge of the truth; though priestly craft had united the wild and false with the pure light of the gospel: and though joan's religion was mingled with delusion and error,--still it comprised all that is fervent, and pure, and truthful, in the female heart. the first words her infant lips are taught to utter, are those of prayer--prayer, mayhap, to saints or virgin; but still to her _then_ and in all after-time, the aspirations of a spirit which delights in communion with the invisible. she grows older, and still, amid ignorance, and poverty, and toil, the spirit gains new light and fervor. with a mind alive to everything that is high and holy, she goes forth into a dark and sinful world, dependent upon her daily toil for daily bread; she lives among the thoughtless and the vile; but like that plant which opens to nought but light and air, and shrinks from all other contact--so her mind, amid the corruptions of the world, is shut to all that is base and sinful, though open and sensitive to that which is pure and noble. "joan," says the historian, "was a tender of stables in a village inn." such was her outward life; but there was for her _another_ life, a life within that life. while the hands perform low, menial service, the soul untrammelled is away, and revelling amidst its own creations of beauty and of bliss. she is silent and abstracted; always alone among her fellows--for among them all she sees no kindred spirit; she finds none who can touch the chords within her heart, or respond to their melody, when she would herself sweep its harp-strings. joan has no friends; far less does she ever think of earthly lovers; and who would love _her_, the wild and strange joan! though perhaps, the gloomy, dull, and silent one; but that soul, whose very essence is fervent zeal and glowing passion, sends forth in secrecy and silence its burning love upon the unconscious things of earth. she talks to the flowers, and the stars, and the changing clouds; and their voiceless answers come back to her soul at morn, and noon, and stilly night. yes, joan loves to go forth in the darkness of eve, and sit, "beneath the radiant stars, still burning as they roll, and sending down their prophecies into her fervent soul;" but, better even than this, does she love to go into some high cathedral, where the "dim religious light" comes faintly through the painted windows; and when the priests chant vesper hymns, and burning incense goes upward from the sacred altar--and when the solemn strains and the fragrant vapor dissolve and die away in the distant aisles and lofty dome, she kneels upon the marble floor, and in ecstatic worship sends forth the tribute of a glowing heart. and when at night she lies down upon her rude pallet, she dreams that she is with those bright and happy beings with whom her fancy has peopled heaven. she is there, among saints and angels, and even permitted high converse with the mother of jesus. yes, joan is a dreamer; and she dreams not only in the night, but in the day; whether at work or at rest, alone or among her fellow-men, there are angel voices near, and spirit-wings are hovering around her, and visions of all that is pure, and bright, and beautiful, come to the mind of the lowly girl. she finds that she is a favored one; she feels that those about her are not gifted as she has been; she knows that their thoughts are not as her thoughts; and then the spirit questions, why is it thus that she should be permitted communings with unearthly ones? why was this ardent, aspiring mind bestowed upon _her_, one of earth's meanest ones, shackled by bonds of penury, toil, and ignorance of all that the world calls high and gifted? day after day goes by, night after night wears on, and still these queries will arise, and still they are unanswered. at length the affairs of busy life, those which to joan have heretofore been of but little moment, begin to awaken even _her_ interest. hitherto, absorbed in her own bright fancies, she has mingled in the scenes around her, like one who walketh in his sleep. they have been too tame and insipid to arouse her energies, or excite her interest; but now there is a thrilling power in the tidings which daily meet her ears. all hearts are stirred, but none now throb like hers: her country is invaded, her king an exile from his throne; and at length the conquerors, unopposed, are quietly boasting of their triumphs on the very soil they have polluted. and shall it be thus? shall the victor revel and triumph in her own loved france? shall her country thus tamely submit to wear the foreign yoke? and joan says, no! she feels the power to arouse, to quicken, and to guide. none now may tell whether it was first in fancies of the day or visions of the night, that the thought came, like some lightning flash, upon her mind, that it was for this that powers unknown to others had been vouchsafed to _her_; and that for this, even new energies should now be given.--but the idea once received is not abandoned; she cherishes it, and broods upon it, till it has mingled with every thought of day and night. if doubts at first arise, they are not harbored, and at length they vanish away. "her spirit shadowed forth a dream, till it became a creed." all that she sees and all that she hears--the words to which she eagerly listens by day, and the spirit-whispers which come to her at night,--they all assure her of this, that she is the appointed one. all other thoughts and feelings now crystallize in this grand scheme; and as the cloud grows darker upon her country's sky, her faith grows surer and more bright. her countrymen have ceased to resist, have almost ceased to hope; but she alone, in her fervent joy, has "looked beyond the present clouds and seen the light beyond." the spoiler shall yet be vanquished, and _she_ will do it; her country shall be saved, and _she_ will save it; her unanointed king shall yet sit on the throne, and "charles shall be crowned at rheims." such is her mission, and she goes forth in her own ardent faith to its accomplishment. and did those who first admitted the claims of joan as an inspired leader, themselves believe that she was an agent of the almighty? none can now tell how much the superstition of their faith, mingled with the commanding influence of a mind firm in its own conviction of supernatural guidance, influenced those haughty ones, as they listened to the counsels, and obeyed the mandates, of the peasant girl.--perhaps they saw that she was their last hope, a frail reed upon which they might lean, yet one that might not break. her zeal and faith might be an instrument to effect the end which she had declared herself destined to accomplish. worldly policy and religious credulity might mingle in their admission of her claims; but however this might be, the peasant girl of arc soon rides at her monarch's side, with helmet on her head, and armor on her frame, the time-hallowed sword girt to her side, and the consecrated banner in her hand; and with the lightning of inspiration in her eye, and words of dauntless courage on her lips, she guides them on to battle and to victory. ay, there she is, the low-born maid of arc! there, with the noble and the brave, amid the clangor of trumpets, the waving of banners, the tramp of the war horse, and the shouts of warriors; and there she is more at home than in those humble scenes in which she has been wont to bear a part. now for once she is herself; now may she put forth all her hidden energy, and with a mind which rises at each new demand upon its powers, she is gaining for herself a name even greater than that of queen. and now does the light beam brightly from her eye, and the blood course quickly through her veins--for her task is ended, her mission accomplished, and "charles is crowned at rheims." this is the moment of joan's glory,--and what is before her now? to stand in courts, a favored and flattered one? to revel in the soft luxuries and enervating pleasures of a princely life? oh this was not for one like her. to return to obscurity and loneliness, and there to let the over-wrought mind sink back with nought to occupy and support it, till it feeds and drivels on the remembrance of the past--this is what she would do; but there is for her what is better far, even the glorious death of a martyr. little does joan deem, in her moment of triumph, that this is before her; but when she has seen her mission ended, and her king the anointed ruler of a liberated people, the sacred sword and standard are cast aside; and throwing herself at her monarch's feet, and watering them with tears of joy, she begs permission to return to her humble home.--she has now done all for which that power was bestowed; her work has been accomplished, and she claims no longer the special commission of an inspired leader. but dunois says, no! the english are not yet entirely expelled the kingdom, and the french general would avail himself of that name, and that presence, which have infused new courage into his armies, and struck terror to their enemies. he knows that joan will no longer be sustained by the belief that she is an agent of heaven; but she will be with them, and that alone must benefit their cause. he would have her again assume the standard, sword, and armor; he would have her still retain the title of "messenger of god," though she believe that her mission goes no farther. it probably was not the first time, and it certainly was not the last, when woman's holiest feelings have been made the instruments of man's ambition, or agents for the completion of his designs. joan is now but a woman, poor, weak, and yielding woman; and overpowered by their entreaties, she consents to try again her influence. but the power of that faith is gone, the light of inspiration is no more given, and she is attacked, conquered, and delivered to her enemies. they place her in low dungeons, then bring her before tribunals; they wring and torture that noble spirit, and endeavor to obtain from it a confession of imposture, or connivance with the "evil one;" but she still persists in the declaration that her claims to a heavenly guidance were true. once only was she false to herself. weary and dispirited; deserted by her friends, and tormented by her foes,--she yields to their assertions, and admits that she did deceive her countrymen. perhaps in that hour of trial and darkness, when all hope of deliverance from without, or from above, had died away,--when she saw herself powerless in the merciless hands of her enemies, the conviction might steal upon her own mind, that she had been self-deceived; that phantasies of the brain had been received as visions from on high,--but though her confession was true in the abstract, yet joan was surely untrue to herself. still it avails her little; she is again remanded to the dungeon, and there awaits her doom. at length they bring her the panoply of war, the armored suit in which she went forth at the king's right hand to fight their battle hosts. her heart thrills, and her eye flashes, as she looks upon it--for it tells of glorious days. once more she dons those fatal garments, and they find her arrayed in the habiliments of war. it is enough for those who wished but an excuse to take her life, and the maid of orleans is condemned to die. they led joan to the martyr-stake. proudly and nobly went she forth, for it was a fitting death for one like _her_. once more the spirit may rouse its noblest energies; and with brightened eye, and firm, undaunted step, she goes where banners wave and trumpets sound, and martial hosts appear in proud array. and the sons of england weep as they see her, the calm and tearless one, come forth to meet her fate. they bind her to the stake; they light the fire; and upward borne on wreaths of soaring flame, the soul of the martyred joan ascends to heaven. ella. susan miller. chapter i. "mother, it is all over now," said susan miller, as she descended from the chamber where her father had just died of _delirium tremens_. mrs. miller had for several hours walked the house, with that ceaseless step which tells of fearful mental agony: and when she had heard from her husband's room some louder shriek or groan, she had knelt by the chair or bed which was nearest, and prayed that the troubled spirit might pass away. but a faintness came over her, when a long interval of stillness told that her prayer was answered; and she leaned upon the railing of the stairway for support, as she looked up to see the first one who should come to her from the bed of death. susan was the first to think of her mother: and when she saw her sink, pale, breathless, and stupified upon a stair, she sat down in silence, and supported her head upon her own bosom. then for the first time was she aroused to the consciousness that she was to be looked upon as a stay and support; and she resolved to bring from the hidden recesses of her heart, a strength, courage, and firmness, which should make her to her heart-broken mother, and younger brothers and sisters, what _he_ had not been for many years, who was now a stiffening corpse. at length she ventured to whisper words of solace and sympathy, and succeeded in infusing into her mother's mind a feeling of resignation to the stroke they had received.--she persuaded her to retire to her bed, and seek the slumber which had been for several days denied them; and then she endeavored to calm the terror-stricken little ones, who were screaming because their father was no more. the neighbors came in and proffered every assistance; but when susan retired that night to her own chamber, she felt that she must look to him for aid, who alone could sustain through the tasks that awaited her. preparations were made for the funeral; and though every one knew that mr. miller had left his farm deeply mortgaged, yet the store-keeper cheerfully trusted them for articles of mourning, and the dress-maker worked day and night, while she expected never to receive a remuneration. the minister came to comfort the widow and her children. he spoke of the former virtues of him who had been wont to seek the house of god on each returning sabbath, and who had brought his eldest children to the font of baptism, and been then regarded as an example of honesty and sterling worth; and when he adverted to the one failing which had brought him to his grave in the very prime of manhood, he also remarked, that he was now in the hands of a merciful god. the remains of the husband and father were at length removed from the home which he had once rendered happy, but upon which he had afterwards brought poverty and distress, and laid in that narrow house which he never more might leave, till the last trumpet should call him forth; and when the family were left to that deep silence and gloom which always succeed a death and burial, they began to think of the trials which were yet to come. mrs. miller had been for several years aware that ruin was coming upon them. she had at first warned, reasoned, and expostulated; but she was naturally of a gentle and almost timid disposition; and when she found that she awakened passions which were daily growing more violent and ungovernable, she resolved to await in silence a crisis which sooner or later would change their destiny. whether she was to follow her degenerate husband to his grave, or accompany him to some low hovel, she knew not; she shrunk from the future, but faithfully discharged all present duties, and endeavored, by a strict economy, to retain at least an appearance of comfort in her household. to susan, her eldest child, she had confided all her fears and sorrows; and they had watched, toiled, and sympathized together. but when the blow came at last, when he who had caused all their sorrow and anxiety was taken away by a dreadful and disgraceful death, the long-enduring wife and mother was almost paralyzed by the shock. but susan was young; she had health, strength, and spirits to bear her up, and upon her devolved the care of the family, and the plan for its future support. her resolution was soon formed; and without saying a word to any individual, she went to deacon rand, who was her father's principal creditor. it was a beautiful afternoon in the month of may, when susan left the house in which her life had hitherto been spent, determined to know, before she returned to it, whether she might ever again look upon it as her home. it was nearly a mile to the deacon's house, and not a single house upon the way. the two lines of turf in the road, upon which the bright green grass was springing, showed that it was but seldom travelled; and the birds warbled in the trees, as though they feared no disturbance. the fragrance of the lowly flowers, the budding shrubs, and the blooming fruit-trees, filled the air; and she stood for a moment to listen to the streamlet which she crossed upon a rude bridge of stones. she remembered how she had loved to look at it in summer, as it murmured along among the low willows and alder bushes; and how she had watched it in the early spring, when its swollen waters forced their way through the drifts of snow which had frozen over it, and wrought for itself an arched roof, from which the little icicles depended in diamond points and rows of beaded pearls. she looked also at the meadow, where the grass was already so long and green; and she sighed to think that she must leave all that was so dear to her, and go where a ramble among fields, meadows, and orchards, would be henceforth a pleasure denied to her. chapter ii. when she arrived at the spacious farm-house, which was the residence of the deacon, she was rejoiced to find him at home and alone. he laid aside his newspaper as she entered, and, kindly taking her hand, inquired after her own health and that of her friends. "and now, deacon," said she, when she had answered all his questions, "i wish to know whether you intend to turn us all out of doors, as you have a perfect right to do--or suffer us still to remain, with a slight hope that we may sometime pay you the debt for which our farm is mortgaged." "you have asked me a very plain question," was the deacon's reply, "and one which i can easily answer. you see that i have here a house, large enough and good enough for the president himself, and plenty of every thing in it and around it; and how in the name of common sense and charity, and religion, could i turn a widow and fatherless children out of their house and home! folks have called me mean, and stingy, and close-fisted; and though in my dealings with a rich man i take good care that he shall not overreach me, yet i never stood for a cent with a poor man in my life. but you spake about some time paying me; pray, how do you hope to do it?" "i am going to lowell," said susan quietly, "to work in the factory, the girls have high wages there now, and in a year or two lydia and eliza can come too; and if we all have our health, and mother and james get along well with the farm and the little ones, i hope, i do think, that we can pay it all up in the course of seven or eight years." "that is a long time for you to go and work so hard, and shut yourself up so close at your time of life," said the deacon, "and on many other accounts i do not approve of it." "i know how prejudiced the people here are against factory girls," said susan, "but i should like to know what real good _reason_ you have for disapproving of my resolution. you cannot think there is anything really wrong in my determination to labor, as steadily and as profitably as i can, for myself and the family." "why, the way that i look at things is this," replied the deacon: "whatever is not right, is certainly wrong; and i do not think it right for a young girl like you, to put herself in the way of all sorts of temptation. you have no idea of the wickedness and corruption which exist in that town of lowell. why, they say that more than half of the girls have been in the house of correction, or the county gaol, or some other vile place; and that the other half are not much better; and i should not think you would wish to go and work, and eat, and sleep, with such a low, mean, ignorant, wicked set of creatures." "i know such things are said of them, deacon, but i do not think they are true. i have never seen but one factory girl, and that was my cousin esther, who visited us last summer. i do not believe there is a better girl in the world than she is; and i cannot think she would be so contented and cheerful among such a set of wretches as some folks think factory girls must be. there may be wicked girls there; but among so many, there must be some who are good; and when i go there, i shall try to keep out of the way of bad company, and i do not doubt that cousin esther can introduce me to girls who are as good as any with whom i have associated. if she cannot i will have no companion but her, and spend the little leisure i shall have in solitude, for i am determined to go." "but supposing, susan, that all the girls there were as good, and sensible, and pleasant as yourself--yet there are many other things to be considered. you have not thought how hard it will seem to be boxed up fourteen hours in a day, among a parcel of clattering looms, or whirling spindles, whose constant din is of itself enough to drive a girl out of her wits; and then you will have no fresh air to breathe, and as likely as not come home in a year or two with a consumption, and wishing you had staid where you would have had less money and better health. i have also heard that the boarding women do not give the girls food which is fit to eat, nor half enough of the mean stuff they do allow them, and it is contrary to all reason to suppose that folks can work, and have their health, without victuals to eat." "i have thought of all these things, deacon, but they do not move me. i know the noise of the mills must be unpleasant at first, but i shall get used to that; and as to my health, i know that i have as good a constitution to begin with as any girl could wish, and no predisposition to consumption, nor any of those diseases which a factory life might otherwise bring upon me. i do not expect all the comforts which are common to country farmers; but i am not afraid of starving, for cousin esther said, that she had an excellent boarding place, and plenty to eat, and drink, and that which was good enough for anybody. but if they do not give us good meat, i will eat vegetables alone, and when we have bad butter, i will eat my bread without it." "well," said the deacon, "if your health is preserved, you may lose some of your limbs. i have heard a great many stories about girls who had their hands torn off by the machinery, or mangled so that they could never use them again; and a hand is not a thing to be despised, nor easily dispensed with. and then, how should you like to be ordered about, and scolded at, by a cross overseer?" "i know there is danger," replied susan, "among so much machinery, but those who meet with accidents are but a small number, in proportion to the whole, and if i am careful i need not fear any injury. i do not believe the stories we hear about bad overseers, for such men would not be placed over so many girls; and if i have a cross one, i will give no reason to find fault; and if he finds fault without reason, i will leave him, and work for some one else.--you know that i must do something, and i have made up my mind what it shall be." "you are a good child, susan," and the deacon looked very kind when he told her so, "and you are a courageous, noble-minded girl. i am not afraid that _you_ will learn to steal, and lie, and swear, and neglect your bible and the meeting-house; but lest anything unpleasant should happen, i will make you this offer: i will let your mother live upon the farm, and pay me what little she can, till your brother james is old enough to take it at the halves; and if you will come here, and help my wife about the house and dairy, i will give you _s._ _d._ a-week, and you shall be treated as a daughter--perhaps you may one day be one." the deacon looked rather sly at her, and susan blushed; for henry rand, the deacon's youngest son, had been her playmate in childhood, her friend at school, and her constant attendant at all the parties and evening meetings. her young friends all spoke of him as her lover, and even the old people had talked of it as a very fitting match, as susan, besides good sense, good humor, and some beauty, had the health, strength and activity which are always reckoned among the qualifications for a farmer's wife. susan knew of this; but of late, domestic trouble had kept her at home, and she knew not what his present feelings were. still she felt that they must not influence her plans and resolutions. delicacy forbade that she should come and be an inmate of his father's house, and her very affection for him had prompted the desire that she should be as independent as possible of all favors from him, or his father; and also the earnest desire that they might one day clear themselves of debt. so she thanked the deacon for his offer, but declined accepting it, and arose to take leave. "i shall think a great deal about you, when you are gone," said the deacon, "and will pray for you, too. i never used to think about the sailors, till my wife's brother visited us, who had led for many years a sea-faring life; and now i always pray for those who are exposed to the dangers of the great deep. and i will also pray for the poor factory girls who work so hard and suffer so much." "pray for me, deacon," replied susan in a faltering voice, "that i may have strength to keep a good resolution." she left the house with a sad heart; for the very success of her hopes and wishes had brought more vividly to mind the feeling that she was really to go and leave for many years her friends and home. she was almost glad that she had not seen henry; and while she was wondering what he would say and think, when told that she was going to lowell, she heard approaching footsteps, and looking up, saw him coming towards her. the thought--no, the idea, for it had not time to form into a definite thought--flashed across her mind, that she must now arouse all her firmness, and not let henry's persuasion shake her resolution to leave them all, and go to the factory. but the very indifference with which he heard of her intention was of itself sufficient to arouse her energy. he appeared surprised, but otherwise wholly unconcerned, though he expressed a hope that she would be happy and prosperous, and that her health would not suffer from the change of occupation. if he had told her that he loved her--if he had entreated her not to leave them, or to go with the promise of returning to be his future companion through life--she could have resisted it; for this she had resolved to do; and the happiness attending an act of self-sacrifice would have been her reward. she had before known sorrow, and she had borne it patiently and cheerfully; and she knew that the life which was before her would have been rendered happier by the thought, that there was one who was deeply interested for her happiness, and who sympathized in all her trials. when she parted from henry it was with a sense of loneliness, of utter desolation, such as she had never before experienced. she had never before thought that he was dear to her, and that she had wished to carry in her far-off place of abode the reflection that she was dear to him. she felt disappointed and mortified, but she blamed not him, neither did she blame herself; she did not know that any one had been to blame. her young affections had gone forth as naturally and as involuntarily as the vapors rise to meet the sun. but the sun which had called them forth, had now gone down, and they were returning in cold drops to the heart-springs from which they had arisen; and susan resolved that they should henceforth form a secret fount, whence every other feeling should derive new strength and vigor. she was now more firmly resolved that her future life should be wholly devoted to her kindred, and thought not of herself but as connected with them. chapter iii. it was with pain that mrs. miller heard of susan's plan; but she did not oppose her. she felt that it must be so, that she must part with her for her own good and the benefit of the family; and susan hastily made preparations for her departure. she arranged everything in and about the house for her mother's convenience; and the evening before she left she spent in instructing lydia how to take her place, as far as possible, and told her to be always cheerful with mother, and patient with the younger ones, and to write a long letter every two months (for she could not afford to hear oftener), and to be sure and not forget her for a single day. then she went to her own room; and when she had re-examined her trunk, bandbox, and basket, to see that all was right, and laid her riding-dress over the great armchair, she sat down by the window to meditate upon her change of life. she thought, as she looked upon the spacious, convenient chamber in which she was sitting, how hard it would be to have no place to which she could retire and be alone, and how difficult it would be to keep her things in order in the fourth part of a small apartment, and how possible it was that she might have unpleasant room-mates, and how probable that every day would call into exercise all her kindness and forbearance. and then she wondered if it would be possible for her to work so long, and save so much, as to render it possible that she might one day return to that chamber and call it her own. sometimes she wished she had not undertaken it, that she had not let the deacon know that she hoped to be able to pay him; she feared that she had taken a burden upon herself which she could not bear, and sighed to think that her lot should be so different from that of most young girls. she thought of the days when she was a little child; when she played with henry at the brook, or picked berries with him on the hill; when her mother was always happy, and her father always kind; and she wished that the time could roll back, and she could again be a careless little girl. she felt, as we sometimes do, when we shut our eyes and try to sleep, and get back into some pleasant dream, from which we have been too suddenly awakened. but the dream of youth was over, and before her was the sad waking reality of a life of toil, separation, and sorrow. when she left home the next morning, it was the first time she had ever parted from her friends. the day was delightful, and the scenery beautiful; a stage-ride was of itself a novelty to her, and her companions pleasant and sociable; but she felt very sad, and when she retired at night to sleep in a hotel, she burst into tears. those who see the factory girls in lowell, little think of the sighs and heart-aches which must attend a young girl's entrance upon a life of toil and privation, among strangers. to susan, the first entrance into a factory boarding-house seemed something dreadful. the rooms looked strange and comfortless, and the women cold and heartless; and when she sat down to the supper-table, where, among more than twenty girls, all but one were strangers, she could not eat a mouthful. she went with esther to their sleeping apartment, and, after arranging her clothes and baggage, she went to bed, but not to sleep. the next morning she went into the mill; and at first, the sight of so many bands, and wheels, and springs, in constant motion was very frightful. she felt afraid to touch the loom, and she was almost sure that she could never learn to weave; the harness puzzled and the reed perplexed her; the shuttle flew out, and made a new bump upon her head; and the first time she tried to spring the lathe, she broke out a quarter of the treads. it seemed as if the girls all stared at her, and the overseers watched every motion, and the day appeared as long as a month had been at home. but at last it was night; and o, how glad was susan to be released! she felt weary and wretched, and retired to rest without taking a mouthful of refreshment. there was a dull pain in her head, and a sharp pain in her ankles; every bone was aching, and there was in her ears a strange noise, as of crickets, frogs, and jews-harps, all mingling together, and she felt gloomy and sick at heart. "but it won't seem so always," said she to herself; and with this truly philosophical reflection, she turned her head upon a hard pillow, and went to sleep. susan was right, it did not seem so always. every succeeding day seemed shorter and pleasanter than the last; and when she was accustomed to the work, and had become interested in it, the hours seemed shorter, and the days, weeks, and months flew more swiftly by than they had ever done before. she was healthy, active, and ambitious, and was soon able to earn even as much as her cousin, who had been a weaver several years. wages were then much higher than they are now; and susan had the pleasure of devoting the avails of her labor to a noble and cherished purpose. there was a definite aim before her, and she never lost sight of the object for which she left her home, and was happy in the prospect of fulfilling that design. and it needed all this hope of success, and all her strength of resolution, to enable her to bear up against the wearing influences of a life of unvarying toil. though the days seemed shorter than at first, yet there was a tiresome monotony about them. every morning the bells pealed forth the same clangor, and every night brought the same feeling of fatigue. but susan felt, as all factory girls feel, that she could bear it for a while. there are few who look upon factory labor as a pursuit for life. it is but a temporary vocation; and most of the girls resolve to quit the mill when some favorite design is accomplished. money is their object--not for itself, but for what it can perform; and pay-days are the landmarks which cheer all hearts, by assuring them of their progress to the wished-for goal. susan was always very happy when she enclosed the quarterly sum to deacon rand, although it was hardly won, and earned by the deprivation of many little comforts, and pretty articles of dress, which her companions could procure. but the thought of home, and the future happy days which she might enjoy in it, was the talisman which ever cheered and strengthened her. she also formed strong friendships among her factory companions, and became attached to her pastor, and their place of worship. after the first two years she had also the pleasure of her sister's society, and in a year or two more, another came. she did not wish them to come while very young. she thought it better that their bodies should be strengthened, and their minds educated in their country home; and she also wished, that in their early girlhood they should enjoy the same pleasures which had once made her own life a very happy one. and she was happy now; happy in the success of her noble exertions, the affection and gratitude of her relatives, the esteem of her acquaintances, and the approbation of conscience. only once was she really disquieted. it was when her sister wrote that henry rand was married to one of their old school-mates. for a moment the color fled from her cheek, and a quick pang went through her heart. it was but for a moment; and then she sat down and wrote to the newly-married couple a letter, which touched their hearts by its simple fervent wishes for their happiness, and assurances of sincere friendship. susan had occasionally visited home, and she longed to go, never to leave it; but she conquered the desire, and remained in lowell more than a year after the last dollar had been forwarded to deacon rand. and then, o, how happy was she when she entered her chamber the first evening after her arrival, and viewed its newly-painted wainscoting, and brightly-colored paper-hangings, and the new furniture with which she had decorated it; and she smiled as she thought of the sadness which had filled her heart the evening before she first went to lowell. she now always thinks of lowell with pleasure, for lydia is married here, and she intends to visit her occasionally, and even sometimes thinks of returning for a little while to the mills. her brother james has married, and resides in one half of the house, which he has recently repaired; and eliza, though still in the factory, is engaged to a wealthy young farmer. susan is with her mother, and younger brothers and sisters. people begin to think she will be an old maid, and she thinks herself that it will be so. the old deacon still calls her a good child, and prays every night and morning for the factory girls. f. g. a. scenes on the merrimac. i have been but a slight traveller, and the beautiful rivers of our country have, with but one or two exceptions, rolled their bright waves before "the orbs of fancy" alone, and not to my visual senses. but the few specimens which have been favored me of river scenery, have been very happy in the influence they have exerted upon my mind, in favor of this feature of natural loveliness. i do not wonder that the "stream of _his_ fathers" should be ever so favorite a theme with the poet, and that wherever he has sung its praise, the spot should henceforth be as classic ground. wherever some "gently rolling river" has whispered its soft murmurs to the recording muse, its name has been linked with his; and far as that name may extend, is the beauty of that inspiring streamlet appreciated. helicon and castalia are more frequently referred to than parnassus,--and even the small streams of hilly scotland, are renowned wherever the songs of her poet "are said or sung." "the banks and braes o' bonny doon," are duly applauded in the drawing-rooms of america; and the tweed, the "clear winding devon," the "braes of ayr," the "braes o' ballochmyle," and the "sweet afton," so often the theme of his lays, for his "mary's asleep by its murmuring stream," are names even here quite as familiar, perhaps more so, than our own broad and beauteous rivers. such is the hallowing power of genius; and upon whatever spot she may cast her bright unfading mantle, there is forever stamped the impress of beauty. "the bard of avon" is an honorary title wherever our language is read; and though we may have few streams which have as yet been sacred to the muse, yet time will doubtless bring forth those whose genius shall make the indian cognomens of our noble rivers' names associated with all that is lofty in intellect and beautiful in poetry. the merrimac has already received the grateful tribute of praise from the muse of the new england poet; and well does it merit the encomiums which he has bestowed upon it. it is a beautiful river, from the time when its blue waters start on their joyous course, leaving "the smile of the great spirit," to wind through many a vale, and round many a hill, till they mingle "with ocean's dark eternal tide." i have said that i have seen but few rivers. no! never have i stood "where hudson rolls his lordly flood; seen sunrise rest, and sunset fade along his frowning palisade; looked down the appalachian peak on juniata's silver streak; or seen along his valley gleam the mohawk's softly winding stream; the setting sun, his axle red quench darkly in potomac's bed; and autumn's rainbow-tinted banner hang lightly o'er the susquehanna;"-- but i still imagine that all their beauties are concentrated in the blue waters of the merrimac--not as it appears here, where, almost beneath my factory window, its broad tide moves peacefully along; but where by "salisbury's beach of shining sand," it rolls amidst far lovelier scenes, and with more rapid flow. perhaps it is because it is _my_ river that i think it so beautiful--no matter if it is; there is a great source of gratification in the feeling of whatever is in any way connected with our _humble_ selves is on that account invested with some distinctive charm, and in some mysterious way rendered peculiarly lovely. but even to the stranger's eye, if he have any taste for the beautiful in nature, the charms of the banks of the merrimac would not be disregarded. can there be a more beautiful bend in a river, than that which it makes at salisbury point? it is one of the most picturesque scenes, at all events, which i have ever witnessed. stand for a moment upon the drawbridge which spans with its single arch the spot where "the winding powow" joins his sparkling waters with the broad tide of the receiving river. we will suppose it is a summer morning. the thin white mist from the atlantic, which the night-spirit has thrown, like a bridal veil, over the vale and river, is gently lifted by aurora, and the unshrouded waters blush "celestial rosy red" at the exposure of their own loveliness. but the bright flush is soon gone, and as the sun rides higher in the heavens, the millions of little wavelets don their diamond crowns, and rise, and sink, and leap, and dance rejoicingly together; and while their sparkling brilliancy arrests the eye, their murmurs of delight are no less grateful to the ear. the grove upon the newbury side is already vocal with the morning anthems of the feathered choir, and from the maple, oak, and pine is rising one glad peal of melody. the slight fragrance of the kalmia, or american laurel, which flourishes here in much profusion, is borne upon the morning breeze; and when their roseate umbels are opened to the sun, they "sing to the eye," as their less stationary companions have done to the ear. the road which accompanies the river in its beauteous curve, is soon alive with the active laborers of "salisbury shore;" and soon the loud "heave-ho!" of the ship-builders is mingled with the more mellifluous tones which have preceded them. the other busy inhabitants are soon threading the winding street, and as they glance upon their bright and beauteous river, their breasts swell with emotions of pleasure, though in their constant and active bustle, they may seldom pause to analyze the cause. the single sail of the sloop which has lain so listless at the little wharf, and the double one of the schooner which is about to traverse its way to the ocean, are unfurled to the morning wind, and the loud orders of the bustling skipper, and the noisy echoes of his bustling men, are borne upon the dewy breeze, and echoed from the newbury slopes. soon they are riding upon the bright waters, and the little skiff or wherry is also seen darting about, amidst the rolling diamonds, while here and there a heavy laden "gundelow" moves slowly along, "with sure and steady aim," as though it disdained the pastime of its livelier neighbors. such is many a morning scene on the banks of the merrimac; and not less delightful are those of the evening. perhaps the sunset has passed. the last golden tint has faded from the river, and its waveless surface reflects the deep blue of heaven, and sends back undimmed the first faint ray of the evening star. the rising tide creeps rippling up the narrow beach, sending along its foremost swell, which, in a sort of drowsy play, leaps forward, and then sinks gently back upon its successors. now the tide is up--the trees upon the wooded banks of newbury, and the sandy hills upon the amesbury side, are pencilled with minutest accuracy in the clear waters. farther down, the dwellings at the ferry, and those of the point, which stand upon the banks, are also mirrored in the deep stream. you might also fancy that beneath its lucid tide there was a duplicate village, so distinct is every shadow. as, one by one, the lights appear in the cottage windows, their reflected fires shoot up from the depths of the merrimac. but the waters shine with brighter radiance as evening lengthens; for luna grows more lavish of her silvery beams as the crimson tints of her brighter rival die in the western sky. the shore is still and motionless, save where a pair of happy lovers steal slowly along the shadowed walk which leads to pleasant valley. the old weather-worn ship at the point, which has all day long resounded with the clatter of mischievous boys, is now wrapped in silence. the new one in the ship-yard, which has also been dinning with the maul and hammer, is equally quiet. but from the broad surface of the stream there comes the song, the shout, and the ringing laugh of the light-hearted. they come from the boats which dot the water, and are filled with the young and gay. some have just shot from the little wharf, and others have been for hours upon the river. what they have been doing, and where they have been, i do not precisely know; but, from the boughs which have been broken from _somebody's_ trees, and the large clusters of laurel which the ladies bear, i think i can "guess-o." but it grows late. the lights which have glowed in the reflected buildings have one by one been quenched, and still those light barks remain upon the river. and that large "gundelow," which came down the powow, from the mills, with its freight of "factory girls," sends forth "the sound of music and dancing." we will leave them--for it is possible that they will linger till after midnight, and we have staid quite long enough to obtain an evening's glimpse at the merrimac. such are some of the scenes on the river, and many are also the pleasant spots upon its banks. beautiful walks and snug little nooks are not unfrequent; and there are bright green sheltered coves, like pleasant valley, where "all save the spirit of man is divine." i remember the first steamboat which ever came hissing and puffing and groaning and sputtering up the calm surface of the merrimac. i remember also the lovely moonlight evening when i watched her return from haverhill, and when every wave and rock and tree were lying bathed in a flood of silver radiance. i shall not soon forget her noisy approach, so strongly contrasted with the stillness around, nor the long loud ringing cheers which hailed her arrival and accompanied her departure. i noted every movement, as she hissed and splashed among the bright waters, until she reached the curve in the river, and then was lost to view, excepting the thick sparks which rose above the glistening foilage of the wooded banks. i remember also the first time i ever saw the aborigines of our country. they were penobscots, and then, i believe, upon their way to this city. they encamped among the woods of the newbury shore, and crossed the river (there about a mile in width) in their little canoes, whenever they wished to beg or trade.--they sadly refuted the romantic ideas which i had formed from the descriptions of cooper and others; nevertheless, they were to me an interesting people. they appeared so strange, with their birch-bark canoes and wooden paddles, their women with men's hats and such _outré_ dresses, their little boys with their unfailing bows and arrows, and the little feet which they all had. their curious, bright-stained baskets, too, which they sold or gave away. i have one of them now, but it has lost its bright tints. it was given me in return for a slight favor.--i remember also one dreadful stormy night while they were amongst us. the rain poured in torrents. the thick darkness was unrelieved by a single lightning-flash, and the hoarse murmur of the seething river was the only noise which could be distinguished from the pitiless storm. i thought of my new acquaintance, and looked out in the direction of their camp. i could see at one time the lights flickering among the thick trees, and darting rapidly to and fro behind them, and then all would be unbroken gloom. sometimes i fancied i could distinguish a whoop or yell, and then i heard nought but the pelting of the rain. as i gazed on the wild scene, i was strongly reminded of scenes which are described in old border tales, of wild banditti, and night revels of lawless hordes of barbarians. these are summer scenes; and in winter there is nothing particularly beautiful in the icy robe with which the merrimac often enrobes its chilled waters. but the breaking up of the ice is an event of much interest. as spring approaches, and the weather becomes milder, the river, which has been a thoroughfare for loaded teams and lighter sleighs, is gradually shunned, even by the daring skater. little pools of bluish water, which the sun has melted, stand in slight hollows, distinctly contrasted with the clear dark ice in the middle of the stream, or the flaky snow-crust near the shore. at length a loud crack is heard, like the report of a cannon--then another, and another--and finally the loosened mass begins to move towards the ocean. the motion at first is almost imperceptible, but it gradually increases in velocity, as the impetus of the descending ice above propels it along; and soon the dark blue waters are seen between the huge chasms of the parting ice. by and bye, the avalanches come drifting down, tumbling, crashing, and whirling along, with the foaming waves boiling up wherever they can find a crevice; and trunks of trees, fragments of buildings, and ruins of bridges, are driven along with the tumultuous mass.--a single night will sometimes clear the river of the main portion of the ice, and then the darkly-tinted waters will roll rapidly on, as though wildly rejoicing at their deliverance from bondage. but for some time the white cakes, or rather ice-islands, will be seen floating along, though hourly diminishing in size, and becoming more "like angel's visits." but there is another glad scene occasionally upon the merrimac--and that is, when there is a launching. i have already alluded to the ship-builders, and they form quite a proportion of the inhabitants of the shore. and now, by the way, i cannot omit a passing compliment to the inhabitants of this same shore. it is seldom that so correct, intelligent, contented, and truly comfortable a class of people is to be found, as in this pretty hamlet. pretty it most certainly is--for nearly all the houses are neatly painted, and some of them indicate much taste in the owners. and then the people are so kind, good, and industrious. a newburyport editor once said of them, "they are nice folks there on salisbury shore; they always pay for their newspapers"--a trait of excellence which printers can usually appreciate. but now to the ships, whose building i have often watched with interest, from the day when the long keel was laid till it was launched into the river. this is a scene which is likewise calculated to inspire salutary reflections, from the comparison which is often instituted between ourselves and a wave-tossed bark. how often is the commencement of active life compared to the launching of a ship; and even the unimaginative puritans could sing, "life's like a ship in constant motion, sometimes high and sometimes low, where every man must plough the ocean, whatsoever winds may blow." the striking analogy has been more beautifully expressed by better poets, though hardly with more force. and if we are like wind-tossed vessels on a stormy sea, then the gradual formation of our minds may be compared to the building of a ship. and it was this thought which often attracted my notice to the labors of the shipwright. first, the long keel is laid--then the huge ribs go up the sides; then the rail-way runs around the top. then commences the boarding or timbering of the sides; and for weeks, or months, the builder's maul is heard, as he pounds in the huge _trunnels_ which fasten all together. then there is the finishing inside, and the painting outside, and, after all, the launching. the first that i ever saw was a large and noble ship. it had been long in building, and i had watched its progress with much interest. the morning it was to be launched i played truant to witness the scene. it was a fine sunshiny day, sept. , ; and i almost wished i was a boy, that i might join the throng upon the deck, who were determined upon a ride. the blocks which supported the ship were severally knocked out, until it rested upon but one. when that was gone, the ship would rest upon greased planks, which descended to the water. it must have been a thrilling moment to the man who lay upon his back, beneath the huge vessel, when he knocked away the last prop. but it was done, and swiftly it glided along the planks, then plunged into the river, with an impetus which sunk her almost to her deck, and carried her nearly to the middle of the river. then she slowly rose, rocked back and forth, and finally righted herself, and stood motionless. but while the dashing foaming waters were still clamorously welcoming her to a new element, and the loud cheers from the deck were ringing up into the blue sky, the bottle was thrown, and she was named the walter scott. it will be remembered that this was the very day on which the great magician died--a fact noticed in the saturday courier about that time. several years after this, i was attending school in a neighboring town. i happened one evening to take up a newspaper. i think it was a portsmouth paper; and i saw the statement that a fine new ship had been burnt at sea, called the walter scott. the particulars were so minutely given, as to leave no room for doubt that it was the beautiful vessel which i had seen launched, upon the banks of the merrimac. annette. the first bells. chapter i. there are times when i am melancholy, when the sun seems to shine with a shadowy light, and the woods are filled with notes of sadness; when the up-springing flowers seem blossoms strewed upon a bier, and every streamlet chants a requiem. have we not all our trials? and though we may bury the sad thoughts to which they give birth in the dark recesses of our own hearts, yet memory and sensibility must both be dead, if we can always be light and mirthful. once it was not so. there was a time when i gaily viewed the dull clouds of a rainy day, and could hear the voice of rejoicing in the roarings of the wintry storm, when sorrow was an unmeaning word, and in things which now appear sacred my thoughtless mind could see the ludicrous. these thoughts have been suggested by the recollection of a poor old couple, to whom in my careless girlhood i gave the name of "the first bells." and now, i doubt not, you are wondering what strange association of ideas could have led me to fasten this appellation upon a poor old man and woman. my answer must be the narration of a few facts. when i was young, we all worshipped in the great meeting-house, which now stands so vacant and forlorn upon the brow of church hill. it is never used but upon town-meeting days--for those who once went up to the house of god in company, now worship in three separate buildings. there is discord between them--that worst of all hatred, the animosity which arises from difference of religious opinions. i am sorry for it; not that i regret that they cannot all think alike, but that they cannot "agree to differ." because the heads are not in unison, it needeth not that the hearts should be estranged; and a difference of faith may be expressed in kindly words. i have my friends among them all, and they are not the less dear to me, because upon some doctrinal points our opinions cannot be the same. a creed which i do not now believe is hallowed by recollections of the sabbath worship, the evening meetings, the religious feelings--in short, of the faith, hope, and trust of my earlier days. i remember now how still and beautiful our sunday mornings used to seem, after the toil and play of the busy week. i would take my catechism in my hand, and go and sit upon a large flat stone, under the shade of the chestnut tree; and, looking abroad, would wonder if there was a thing which did not feel that it was the sabbath. the sun was as bright and warm as upon other days, but its light seemed to fall more softly upon the fields, woods and hills; and though the birds sung as loudly and joyfully as ever, i thought their sweet voices united in a more sacred strain. i heard a sabbath tone in the waving of the boughs above me, and the hum of the bees around me, and even the bleating of the lambs and the lowing of the kine seemed pitched upon some softer key. thus it is that the heart fashions the mantle with which it is wont to enrobe all nature, and gives to its never silent voices a tone of joy, or sorrow, or holy peace. we had then no bell; and when the hour approached for the commencement of religious services, each nook and dale sent forth its worshippers in silence. but precisely half an hour before the rest of our neighbors started, the old man and woman, who lived upon pine hill, could be seen wending their way to the meeting-house. they walked side by side, with a slow even step, such as was befitting the errand which had brought them forth. their appearance was always the signal for me to lay aside my book, and prepare to follow them to the house of god. and it was because they were so unvarying in their early attendance, because i was never disappointed in the forms which first emerged from the pine trees upon the hill, that i gave them the name of "the first bells." why they went thus regularly early i know not, but think it probable they wished for time to rest after their long walk, and then to prepare their hearts to join in exercises which were evidently more valued by them than by most of those around them. yet it must have been a deep interest which brought so large a congregation from the scattered houses, and many far-off dwellings of our thinly peopled country town. and every face was then familiar to me. i knew each white-headed patriarch who took his seat by the door of his pew, and every aged woman who seated herself in the low chair in the middle of it; and the countenances of the middle-aged and the young were rendered familiar by the exchange of sabbath glances, as we met year after year in that humble temple. but upon none did i look with more interest than upon "the first bells." there they always were when i took my accustomed seat at the right hand of the pulpit. their heads were always bowed in meditation till they arose to join in the morning prayer; and when the choir sent forth their strain of praise they drew nearer to each other, and looked upon the same book, as they silently sent forth the spirit's song to their father in heaven. there was an expression of meekness, of calm and perfect faith, and of subdued sorrow upon the countenances of both, which won my reverence, and excited my curiosity to know more of them. they were poor. i knew it by the coarse and much-worn garments which they always wore; but i could not conjecture why they avoided the society and sympathy of all around them. they always waited for our pastor's greeting when he descended from the pulpit, and meekly bowed to all around, but farther than this, their intercourse with others extended not. it appeared to me that some heavy trial, which had knit their own hearts more closely together, and endeared to them their faith and its religious observances, had also rendered them unusually sensitive to the careless remarks and curious inquiries of a country neighborhood. one sabbath our pastor preached upon parental love. his text was that affecting ejaculation of david, "o absalom, my son, my son!" he spoke of the depth and fervor of that affection which in a parental heart will remain unchanged and unabated, through years of sin, estrangement, and rebellion. he spoke of that reckless insubordination which often sends pang after pang through the parent's breast; and of wicked deeds which sometimes bring their grey hairs in sorrow to the grave. i heard stifled sobs; and looking up, saw that the old man and woman at the right hand of the pulpit had buried their faces in their hands. they were trembling with agitation, and i saw that a fount of deep and painful remembrances had now been opened. they soon regained their usual calmness, but i thought their steps more slow, and their countenances more sorrowful that day, when after our morning service had closed, they went to the grave in the corner of the churchyard. there was no stone to mark it, but their feet had been wearing, for many a sabbath noon, the little path which led to it. i went that night to my mother, and asked her if she could not tell me something about "the first bells." she chid me for the phrase by which i was wont to designate them, but said that her knowledge of their former life was very limited. several years before, she added, a man was murdered in hot blood in a distant town, by a person named john l. the murderer was tried and hung; and not long after, this old man and woman came and hired the little cottage upon pine hill. their names were the same that the murderer had borne, and their looks of sadness and retiring manners had led to the conclusion that they were his parents. no one knew, certainly, that it was so--for they shrunk from all inquiries, and never adverted to the past; but a gentle and sad looking girl, who had accompanied them to their new place of abode, had pined away, and died within the first year of their arrival. she was their daughter, and was supposed to have died of a broken heart for her brother who had been hung. she was buried in the corner of the churchyard, and every pleasant sabbath noon her aged parents had mourned together over her lowly grave. "and now, my daughter," said my mother, in conclusion "respect their years, their sorrows, and, above all, the deep fervent piety which cheers and sustains them, and which has been nurtured by agonies, and watered by tears, such as i hope my child will never know." my mother drew me to her side, and kissed me tenderly; and i resolved that never again would i in a spirit of levity call mr. and mrs. l. "the first bells." chapter ii. years passed on; and through summer's sunshine and its showers, and through winter's cold and frost, and storms, that old couple still went upon their never-failing sabbath pilgrimage. i can see them even now, as they looked in days long gone by. the old man, with his loose, black, quaker-like coat, and low-crowned, much-worn hat, his heavy cowhide boots, and coarse blue mittens; and his partner walking slowly by his side, wearing a scanty brown cloak with four little capes, and a close, black, rusty-looking bonnet. in summer the cloak was exchanged for a cotton shawl, and the woollen gown for one of mourning print. the sabbath expression was as unchangeable as its dress. their features were very different, but they had the same mild, mournful look, the same touching glance, whenever their eyes rested upon each other; and it was one which spoke of sympathy, hallowed by heartfelt piety. at length a coffin was borne upon a bier from the little house upon the hill; and after that the widow went alone each sabbath noon to the two graves in the corner of the churchyard. i felt sad when i thought how lonely and sorrowful she must be now; and one pleasant day i ventured an unbidden guest into her lowly cot. as i approached her door, i heard her singing in a low, tremulous tone, "how are thy servants blessed, o lord." i was touched to the heart; for i could see that her blessings were those of a faith, hope, and joy, which the world could neither give nor take away. she was evidently destitute of what the world calls comforts, and i feared she might also want its necessaries. but her look was almost cheerful as she assured me that her knitting (at which i perceived she was quite expeditious) supplied her with all which she now wanted. i looked upon her sunburnt, wrinkled countenance, and thought it radiant with moral beauty. she wore no cap, and her thin grey hair was combed back from her furrowed brow. her dress was a blue woollen skirt, and a short loose gown; and her hard shrivelled hands bore witness to much unfeminine labor. yet she was contented, and even happy, and singing praise to god for his blessings. the next winter i thought i could perceive a faltering in her gait whenever she ascended church hill; and one sabbath she was not in her accustomed seat. the next, she was also absent; and when i looked upon pine hill, i could perceive no smoke issuing from her chimney. i felt anxious, and requested liberty to make, what was then in our neighborhood an unusual occurrence, a sabbath visit. my mother granted me permission to go, and remain as long as my services might be necessary; and at the close of the afternoon worship, i went to the little house upon the hill. i listened eagerly for some sound as i entered the cold apartment; but hearing none, i tremblingly approached the low hard bed. she was lying there with the same calm look of resignation, and whispered a few words of welcome as i took her hand. "you are sick and alone," said i to her; "tell me what i can do for you." "i am sick," was her reply, "but not _alone_. he who is every where, and at all times present, has been with me, in the day and in the night. i have prayed to him, and received answers of mercy, love, and peace. he has sent his angel to call me home, and there is nought for you to do but to watch the spirit's departure." i felt that it was so; yet i must do something. i kindled a fire, and prepared some refreshment; and after she drank a bowl of warm tea, i thought she looked better. she asked me for her bible, and i brought her the worn volume which had been lying upon the little stand. she took from it a soiled and much worn letter, and after pressing it to her lips, endeavored to open it--but her hands were too weak, and it dropped upon the bed. "no matter," said she, as i offered to open it for her; "i know all that is in it, and in that book also. but i thought i should like to look once more upon them both. i have read them daily for many years till now; but i do not mind it--i shall go soon." she followed me with her eyes as i laid them aside, and then closing them, her lips moved as if in prayer. she soon after fell into a slumber, and i watched her every breath, fearing it might be the last. what lessons of wisdom, truth and fortitude were taught me by that humble bed-side! i had never before been with the dying, and i had always imagined a death-bed to be fraught with terror. i expected that there were always fearful shrieks and appalling groans, as the soul left its clay tenement; but my fears were now dispelled. a sweet calmness stole into my inmost soul, as i watched by the low couch of the sufferer; and i said, "if this be death, may my last end be like hers." but at length i saw that some dark dream had brought a frown upon the pallid brow, and an expression of woe around the parched lips. she was endeavoring to speak or to weep, and i was about to awaken her, when a sweet smile came like a flash of sunlight over her sunken face, and i saw that the dream of woe was exchanged for one of pleasure. then she slept calmly, and i wondered if the spirit would go home in that peaceful slumber. but at length she awoke, and after looking upon me and her little room with a bewildered air, she heaved a sigh, and said mournfully, "i thought that i was not to come back again, but it is only for a little while. i have had a pleasant dream, but not at first. i thought once that i stood in the midst of a vast multitude, and we were all looking up at one who was struggling on a gallows. o, i have seen that sight in many a dream before, but still i could not bear it, and i said, 'father, have mercy;' and then i thought that the sky rolled away from behind the gallows, and there was a flood of glory in the depth beyond; and i heard a voice saying to him who was hanging there, 'this day shalt thou be with me in paradise!' and then the gallows dropped, and the multitude around me vanished, and the sky rolled together again; but before it had quite closed over that scene of beauty, i looked again, and _they were all there_. yes," added she with a placid smile, "i know that _he_ is there with them; the _three_ are in heaven, and _i_ shall be there soon." she ceased, and a drowsy feeling came over her. after a while she opened her eyes with a strange look of anxiety and terror. i went to her, but she could not speak, and she pressed my hand closely, as though she feared i would leave her. it was a momentary terror, for she knew that the last pangs were coming on. there was a painful struggle, and then came rest and peaceful confidence. "that letter," whispered she convulsively; and i went to the bible, and took from it the soiled paper which claimed her thoughts even in death. i laid it in her trembling hands, which clasped it nervously, and then pressing it to her heart, she fell into that slumber from which there is no awakening. when i saw that she was indeed gone, i took the letter, and laid it in its accustomed place; and then, after straightening the limbs, and throwing the bed-clothes over the stiffening form, i left the house. it was a dazzling scene of winter beauty that met my eye as i went forth from that lowly bed of death. the rising sun threw a rosy light upon the crusted snow, and the earth was dressed in a robe of sparkling jewels. the trees were hung with glittering drops, and the frozen streams were dressed in lobes of brilliant beauty. i thought of her upon whose eyes a brighter morn had beamed, and of a scene of beauty upon which no sun should ever set, and whose never-fading glories shall yield a happiness which may never pass away. i went home, and told my mother what had passed; and she went, with some others, to prepare the body for burial. i went to look upon it once more, the morning of the funeral. the features had assumed a rigid aspect, but the placid smile was still there. the hands were crossed upon the breast; and as the form lay so still and calm in its snowy robes, i almost wished that the last change might come upon me, so that it would bring a peace like this, which should last for evermore. i went to the bible, and took from it that letter. curiosity was strong within me, and i opened it. it was signed "john l.," and dated from his prison the night before his execution. but i did not read it. o no! it was too sacred. it contained those words of penitence and affection over which her stricken heart had brooded for years. it had been the well-spring from which she had drunk joy and consolation, and derived her hopes of a reunion where there should be no more shame, nor sorrow, nor death. i could not destroy that letter: so i laid it beneath the clasped hands, over the heart to which it had been pressed when its beatings were forever stilled; and they buried her, too, in the corner of the churchyard; and that tattered paper soon mouldered to ashes upon her breast. * * * * we have now a bell upon our new meeting-house; and when i hear its sabbath morning peal, my thoughts are subdued to a tone fitting for sacred worship; for my mind goes back to that old couple, whom i was wont to call "the first bells;" and i think of the power of religion to hallow and strengthen the affections, to elevate the mind, and sustain the drooping spirit, even in the saddest and humblest lot of life. susanna. [illustration: decoration] evening before pay-day. chapter i. "to-morrow is pay-day; are you not glad, rosina, and lucy? _dorcas_ is, i know; for she always loves to see the money. don't i speak truth _now_, miss dorcas tilton?" "i wish you would stop your clack, miss noisy impudence; for i never heard you speak anything that was worth an answer. let me alone, for i have not yet been able to obtain a moment's time to read my tract." "'my tract'--how came it 'my tract,' miss stingy oldmaid?--for i can call names as fast as you," was the reply of elizabeth walters. "not because you bought it, or paid for it, or gave a thank'ee to those who did; but because you lay your clutches upon every thing you can get without downright stealing." "well," replied dorcas, "i do not think i have clutched any thing now which was much coveted by anyone else." "you are right, dorcas," said rosina alden, lifting her mild blue eye for the first time towards the speakers; "the tracts left here by the monthly distributors are thrown about, and trampled under foot, even by those who most approve the sentiments which they contain. i have not seen anyone take them up to read but yourself." "she likes them," interrupted the vivacious elizabeth, "because she gets them for nothing. they come to her as cheap as the light of the sun, or the dews of heaven; and thus they are rendered quite as valuable in her eyes." "and that very cheapness, that freedom from exertion and expense by which they are obtained, is, i believe, the reason why they are generally so little valued," added rosina. "people are apt to think things worthless which come to them so easily. they believe them cheap, if they are offered cheap. now i think, without saying one word against those tracts, that they would be more valued, more perused, and exert far more influence, if they were only to be obtained by payment for them. if they do good now, it is to the publishers only; for i do not think the community in general is influenced by them in the slightest degree. if dorcas feels more interested in them because she procures them gratuitously, it is because she is an exception to the general rule." "i like sometimes," said dorcas, "to see the voice of instruction, of warning, of encouragement, and reproof, coming to the thoughtless, ignorant, poor and sinful, as it did from him who said to those whom he sent to inculcate its truths, freely ye have received, _freely give_. the gospel is an expensive luxury now, and those only who can afford to pay their four, or six, or more, dollars a year, can hear its truths from the successors of him who lifted his voice upon the lonely mountain, and opened his lips for council at the table of the despised publican, or under the humble roof of the magdalen." "do not speak harshly, dorcas," was rosina's reply; "times have indeed changed since the savior went about with not a shelter for his head, dispensing the bread of life to all who would but reach forth their hands and take it; but circumstances have also changed since then. it is true, we must lay down our money for almost everything we have; but money is much more easily obtained than it was then. it is true, we cannot procure a year's seat in one of our most expensive churches for less than your present week's wages; and if you really wish for the benefits of regular gospel instruction, you must make for it as much of an exertion as was made by the woman who went on her toilsome errand to the deep well of samaria, little aware that she was there to receive the waters of eternal life. do not say that it was by no effort, no self-denial, that the gospel was received by those who followed the great teacher to the lonely sea-side, or even to the desert, where, weary and famished, they remained day after day, beneath the heat of a burning sun, and were relieved from hunger but by a miracle. and who so poor now, or so utterly helpless, that they cannot easily obtain the record of those words which fell so freely upon the ears of the listening multitudes of judea? if there are such, there are societies which will cheerfully relieve their wants, if application be made. and these tracts, which come to us with scarcely the trouble of stretching forth our hands for their reception, are doubtless meant for good." "well, rosina," exclaimed elizabeth, "if you hold out a little longer, i think dorcas will have no reason to complain but that she gets _her_ preaching cheap enough; but as i, for one, am entirely willing to pay for mine, you may be excused for the present; and those who wish to hear a theological discussion, can go and listen to the very able expounders of the baptist and universalist faiths, who are just now holding forth in the other chamber. as dorcas hears no preaching but that which comes _as cheap as the light of the sun_, she will probably like to go; and do not be offended with me, rosina, if i tell you plainly, that you are not the one to rebuke her. what sacrifice have you made? how much have you spent? when have you ever given anything for the support of the gospel?" a tear started to rosina's eye, and the color deepened upon her cheek. her lip quivered, but she remained silent. "well," said lucy to elizabeth, "all this difficulty is the effect of the very simple question you asked; and i will answer for one, that i am glad to-morrow is pay-day. pray what shall you get that is new, elizabeth?" "oh, i shall get one of those damask silk shawls which are now so fashionable. how splendid it will look! let me see; this is a five weeks' payment, and i have earned about two dollars per week; and so have you, and rosina; and dorcas has earned a great deal more, for she has extra work. pray what new thing shall _you_ get, dorcas?" added she, laughing. "she will get a new bank book, i suppose," replied lucy. "she has already deposited in her own name five hundred dollars, and now she has got a book in the name of her little niece, and i do not know but she will soon procure another. she almost worships them, and sundays she stays here reckoning up her interest while we are at meeting." "i think it is far better," retorted dorcas, "to stay at home, than to go to meeting, as elizabeth does, to show her fine clothes. i do not make a mockery of public worship to god." "there, lizzy, you must take that, for you deserved it," said lucy to her friend. "you know you _do_ spend almost all your money in dress." "well," said elizabeth, "i shall sow all my wild oats now, and when i am an old maid i will be as steady, but _not quite_ so stingy as dorcas. i will get a bank book, and trot down merrimack street as often as she does, and everybody will say, 'what a remarkable change in elizabeth walters! she used to spend all her wages as fast as they were paid her, but now she puts them in the bank. she will be quite a fortune for some one, and i have no doubt she will get married for what she _has_, if not for what she is.' but i cannot begin now, and i don't see how _you_ can, rosina." "i have not begun," replied rosina, in a low sorrowful tone. "why yes, you have; you are as miserly now as dorcas herself; and i cannot bear to think of what you may become. now tell me if you will not get a new gown and bonnet, and go to meeting?" "i cannot," replied rosina, decidedly. "well, do, if you have any mercy on us, buy a new gown to wear in the mill, for your old one is so shabby. when calico is nine-pence a yard, i do think it is mean to wear such an old thing as that; besides, i should not wonder if it should soon drop off your back." "will it not last me one month more?" and rosina began to mend the tattered dress with a very wistful countenance. "why, i somewhat doubt it; but at all events, you must have another pair of shoes." "these are but just beginning to let in the water," said rosina; "i think they must last me till another pay-day." "well, if you have a fever or consumption, dorcas may take care of you, for _i_ will not; but what," continued the chattering elizabeth, "shall you buy that is new, lucy?" "oh, a pretty new, though cheap, bonnet; and i shall also pay my quarter's pew-rent, and a year's subscription to the 'lowell offering;' and that is all that i shall spend. you have laughed much about old maids; but it was an old maid who took care of me when i first came to lowell, and she taught me to lay aside half of every month's wages. it is a rule from which i have never deviated, and thus i have quite a pretty sum at interest, and have never been in want of anything." "well," said elizabeth, "will you go out to-night with me, and we will look at the bonnets, and also the damask silk shawls? i wish to know the prices. how i wish to-day had been pay-day, and then i need not have gone out with an empty purse." "well, lizzy, _you_ know that 'to-morrow is pay-day,' do you not?" "oh yes, and the beautiful pay-master will come in, rattling his coppers so nicely." "beautiful!" exclaimed lucy; "do you call our pay-master _beautiful_?" "why, i do not know that he would look beautiful, if he was coming to cut my head off; but really, that money-box makes him look delightfully." "well, lizzy, it _does_ make a great difference in his appearance, i know; but if we are going out to-night, we must be in a hurry." "if you go by the post-office, do ask if there is a letter for me," said rosina. "oh, i hate to go near the post-office in the evening; the girls act as wild as so many caribbee indians. sometimes i have to stand there an hour on the ends of my toes, stretching my neck, and sticking out my eyes; and when i think i have been pommeled and jostled long enough, i begin to 'set up on my own hook,' and i push away the heads that have been at the list as if they were committing it all to memory, and i send my elbows right and left in the most approved style, till i find myself 'master of the field.'" "oh, lizzy! you know better; how can you do so?" "why, lucy, pray tell me what _you_ do?" "i go away, if there is a crowd; or if i feel very anxious to know whether there is a letter for me, the worst that i do is to try 'sliding and gliding.' i dodge between folks, or slip through them, till i get waited upon. but i know that we all act worse there than anywhere else; and if the post-master speaks a good word for the factory girls, i think it must come against his conscience, unless he has seen them somewhere else than in the office." "well, well, we must hasten along," said elizabeth; "and stingy as rosina is, i suppose she will be willing to pay for a letter; so i will buy her one, if i can get it. good evening, ladies," continued she, tying her bonnet; and she hurried after lucy, who was already down the stairs, leaving dorcas to read her tract at leisure, and rosina to patch her old calico gown, with none to torment her. chapter ii. "two letters!" exclaimed elizabeth, as she burst into the chamber, holding them up, as little goody in the storybook held up her "two shoes;" "two letters! one for _you_, rosina, and the other is for _me_. only look at it! it is from a cousin of mine, who has never lived out of sight of the green mountains. i do believe, notwithstanding all that is said about the ignorance of the factory girls, that the letters which _go out_ of lowell look as well as those which _come into_ it. see here: up in the left hand corner, the direction commences, 'miss;' one step lower is 'elizabeth;' then down another step, 'walters.' another step brings us down to 'lowell;' one more is the 'city;' and down in the right hand corner is 'massachusetts,' at full length. quite a regular stair-case, if the steps had been all of an equal width. miss elizabeth walters, lowell city, massachusetts, anticipates much edification from the perusal thereof," said she, as she broke the seal. "oh, i must tell you an anecdote," said lucy. "while we were waiting there, i saw one girl push her face into the little aperture, and ask if there was a paper for her; and the clerk asked if it was a transient paper. 'a what?' said she. 'a transient paper,' he repeated. 'why, i don't know what paper it is,' was the reply; 'sometimes our folks send me one, and sometimes another.'" dorcas and elizabeth laughed, and the latter exclaimed, "girls, i am not so selfish as to be unwilling that you should share my felicity. should you not like to see my letter?" and she held it up before them. "it is quite a contrast to our rosina's delicate italian penmanship, although she is a factory girl." "dear cousin.--i write this to let you know that i am well, and hope you are enjoying the same great blessing. father and mother are well too. uncle joshua is sick of the information of the brain. we think he will die, but he says that he shall live his days out. we have not had a letter from you since you went to lowell. i send this by mary twining, an old friend of mine. she works upon the appletown corporation. she will put this in the post-office, because we do not know where you work. i hope you will go and see her. we have had a nice time making maple sugar this spring. i wish you had been with us. when you are married, you must come with your husband. write to me soon, and if you don't have a chance to send it by private conveyance, drop it into the post-office. i shall get it, for the mail-stage passes through the village twice a week. 'i want to see you morn, i think, than i can write with pen and ink; but when i shall, i cannot tell-- at present i must wish you well.' "your loving cousin, "judith walters." "well," said elizabeth, drawing a long breath, "i do not think my _loving cousin_ will ever die of the 'information of the brain;' but if it should get there, i do not know what might happen.--but, rosina, from whom is _your_ letter?" "my mother," said rosina; and she seated herself at the little light-stand, with a sheet of paper, pen, and inkstand. "why, you do not intend to answer it to-night?" "i must commence it to-night," replied rosina, "and finish it to-morrow night, and carry it to the post-office. i cannot write a whole letter in one evening." "why, what is the matter?" said dorcas. "my twin-sister is very sick," replied rosina; and the tears she could no longer restrain gushing freely forth. the girls, who had before been in high spirits, over cousin judy's letter, were subdued in an instant. oh, how quick is the influence of sympathy for grief! not another word was spoken. the letter was put away in silence, and the girls glided noiselessly around the room, as they prepared to retire to rest. shall we take a peep at rosina's letter? it may remove some false impressions respecting her character, and many are probably suffering injustice from erroneous opinions, when, if all could be known, the very conduct which has exposed them to censure would excite approbation. her widowed mother's letter was the following:-- "my dear child.--many thanks for your last letter, and many more for the present it contained. it was very acceptable, for it reached me when i had not a cent in the world. i fear you deprive yourself of necessaries to send me so much. but all you can easily spare will be gladly received. i have as much employment at tailoring as i can find time to do, and sometimes i sit up all night, when i cannot accomplish my self-allotted task during the day. "i have delayed my reply to your letter, because i wished to know what the doctors really thought of your sister marcia. they consulted to-day, and tell me _there is no hope_. the suspense is now over, but i thought i was better prepared for the worst than i am. she wished me to tell her what the doctors said. at length i yielded to her importunities. 'oh, mother,' said she, with a sweet smile, 'i am so glad they have told you, for i have known it for a long time. you must write to rosina to come and see me before i die.' do as you think best, my dear, about coming. you know how glad we would be to see you. but if you cannot come, do not grieve too much about it.--marcia must soon die, and you, i hope, will live many years; but the existence which you commenced together here, i feel assured will be continued in a happier world. the interruption which will now take place will be short, in comparison with the life itself which shall have no end. and yet it is hard to think that one so young, so good, and lovely, is so soon to lie in the silent grave. while the blue skies of heaven are daily growing more softly beautiful, and the green things of earth are hourly putting forth a brighter verdure, she, too, like the lovely creatures of nature, is constantly acquiring some new charm, to fit her for that world which she will so soon inhabit. death is coming, with his severest tortures, but she arrays her person in bright loveliness at his approach, and her spirit is robed in graces which well may fit her for that angel-band, which she is so soon to join. "i am now writing by her bed-side. she is sleeping soundly now, but there is a heavy dew upon the cheek, brow, and neck of the tranquil sleeper. a rose--it is one of _your_ roses, rosina--is clasped in her transparent hand: and one rosy pedal has somehow dropped upon her temple. it breaks the line which the blue vein has so distinctly traced on the clear white brow. i will take it away, and enclose it in the letter. when you see it, perhaps it will bring more vividly to memory the days when you and marcia frolicked together among the wild rose bushes.--those which you transplanted to the front of the house have grown astonishingly. marcia took care of them as long as she could go out of doors; for she wished to do something to show her gratitude to you. now that she can go among them no longer, she watches them through the window, and the little boys bring her every morning the most beautiful blossoms. she enjoys their beauty and fragrance, as she does everything which is reserved for her enjoyment. there is but one thought which casts a shade upon that tranquil spirit, and it is that she is such a helpless burden upon us. the last time that she received a compensation for some slight article which she had exerted herself to complete, she took the money and sent willy for some salt. 'now, mother,' said she, with the arch smile which so often illuminated her countenance in the days of health, 'now, mother you cannot say that i do not earn my salt.' "but i must soon close, for in a short time she will awaken, and suffer for hours from her agonizing cough.--no one need tell me now that a consumption makes an easy path to the grave. i watched too long by your father's bed-side, and have witnessed too minutely all of marcia's sufferings to be persuaded of this. "but she breathes less softly now, and i must hasten. i have said little of the other members of the family, for i knew you would like to hear particularly about her. the little boys are well--they are obedient to me, and kind to their sister. answer as soon as you receive this, for marcia's sake, unless you come and visit us. "and now, hoping that this will find you in good health, as, by the blessing of god, it leaves me, (a good though an old-fashioned manner of closing a letter,) i remain as ever, "your affectionate mother." rosina's reply was as follows:-- "dear mother.--i have just received your long-expected letter, and have seated myself to commence an answer, for i cannot go home. "i do wish very much to see you all, especially dear marcia, once more; but it is not best. i know you think so, or you would have urged my return. i think i shall feel more contented here, earning comforts for my sick sister and necessaries for you, than i should be there, and unable to relieve a want. 'to-morrow is pay-day,' and my earnings, amounting to ten dollars, i shall enclose in this letter. do not think i am suffering for anything, for i get a long very well. but i am obliged to be extremely prudent, and the girls here call me miserly. oh, mother! it is hard to be so misunderstood; but i cannot tell _them_ all. "but your kind letters are indeed a solace to me, for they assure me that the mother whom i have always loved and reverenced approves of my conduct. i shall feel happier to-morrow night, when i enclose that bill to you, than my room-mates can be in the far different disposal of theirs. "what a blessing it is that we can send money to our friends; and indeed what a blessing that we can send them a letter. last evening you was penning the lines which i have just perused, in my far-distant home; and not twenty-four hours have elapsed since the rose-leaf before me was resting on the brow of my sister; but it is now ten o'clock, and i must bid you good night, reserving for to-morrow evening the remainder of my epistle, which i shall address to marcia." it was long before rosina slept that night; and when she did, she was troubled at first by fearful dreams. but at length it seemed to her that she was approaching the quiet home of her childhood. she did not remember where she had been, but had a vague impression that it was in some scene of anxiety, sorrow, and fatigue; and she was longing to reach that little cot, where it appeared so still and happy. she thought the sky was very clear above it, and the yellow sunshine lay softly on the hills and fields around it. she saw her rose-bushes blooming around it, like a little wilderness of blossoms; and while she was admiring their increased size and beauty, the door was opened, and a body arrayed in the snowy robes of the grave, was carried beneath the rose-bushes. they bent to a slight breeze which swept above them, and a shower of snowy petals fell upon the marble face and shrouded form. it was as if nature had paid this last tribute of gratitude to one who had been one of her truest and loveliest votaries. rosina started forward that she might remove the fragrant covering, and imprint one last kiss upon the fair cold brow; but a hand was laid upon her, and a well-known voice repeated her name. and then she started, for she heard the bell ring loudly; and she opened her eyes as dorcas again cried out, "rosina, the second bell is ringing."--elizabeth and lucy were already dressed, and they exclaimed at the same moment, "remember, rosina, that _to-day is pay-day_." lucinda. the indian pledge. on the door-steps of a cottage in the land of "steady habits," some ninety or an hundred years since, might, on a soft evening in june, have been seen a sturdy young farmer, preparing his scythes for the coming hay-making season. so intent was he upon his work that he heeded not the approach of a tall indian, accoutred for a hunting expedition, until, "will you give an unfortunate hunter some supper and lodging for the night?" in a tone of supplication, caught his ear. the farmer raised his eyes from his work, and darting fury from beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, he exclaimed, "heathen, indian dog, begone! you shall have nothing here." "but i am very hungry," said the indian; "give only a crust of bread and a bone to strengthen me on my journey." "get you gone, you heathen dog," said the farmer; "i have nothing for you." "give me but a cup of cold water," said the indian, "for i am very faint." this appeal was not more successful than the others.--reiterated abuse, and to be told to drink when he came to a river, was all he could obtain from one who bore the name of christian! but the supplicating appeal fell not unheeded on the ear of one of finer mould and more sensibility. the farmer's youthful bride heard the whole, as she sat hushing her infant to rest; and from the open casement she watched the poor indian until she saw his dusky form sink, apparently exhausted, on the ground at no great distance from her dwelling. ascertaining that her husband was too busied with his work to notice her, she was soon at the indian's side, with a pitcher of milk and a napkin filled with bread and cheese. "will my red brother slake his thirst with some milk?" said this angel of mercy; and as he essayed to comply with her invitation, she untied the napkin, and bade him eat and be refreshed. "cantantowwit protect the white dove from the pounces of the eagle," said the indian; "for _her_ sake the unfledged young shall be safe in their nest, and her red brother will not seek to be revenged." he then drew a bunch of feathers from his bosom, and plucking one of the longest, gave it to her, and said, "when the white dove's mate flies over the indians' hunting grounds, bid him wear this on his head." * * * * the summer had passed away. harvest-time had come and gone, and preparations had been made for a hunting excursion by the neighbors. our young farmer was to be one of the party; but on the eve of their departure he had strange misgivings relative to his safety. no doubt his imagination was haunted by the form of the indian, whom, in the preceding summer he had treated so harshly. the morning that witnessed the departure of the hunters was one of surpassing beauty. not a cloud was to be seen, save one that gathered on the brow of ichabod (our young farmer), as he attempted to tear a feather from his hunting-cap, which was sewed fast to it. his wife arrested his hand, while she whispered in his ear, and a slight quiver agitated his lips as he said, "well, mary, if you think this feather will protect me from the arrows of the red-skins, i'll e'en let it remain." ichabod donned his cap, shouldered his rifle, and the hunters were soon on their way in quest of game. the day wore away as was usual with people on a like excursion; and at nightfall they took shelter in the den of a bear, whose flesh served for supper, and whose skin spread on bruin's bed of leaves, pillowed their heads through a long november night. with the first dawn of morning, the hunters left their rude shelter and resumed their chase. ichabod, by some mishap, soon separated from his companions, and in trying to join them got bewildered. he wandered all day in the forest, and just as the sun was receding from sight, and he was about sinking down in despair, he espied an indian hut. with mingled emotions of hope and fear, he bent his steps towards it; and meeting an indian at the door, he asked him to direct him to the nearest white settlement. "if the weary hunter will rest till morning, the eagle will show him the way to the nest of his white dove," said the indian, as he took ichabod by the hand and led him within his hut. the indian gave him a supper of parched corn and venison, and spread the skins of animals, which he had taken in hunting, for his bed. the light had hardly began to streak the east, when the indian awoke ichabod, and after a slight repast, the twain started for the settlement of the whites. late in the afternoon, as they emerged from a thick wood, ichabod with joy espied his home. a heartfelt ejaculation had scarce escaped his lips, when the indian stepped before him, and turning around, stared him full in the face, and inquired if he had any recollection of a previous acquaintance with his red brother. upon being answered in the negative, the indian said, "five moons ago, when i was faint and weary, you called me an indian dog, and drove me from your door. i might now be revenged; but cantantowwit bids me tell you to go home; and hereafter, when you see a red man in need of kindness, do to him as you have been done by. farewell." the indian having said this, turned upon his heel, and was soon out of sight. ichabod was abashed. he went home purified in heart, having learned a lesson of christianity from an untutored savage. tabitha. the first dish of tea. tea holds a conspicuous place in the history of our country; but it is no part of my business to offer comments, or to make any remarks upon the spirit of olden time, which prompted those patriotic defenders of their country's rights to destroy so much tea, to express their indignation at the oppression of their fellow citizens. i only intend to inform the readers of the "lowell offering" that the first dish of tea which was ever made in portsmouth, n. h., was made by abigail van dame, my great-great-grandmother. abigail was early in life left an orphan, and the care of her tender years devolved upon her aunt townsend, to whose store fate had never added any of the smiling blessings of providence; and as a thing in course, abigail became not only the adopted, but also the well-beloved, child of her uncle and aunt townsend. they gave her every advantage for an education which the town of portsmouth afforded; and at the age of seventeen she was acknowledged to be the most accomplished young lady in portsmouth. many were the worshippers who bowed at the shrine of beauty and learning at the domicile of alphonzo townsend; but his lovely niece was unmoved by their petitions, much to the perplexity of her aunt, who often charged abigail with carrying an obdurate heart in her bosom. in vain did mrs. townsend urge her niece to accept the offers of a young student of law; and equally vain were her efforts to gain a clue to the cause of the refusal, until, by the return of an east india merchantman, mr. townsend received a small package for his niece, and a letter from captain lowd, asking his consent to their union, which he wished might take place the following year, when he should return to portsmouth. abigail's package contained a chinese silk hat, the crown of which was full of bohea tea. a letter informed her that the contents of the hat was the ingredient, which, boiled in water, made what was called the "chinese soup." abigail, anxious to ascertain the flavor of a beverage, of which she had heard much, put the brass skillet over the coals, poured in two quarts of water, and added thereto a pint bason full of tea, and a gill of molasses, and let it simmer an hour. she then strained it through a linen cloth, and in some pewter basins set it around the supper table, in lieu of bean-porridge, which was the favorite supper of the epicures of the olden time. uncle, aunt, and abigail, seated themselves around the little table, and after crumbling some brown bread into their basins, commenced eating the chinese soup. the first spoonful set their faces awry, but the second was past endurance; and mrs. townsend screamed with fright, for she imagined that she had tasted poison. the doctor was sent for, who administered a powerful emetic; and the careful aunt persuaded her niece to consign her hat and its contents to the vault of an outbuilding. when capt. lowd returned to portsmouth, he brought with him a chest of tea, a china tea-set, and a copper teakettle, and instructed abigail in the art of tea-making and tea drinking, to the great annoyance of her aunt townsend, who could never believe that chinese soup was half so good as bean-porridge. the _first dish of tea_ afforded a fund of amusement for capt. lowd and lady, and i hope the narrative will be acceptable to modern tea-drinkers. tabitha. leisure hours of the mill girls. the leisure hours of the mill girls--how shall they be spent? as ann, bertha, charlotte, emily, and others, spent theirs? as we spend ours? let us decide. no. was to stop a day for repairs. ann sat at her window until she tired of watching passers-by. she then started up in search of one idle as herself, for a companion in a saunter. she called at the chamber opposite her own. the room was sadly disordered. the bed was not made, although it was past nine o'clock. in making choice of dresses, collars, aprons, _pro tempore_, some half dozen of each had been taken from their places, and there they were, lying about on chairs, trunks, and bed, together with mill clothes just taken off. bertha had not combed her hair; but charlotte gave hers a hasty dressing before "going out shopping;" and there lay brush, combs, and hair on the table. there were a few pictures hanging about the walls, such as "you are the prettiest rose," "the kiss," "man friday," and a miserable, soiled drawing of a "cottage girl." bertha blushed when ann entered. she was evidently ashamed of the state of her room, and vexed at ann's intrusion. ann understood the reason when bertha told her, with a sigh, that she had been "hurrying all the morning to get through the 'children of the abbey,' before charlotte returned." "ann, i wish you would talk to her," said she. "her folks are very poor. i have it on the best authority. elinda told me that it was confidently reported by girls who came from the same town, that her folks had been known to jump for joy at the sight of a crust of bread. she spends every cent of her wages for dress and confectionary. she has gone out now; and she will come back with lemons, sugar, rich cake, and so on. she had better do as i do--spend her money for books, and her leisure time in reading them. i buy three volumes of novels every month; and when that is not enough, i take some from the circulating library. i think it our duty to improve our minds as much as possible, now the mill girls are beginning to be thought so much of." ann was a bit of a wag. idle as a breeze, like a breeze she sported with every _trifling_ thing that came in her way. "pshaw!" said she. "and so we must begin to read silly novels, be very sentimental, talk about tears and flowers, dews and bowers. there is some poetry for you, bertha. don't you think i'd better 'astonish the natives,' by writing a poetical rhapsody, nicknamed 'twilight reverie,' or some other silly, inappropriate thing, and sending it to the 'offering?' oh, how fine this would be! then i could purchase a few novels, borrow a few more, take a few more from a circulating library; and then shed tears and grow soft over them--all because we are taking a higher stand in the world, you know, bertha." bertha again blushed. ann remained some moments silent. "did you ever read pelham?" asked bertha, by way of breaking the silence. "no; i read no novels, good, bad, or indifferent. i have been thinking, bertha, that there may be danger of our running away from the reputation we enjoy, as a class. for my part, i sha'n't ape the follies of other classes of females. as isabel greenwood says--and you know she is always right about such things--i think we shall lose our independence, originality, and individuality of character, if we all take one standard of excellence, and this the customs and opinions of others. this is a jaw-cracking sentence for me. if any body had uttered it but isabel, i should, perhaps, have laughed at it. as it was, i treasured it up for use, as i do the wise sayings of franklin, dudley, leavitt, and robert thomas. i, for one, shall not attempt to become so accomplished. i shall do as near right as i can conveniently, not because i have a heavy burden of gentility to support, but because it is quite as easy to do right, 'and then i sleep so sweet at night.' "good morning, bertha." at the door she met charlotte, on her return, with lemons, nuts, and cake. "i am in search of a companion for a long ramble," said ann. "can you recommend a _subject_?" "i should think bertha would like to shake herself," said charlotte. "she has been buried in a novel ever since she was out of bed this morning. it was her turn to do the chamber work this morning; and this is the way she always does, if she can get a novel. she would not mind sitting all day, with dirt to her head. it is a shame for her to do so. she had better be wide awake, enjoying life, as i am." "nonsense!" exclaimed ann, in her usual _brusque_ manner. "there is not a cent's choice between you this morning; both are doing wrong, and each is condemning the other without mercy. so far you are both just like me, you see. good morning." she walked on to the next chamber. she had enough of the philosopher about her to reason from appearances, and from the occupation of its inmates, that she could succeed no better there. every thing was in the most perfect order. the bed was shaped, and the sheet hemmed down _just so_. their lines that hung by the walls were filled "jist." first came starched aprons, then starched capes, then pocket handkerchiefs, folded with the marked corner out. then hose. this room likewise, had its paintings, and like those of the other, they were in perfect keeping with the general arrangements of the room and the dress of its occupants. there was an apology for a lady. her attitude and form were of precisely that uncouth kind which is produced by youthful artificers, who form head, body and feet from one piece of shingle; and wedge in two sticks at right angles with the body, for arms. her sleeves increased in dimensions from the shoulders, and the skirt from the belt, but without the semblance of a fold. this, with some others of the same school, and two "profiles," were carefully preserved in frames, and the frames in screens of green barage. miss clark was busily engaged in making netting, and miss emily in making a dress. ann made known her wants to them, more from curiosity to hear their reply, than from a hope of success. in measured periods they thanked her--would have been happy to accompany her. "but, really, i must be excused," said miss clark. "i have given myself a stint, and i always feel bad if i fall an inch short of my plans." "yes; don't you think, ann," said emily, "she has stinted herself to make five yards of netting to-day. and mother says there is ten times as much in the house as we shall ever need. father says there is twenty times as much; for he knows we shall both be old maids, ha! ha!" "yes, and i always tell him that if i am an old maid i shall need the more. our folks make twenty or thirty yards of table linen every year. i mean to make fringe for every yard; and have enough laid by for the next ten years, before i leave the mill." "well, emily," said ann, "you have no fringe to make, can't you accompany me?" "i should be glad to, ann; but i am over head and ears in work. i have got my work all done up, every thing that i could find to do. now i am making a dress for bertha." "why, emily, you are making a slave of yourself, body and mind," said ann. "can't you earn enough in the mill to afford yourself a little time for rest and amusement?" "la! i don't make but twelve dollars a month, besides my board. i have made a great many dresses evenings, and have stinted myself to finish this to-day. so i believe i can't go, any way. i should be terrible glad to." "oh, you are very excusable," answered ann. "but let me ask if you take any time to read." "no; not much. we can't afford to. father owns the best farm in burt; but we have always had to work hard, and always expect to. we generally read a chapter every day. we take turns about it. one of us reads while the other works." "yes; but lately we have only taken time to read a short psalm," said emily, again laughing. "well, the bible says, 'let him that is without sin cast the first stone,' or i might be tempted to remind you that there is such a thing as laboring too much 'for the meat that perisheth.' good morning, ladies." ann heard a loud, merry laugh from the next room, as she reached the door. it was ellinora frothingham's; no one could mistake, who had heard it once. it seemed the out-pouring of glee that could no longer be suppressed. ellinor sat on the floor, just as she had thrown herself on her return from a walk. her pretty little bonnet was lying on the floor on one side, and on the other a travelling bag, whose contents she had just poured into her lap. there were apples, pears, melons, a mock-orange, a pumpkin, squash, and a crooked cucumber. ellinora sprang to her feet when ann entered, and threw the contents of her lap on the floor with such violence, as to set them to rolling all about. then she laughed and clapped her hands to see the squash chase the mock-orange under the bed, a great russet running so furiously after a little fellow of the baldwin family, and finally pinning him in a corner. a pear started in the chase; but after taking a few turns, he sat himself down to shake his fat sides and enjoy the scene. ellinora stepped back a few paces to elude the pursuit of the pumpkin, and then, with well-feigned terror, jumped into a chair. but the drollest personage of the group was the ugly cucumber. there he sat, forminius-like, watching the mad freaks of his companions. "ha! see that cucumber?" exclaimed ellinora, laughing heartily. "if he had hands, how he would raise them so! if he had eyes and mouth, how he would open them so!" suiting action to her words. "look, ann! look, fanny! see if it does not look like the clark girls, when one leaves any thing in the shape of dirt on their table or stand!" peace was at length restored among the _inanimates_. "i came to invite you to walk; but i find i am too late," said ann. "yes. oh, how i wish you had been with us! you would have been so happy!" said ellinora. "we started out very early--before sunrise--intending to take a brisk walk of a mile or two, and return in season for breakfast. we went over to dracut, and met such adventures there and by the way, as will supply me with food for laughter years after i get married, and trouble comes. we came along where some oxen were standing, yoked, eating their breakfast while their owner was eating his. they were attached to a cart filled with pumpkins. i took some of the smallest, greenest ones, and stuck them fast on the tips of the oxen's horns. i was so interested in observing how the ceremony affected the messrs. oxen, that i did not laugh a bit until i had crowned all four of them. i looked up to fanny, as i finished the work, and there she sat on a great rock, where she had thrown herself when she could no longer stand. poor girl! tears were streaming down her cheeks. with one hand she was holding her lame side, and with the other filling her mouth with her pocket handkerchief, that the laugh need not run out, i suppose. well, as soon as i looked at her, and at the oxen, i burst into a laugh that might have been heard miles, i fancy. oh! i shall never forget how reprovingly those oxen looked at me. the poor creatures could not eat with such an unusual weight on their horns, so they pitched their heads higher than usual, and now and then gave them a graceful cant, then stood entirely motionless, as if attempting to conjecture what it all meant. "well, that loud and long laugh of mine, brought a whole volley of folks to the door--farmer, and farmer's wife, farmer's sons, and farmer's daughters. 'whoa hish!' exclaimed the farmer, before he reached the door; and 'whoa hish!' echoed all the farmer's sons. they all stopped as soon as they saw me. i would remind you that i still stood before the oxen, laughing at them. i never saw such comical expressions as those people wore. did you, fanny? even those pictures of mine are not so funny. i thought we should raise the city police; for they had tremendous voices, and i never saw any body laugh so. "as soon as i could speak, and they could listen to me, i walked up to the farmer. 'i beg your pardon sir,' said i, 'but i did want to laugh so! came all the way from lowell for something new to laugh at.' he was a good, sensible man, and this proves it. he said it was a good thing to have a hearty laugh occasionally--good for the health and spirits. work would go off easier all day for it, especially with the boys. as he said 'boys,' i could not avoid smiling as i looked at a fine young sprig of a farmer, his oldest son, as he afterwards told us, full twenty-one." "and now, miss ellinora," said fanny, "i shall avenge myself on you, for certain saucy freaks, perpetrated against my most august commands, by telling ann, that as you looked at this 'young sprig of a farmer,' he looked at you, and you both blushed. what made you, nora? i never saw you blush before." "what made you, nora?" echoed ellinora, laughing and blushing slightly. "well, the farmer's wife invited us to rest and breakfast with them. we began to make excuses; but the farmer added his good natured commands, so we went in; and after a few arrangements, such as placing more plates, &c., a huge pumpkin pie, and some hot potatoes, pealed in the cooking, we sat down to a full round table. there were the mealy potatoes, cold boiled dish, warm biscuit and dough-nuts, pie, coffee, pickles, sauce, cheese, and just such butter and brown bread as mother makes--bread hot, just taken from the oven. they all appeared so pleasant and kind, that i felt as if in my own home, with my own family around me. wild as i was, as soon as i began to tell them how it seemed to me, i burst into tears in spite of myself, and was obliged to leave the table. but they all pitied me so much, that i brushed off my tears, went back to my breakfast, and have laughed ever since." "you have forgotten two very important items," said fanny, looking archly into ellinora's face. "this 'fine young sprig of a farmer' happened to recollect that he had business in town to-day; so he took their carriage and brought us home, after nora and a roguish sister of his had filled her bag as you see. and more and better still, they invited us to spend a day with them soon; and promised to send this 'fine young sprig,' &c., for us on the occasion." ellinora was too busily engaged in collecting her fruit to reply. she ran from the room; and in a few moments returned with several young girls, to whom she gave generous supplies of apples, pears, and melons. she was about seating herself with a full plate, when a new idea seemed to flash upon her. she laughed, and started for the door. "ellinora, where now?" asked fanny. "to the clark girls' room, to leave an apple peeling and core on their table, a pear pealing on their stand, and melon, apple, and pear seeds all about the floor," answered ellinora, gaily snapping her fingers, and nodding her head. "what for? here, nora; come back. for what?" "why, to see them suffer," said the incorrigible girl. "you know i told you this morning, that sport is to be the order of the day. so no scoldings, my dear." she left the room, and fanny turned to one of the ladies who had just entered. "where is alice," said she. "did not ellinora extend an invitation to her?" "yes; but she is half dead with the _blues_, to-day. the brown girls came back last night. they called on alice this morning, and left letters and presents from home for her. she had a letter from her little brother, ten years old. he must be a fine fellow, judging from that letter, it was so sensible, and so witty too! one moment i laughed at some of his lively expressions, and the next cried at his expressions of love for alice, and regret for her loss. he told her how he cried himself to sleep the night after she left home; and his flowers seemed to have faded, and the stars to have lost their brightness, when he no longer had her by his side to talk to him about them. i find by his letter that alice is working to keep him at school. that part of it which contained his thanks for her goodness was blistered with the little fellow's tears. alice cried like a child when she read it, and i did not wonder at it. but she ought to be happy now. her mother sent her a fine pair of worsted hose of her own spinning and knitting, and a nice cake of her own making. she wrote, that, trifling as these presents were, she knew they would be acceptable to her daughter, because made by her. when alice read this, she cried again. her sister sent her a pretty little fancy basket, and her brother a bunch of flowers from her mother's garden. they were enclosed in a tight tin box, and were as fresh as when first gathered. alice sent out for a new vase. she has filled it with her flowers, and will keep them watered with her tears, judging from present appearances. alice is a good-hearted girl, and i love her, but she is always talking or thinking of something to make her unhappy. a letter from a friend, containing nothing but good news, and assurances of friendship, that ought to make her happy, generally throws her into a crying fit, which ends in a moping fit of melancholy. this destroys her own happiness, and that of all around her.'" "you ought to talk to her, she is spoiling herself," said mary mason, whose mouth was literally crammed with the last apple of a second plateful. "i have often urged her to be more cheerful. but she answers me with a helpless, hopeless, 'i can't jane! you know i can't. i shall never be happy while i live; and i often think that the sooner i go where "the weary are at rest," the better.' i don't know how many times she has given me an answer like this. then she will sob as if her heart were bursting. she sometimes wears me quite out; and i feel as i did when ellinora called me, as if released from a prison." "would it improve her spirits to walk with me?" asked ann. "perhaps it would, if you can persuade her to go. do try, dear ann," answered jane. "i called at isabel greenwood's room as i came along, and asked her to go in and see if she could rouse her up." ann heard isabel's voice in gentle but earnest expostulation, as she reached alice's room. isabel paused when ann entered, kissed her cheek, and resigned her rocking-chair to her. alice was sobbing too violently to speak. she took her face from her handkerchief, bowed to ann, and again buried it. ann invited them to walk with her. isabel cheerfully acceded to her proposal, and urged alice to accompany them. "don't urge me, isabel," said alice; "i am only fit for the solitude of my chamber. i could not add at all to your pleasure. my thoughts would be at my home, and i could not enjoy a walk in the least degree. but isabel, i do not want you to leave me so. i know that you think me very foolish to indulge in these useless regrets, as you call them. you will understand me better if you just consider the situation of my mother's family. my mother a widow, my oldest brother at the west, my oldest sister settled in new york, my youngest brother and sister only with mother, and i a lowell factory girl! and such i must be--for if i leave the mill, my brother cannot attend school all of the time; and his heart would almost break to take him from school. and how can i be happy in such a situation; i do not ask for riches; but i would be able to gather my friends all around me. then i could be happy. perhaps i am as happy now as you would be in my situation, isabel." isabel's eyes filled, but she answered in her own sweet, calm manner: "we will compare lots, my dear alice. i have neither father, mother, sister, nor home in the world. three years ago i had all of these, and every other blessing that one could ask. the death of my friends, the distressing circumstances attending them, the subsequent loss of our large property, and the critical state of my brother's health at present, are not slight afflictions, nor are they lightly felt." isabel's emotions, as she paused to subdue them by a powerful mental effort, proved her assertion. alice began to dry her tears, and to look as if ashamed of her weakness. "i, too, am a lowell factory girl," pursued isabel. "i, too, am laboring for the completion of a brother's education. if that brother were well, how gladly would i toil! but that disease is upon his vitals which laid father, mother, and sister in their graves, in one short year. i can see it in the unnatural and increasing brightness of his eye, and hear it in his hollow cough. he has entered upon his third collegiate year; and is too anxious to graduate next commencement, to heed my entreaties, or the warning of his physician." she again paused. her whole frame shook with emotion; but not a tear mingled with ann's, as they fell upon her hand. "you see, alice," she at length added, "what reasons i have for regret when i think of the past, and what for fear when i turn to the future. still i am happy, almost continually. my lost friends are so many magnets, drawing heavenward those affections that would otherwise rivet themselves too strongly to earthly loves. and those dear ones who are yet spared to me, scatter so many flowers in my pathway, that i seldom feel the thorns. i am cheered in my darkest hours by their kindness and affection, animated at all times by a wish to do all in my power to make them happy. if my brother is spared to me, i ask for nothing more. and if he is first called, i trust i shall feel that it is the will of one who is too wise to err, and too good to be unkind." "you are the most like my mother, isabel, of any one i ever saw," said ann. "she is never free from pain, yet she never complains. and if pa, or any of us, just have a cold or head ache, she does not rest till 'she makes us well.' you have more trouble than any other girl in the house; but instead of claiming the sympathies of every one on that account, you are always cheering others in their little, half-imaginary trials. alice, i think you and i ought to be ashamed to shed a tear, until we have some greater cause than mere home-sickness, or low spirits." "why, ann, i can no more avoid low spirits, than i can make a world!" exclaimed alice, in a really aggrieved tone. "and i don't want you all to think that i have no trouble. i want sympathy, and i can't live without it. oh that i was at home this moment!" "why, alice, there is hardly a girl in this house who has not as much trouble, in some shape, as you have. you never think of pitying them; and pray what gives you such strong claims on their sympathies? do you walk with us, or do you not?" alice shook her head in reply. isabel whispered a few words in her ear--they might be of reproof, they might be of consolation--then retired with ann to equip for their walk. "what a beautiful morning this is!" exclaimed ann, as they emerged from the house. "_malgre_ some inconveniences, factory girls are as happy as any class of females. i sometimes think it hard to rise so early, and work so many hours shut up in the house. but when i get out at night, on the sabbath, or at any other time, i am just as happy as a bird, and long to fly and sing with them. and alice will keep herself shut up all day. is it not strange that all will not be as happy as they can be? it is so pleasant." isabel returned ann's smile. "yes, ann, it is strange that every one does not prefer happiness. indeed, it is quite probable that every one does prefer it. but some mistake the modes of acquiring it through want of judgment. others are too indolent to employ the means necessary to its attainment, and appear to expect it to flow in to them, without taking any pains to prepare a channel. others, like our friend alice, have constitutional infirmities, which entail upon them a deal of suffering, that to us, of different mental organization, appears wholly unnecessary." "why, don't you think alice might be as happy as we are, if she chose? could she not be as grateful for letters and love-tokens from home? could she not leave her room, and come out into this pure air, listen to the birds, and catch their spirit? could she not do all this, isabel, as well as we?" "well, i do not know, ann. perhaps not. you know that the minds of different persons are like instruments of different tones. the same touch thrills gaily on one, mournfully on another." "yes; and i know, isabel, that different minds may be compared to the same instrument _in_ and _out_ of tune. now i have heard alice say that she loved to indulge this melancholy; that she loved to read byron, mrs. hemans, and miss landon, until her heart was as gloomy as the grave. isn't this strange--even silly?" "it is most unfortunate, ann." "isabel, you are the strangest girl! i have heard a great many say, that one cannot make you say anything against anybody; and i believe they are correct. and when you reprove one, you do it in such a mild, pretty way, that one only loves you the better for it. now, i smash on, pell-mell, as if unconscious of a fault in myself. hence, i oftener offend than amend. let me think.--this morning i have administered reproof in my own blunt way to bertha for reading novels, to charlotte for eating confectionary, to the clark girls for their 'all work and no play,' and to alice for moping. i have been wondering all along how they can spend their time so foolishly. i see that my own employment would scarcely bear the test of close criticism, for i have been watching motes in others' eyes, while a beam was in my own. now, isabel, i must ask a favor. i do not want to be very fine and nice; but i would be gentle and kind hearted--would do some good in the world. i often make attempts to this end; but always fail, somehow. i know my manner needs correcting; and i want you to reprove me as you would a sister, and assist me with your advice. will you not, dear isabel?" she pressed isabel's arm closer to her side, and a tear was in her eye as she looked up for an answer to her appeal. "you know not what you ask, my beloved girl," answered isabel, in a low and tremulous tone. "you know not the weakness of the staff on which you would lean, or the frailties of the heart to which you would look up, for aid. of myself, dear ann, i can do nothing. i can only look to god for protection from temptation, and for guidance in the right way. when he keeps me, i am safe; when he withdraws his spirit, i am weak indeed. and can i lead you, ann? no! you must go to a higher than earthly friend. pray to him in every hour of need, and he will be 'more to you than you can ask, or even think.'" "how often i have wished that i could go to him as mother does--just as i would go to a father!" said ann. "but i dare not. it would be mockery in one who has never experienced religion." "make prayer a _means_ of this experience, my dear girl. draw near to god by humble, constant prayer, and he will draw near to you by the influences of his spirit, which will make you just what you wish to be, a good, kind-hearted girl. you will learn to love god as a father, as the author of your happiness and every good thing. and you will be prepared to meet those trials which must be yours in life as the 'chastisements of a father's hand, directed by a father's love.' and when the hour of death comes, dear ann, how sweet, how soothing will be the deep-felt conviction that you are going _home_! you will have no fears, for your trust will be in one whom you have long loved and served; and you will feel as if about to meet your best, and most familiar friend." ann answered only by her tears; and for some minutes they walked on in silence. they were now some distance from town. before them lay farms, farm-houses, groves and scattering trees, from whose branches came the mingled song of a thousand birds. isabel directed ann's attention to the beauty of the scene. ann loved nature; but she had such a dread of sentimentalism that she seldom expressed herself freely. now she had no reserves, and isabel found that she had not mistaken her capacities, in supposing her possessed of faculties, which had only to develop themselves more fully, which had only to become constant incentives to action, to make her all she could wish. "you did not promise, isabel," said ann, with a happy smile, as they entered their street, "you did not promise to be my sister; but you will, will you not?" "yes, dear ann; we will be sisters to each other. i think you told me that you have no sister." "i had none until now; and i have felt as if part of my affections could not find a resting place, but were weighing down my heart with a burden that did not belong to it. i shall no longer be like a branch of our woodbine when it cannot find a clinging place, swinging about at the mercy of every breeze; but like that when some kind hand twines it about its frame, firm and trusting. see, isabel!" exclaimed she, interrupting herself, "there sits poor alice, just as we left her. i wish she had walked with us--she would have felt so much better. do you think, isabel, that religion would make her happy?" "most certainly. 'come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden. take my yoke upon you; for i am meek and lowly in heart; and ye _shall_ find rest for your souls,'--is as 'faithful a saying' and as 'worthy of all acceptation' now, as when it was uttered, and when thousands came and 'were healed of _all_ manner of diseases.' yes, alice may yet be happy," she added musingly, "if she can be induced to read byron less, and her bible more; to think less of her own gratification, and more of that of others. and we will be very gentle to her, ann; but not the less faithful and constant in our efforts to win her to usefulness and happiness." ellinora met them at the door, and began to describe a frolic that had occupied her during their absence. she threw her arms around isabel's waist, and entered the sitting-room with her. "now, isabel, i know you don't think it right to be so giddy," said she. "i will tell you what i have resolved to do. you shake your head, isabel, and i do not wonder at all. but this resolution was formed this morning, on my way back from dracut; and i feel in my 'heart of hearts' 'a sober certainty of waking' energy to keep it unbroken. it is that i will be another sort of a girl, altogether, henceforth; steady, but not gloomy; less talkative, but not reserved; more studious, but not a bookworm; kind and gentle to others, but not a whit the less independent, 'for a' that,' in my opinions and conduct.--and, after this day, which i have dedicated to momus, i want you to be my mentor. now i am for another spree of some sort. nay, isabel, do not remonstrate. you will make me weep with five tender words." it needed not so much--for isabel smiled sadly, kissed her cheek, and ellinora's tears fell fast and thick as she ran from the room. ann went immediately to alice's room on her return.--she apologized to her for reproving her so roughly, described her walk, gave a synopsis of isabel's advice, and her consequent determinations. by these means she diverted alice's thoughts from herself, gave her nerves a healthy spring, and when the bell summoned them to dinner, she had recovered much of her happier humor. ellinora sat beside her at table. she laughingly proposed an exchange, offering a portion of her levity for as much of her gravity. she thought the _equilibrium_ would be more perfect. so alice thought, and she heartily wished that the exchange might be made. and this exchange seems actually taking place at this time. they are as intimate as sisters. together they are resolutely struggling against the tide of habit. they meet many discouraging failures; but isabel is ever ready to cheer them by her sympathy, and to assist them by her advice. ann's faults were not so deeply rooted; perhaps she brought more natural energy to their extermination. be that as it may, she is now an excellent lady, a fit companion for the peerless isabel. the clark girls do not, as yet, coalesce in their system of improvement. they still prefer making netting and dresses, to the lecture-room, the improvement circle, and even to the reading of the "book of books." so difficult is it to turn from the worship of plutus! the delusion of bertha and charlotte is partially broken. bertha is beginning to understand that much reading does not naturally result in intellectual or moral improvement, unless it be well regulated. charlotte is learning that "to enjoy is to obey;" and that to pamper her own animal appetites, while her father and mother are suffering for want of the necessaries of life, is not in obedience to divine command. and, dear sisters, how is it with each one of _us_? how do we spend our leisure hours? now, "in the stilly hour of night," let us pause, and give our consciences time to render faithful answers. d. the tomb of washington. "he sleeps there in the midst of the very simplicities of nature." there let him sleep, in nature's arms, her well-beloved, her chosen child-- there 'mid the living, quiet charms of that sequestered wild. he would have chosen such a spot, 'twas fit that they should lay him there, away from all the haunts of care; the world disturbs him not.-- he sleeps full sweet in his retreat-- the place is consecrated ground, it is not meet unhallowed feet should tread that sacred mound. he lies in pomp--not of display-- no useless trappings grace his bier, nor idle words--they may not say what treasures cluster here. the pomp of nature, wild and free, adorns our hero's lowly bed, and gently bends above his head the weeping laurel tree. in glory's day he shunned display, and ye may not bedeck him now, but nature may, in her own way, hang garlands round his brow. he lies in pomp--not sculptured stone, nor chiseled marble--vain pretence-- the glory of his deeds alone is his magnificence. his country's love the meed he won, he bore it with him down to death, unsullied e'en by slander's breath-- his country's sire and son. her hopes and fears, her smiles and tears, were each his own.--he gave his land his earliest cares, his choicest years, and led her conquering band. he lies in pomp--not pomp of war-- he fought, but fought not for renown; he triumphed, yet the victor's star adorned no regal crown. his honor was his country's weal; from off her neck the yoke he tore-- it was enough, he asked no more; his generous heart could feel no low desire for king's attire;-- with brother, friend, and country blest, he could aspire to honors higher than kingly crown or crest. he lies in pomp--his burial place than sculptured stone is richer far; for in the heart's deep love we trace his name, a golden star. wherever patriotism breathes, his memory is devoutly shrined in every pure and gifted mind: and history, with wreaths of deathless fame, entwines that name, which evermore, beneath all skies, like vestal flame, shall live the same, for virtue never dies. there let him rest--'t is a sweet spot; simplicity becomes the great--but vernon's son is not forgot, though sleeping not in state. there, wrapt in his own dignity, his presence makes it hallowed ground, and nature throws her charms around, and o'er him smiles the sky. there let him rest--the noblest, best; the labors of his life all done-- there let him rest, the spot is blessed-- the grave of washington. adelaide. life among farmers. there is much complaint among farmers' wives and daughters, of want of time for rest, recreation, and literary pursuits. "it is cook, eat, and scrub--cook, eat, and scrub, from morning till night, and from year to year," says many a farmer's wife. and so it is in many families. but how far this results from the very nature of the situation, and how far from injudicious domestic management, is a query worthy of our attention. a very large proportion of my readers, who are now factory girls, will in a few months or years be the busy wives of busy farmers; and if by a few speculations on the subject before us, and an illustration to the point, we can reach _one_ hint that may hereafter be useful to us, our labor and "search of thought" will not have been in vain. mr. moses eastman was what is technically called a wealthy farmer. every one in the country knows what this means. he had a farm of some hundred or more acres, a large two-story dwelling house, a capacious yard, in which were two large barns, sheds, a sheep-cote, granary, and hen-coop. he kept a hundred sheep, ten cows, horses and oxen in due proportion. mr. eastman often declared that no music was half so sweet to him as that of the inmates of this yard. i think we shall not quarrel with his taste in this manifestation; for it is certainly delightful, on a warm day, in early spring, to listen to them, the lambs, hens--guinea and american--turkeys, geese, and ducks and peacocks. mr. eastman was unbending in his adherence to the creed, prejudices, and customs of his fathers. it was his boast that his farm had passed on from father to son, to the fourth generation; and everybody could see that it was none the worse for wear. he kept more oxen, sheep, and cows than his father kept. he had "pulled down his barns and built larger." he had surrounded his fields and pastures with stone wall, in lieu of virginian, stump, brush, and board fence. and he had taught his sons and daughters, of whom he had an abundance, to walk in his footsteps--all but mary. he should always rue the day that he consented to let mary go to her aunt's; but he acted upon the belief that it would lessen his expenses to be rid of her during her childhood. he had all along intended to recall her as soon as she was old enough to be serviceable to him. but he said he believed that would never be, if she lived as long as methuselah. she could neither spin nor weave as she ought; for she put so much material in her yarn, and wove her cloth so thick, that no profit resulted from its manufacture and sale. now deborah, his oldest daughter, had just her mother's _knack_ of making a good deal out of a little.--and mary had imbibed some very dangerous ideas of religion,--she did not even believe in ghosts!--dress, and reading. for his part, he would not, on any account, attend any other meeting than old mr. bates's. his father and grandfather always attended there, and they prospered well. but mary wanted to go to the other meeting occasionally, all because mr. morey happened to be a bit of an orator. true, mr. bates was none of the smartest; but there was an advantage in this. he could sleep as soundly, and rest as rapidly, when at his meeting, as in his bed; and by this means he could regain the sleep lost during the week by rising early and working late. and mary had grown so proud that she would not wear a woolen home-manufactured dress visiting, as deborah did. she must flaunt off to meeting every sabbath, in white or silk, while _chintz_ was good enough for deborah. deborah seldom read anything but the bible, watts's hymn book, "pilgrim's progress," and a few tracts they had in the house. mary had hardly laid off her finery, on her return from her aunt's, before she inquired about books and newspapers. her aunt had heaps of books and papers. these had spoilt mary. true, papers were sometimes useful; he would have lost five hundred dollars by the failure of the ---- bank, but for a newspaper he borrowed of captain norwood. but the captain had enough of them--was always ready to lend to him--and he saved no small sum in twenty years by borrowing papers of him. how captain norwood managed to add to his property he could not conceive. so much company, fine clothing, and schooling! he wondered that it did not ruin him. and 'twas all folly--'twas a sin; for they were setting extravagant examples, and every body thought they must do as the norwoods did. mr. norwood ought to remember that his father wore home-made; and what was good enough for his good old father was good enough for _him_. but alas! times were dreadfully altered. as for mary, she must turn over a new leaf, or go back to her aunt. he would not help one who did not help herself. mary was willing, nay, anxious to return. to spend one moment, except on the sabbath, in reading, was considered a crime; to gather a flower or mineral, absurd; and mary begged that she might be permitted to return to mrs. barlow. as there was no prospect of reforming her, mr. eastman and his wife readily consented. mr. eastman told her, at the same time, that she must be preparing for a wet day; and repeatedly charged her to remember that those who folded their hands in the summer, must "beg in harvest, and have nothing." mary had often visited the norwoods and other young friends, during the year spent at home; but she had not been permitted to give a party in return. why, deborah had never thought of doing such a thing! mary begged the indulgence of her mother, with the assurance that it was the last favor she would ever ask at her hand. the _mother_ in her at last yielded; and she promised to use her influence with her husband. after a deal of cavilling, he consented, on the condition that the strictest economy should attend the expenditures on the occasion, and that they should exercise more prudence in the family, until their loss was made gain. so the party was given. "you find yourself thrown on barren ground, miss norwood," said mary, as she saw miss norwood looking around the room; "neither papers, books, plants, plates, nor minerals." "where are those rocks you brought in, molly!" said deborah, with a loud, grating laugh. mary attempted to smile, but her eyes were full of tears. "what rocks, deborah!" asked clarina norwood. "them you see stuffed into the garden wall, there.--mary fixed them all in a row on the table. i think as father does, that nothing is worth saving that can't be used; so i put them in the wall to keep the hens out of the garden. the silly girl cried when she see them; should you have thought it?" "what were they, mary?" asked clarina. "very pretty specimens of white, rose, and smoky quartz, black and white mica, gneiss, hornblende, and a few others, that i collected on that very high hill, west of here." "how unfortunate to lose them!" said miss norwood, in a soothing tone. "could not we recover them, dear mary?" "there is no room for them," said deborah. "we want to spread currants and blueberries on the tables to be dried. besides, i think as father does, that there is enough to do, without spending the time in such flummery. as father says, 'time is our estate,' and i think we ought to improve every moment of it, except sundays, in work." "i must differ from you, miss eastman," said miss norwood. "i cannot think it the duty of any one to labor entirely for the 'meat that perisheth.' too much, vastly too much time is spent thus by almost all." "the mercy! you would have folks prepare for a wet day, wouldn't you?" "i would have every one make provision for a comfortable subsistence; and this is enough. the mind should be cared for, deborah. it should not be left to starve, or feed on husks." "i don't know about this mind, of which you and our mary make such a fuss. my concern is for my body. of this i know enough." "yes; you know that it is dust, and that to dust it must return in a little time, while the mind is to live on for ever, with god and his holy angels. think of this a moment, deborah; and say, should not the mind be fed and clothed upon, when its destiny is so glorious? or should we spend our whole lives in adding another acre to our farms, another dress to our wardrobe, and another dollar to our glittering heap?" "oh, la! all this sounds nicely; but i _do_ think that every man who has children should provide for them." "certainly--intellectual food and clothing. it is for this i am contending. he should provide a comfortable bodily subsistence, and educate them as far as he is able and their destinies require." "and he should leave them a few hundreds, or thousands, to give them a kind of a start in the world." "he does this in giving them a liberal education, and he leaves them in banks that will always discount. but farther than education of intellect and propensity is concerned, i am for the self-made man. i think it better for sons to carve their own way to eminence with little pecuniary aid by way of a settlement; and for daughters to be 'won and wedded' for their own intrinsic excellence, not for the dowry in store for them from a rich father." "there is no arguing with you, everybody says; so i'll go and see how my cakes bake." mr. eastmam came in to tea, contrary to his usual custom. "clarina, has your father sold that great calf of his?" he inquired, as he seated himself snugly beside his "better half." "indeed, i do not know, sir," answered clarina, biting her lip to avoid laughing. "i heard mr. montgomery ask him the same question, this morning; and pa said 'yes,' i believe," said miss norwood, smiling. "how much did he get for it?" miss norwood did not know. "like mary, i see," said mr. eastman. "now i'll warrant you that debby can tell the price of every creature i've sold this year." "yes, father; i remember as plain as day, how much you got from that simple joe slater, for the white-faced calf--how much you got for the black-faced sheep, rowley and jumble, and for star and bright. oh, how i want to see bright! and then there is the black colt--you got forty dollars for him, didn't you, father?" "yes, debby; you are a keen one," said mr. eastman triumphantly. "didn't i tell you so, julia?" "i do not burden my memory with superfluities," answered miss norwood. "i can scarcely find room for necessaries." "and do you rank the best way of making pies, cakes, and puddings, with necessaries or superfluities?" "among necessaries in household economy, certainly," answered miss norwood. "but mrs. child's 'frugal housewife' renders them superfluities as a part of memory's storage." "oh, the book costs something, you know; and if this can be saved by a little exercise of the memory, it is well, you know." "the most capacious and retentive memory would fail to treasure up and retain all that one wishes to know of cooking and other matters," said clarina. "well, then, one may copy from her book," said mr. eastman. "indeed, mr. eastman, to spend one's time in copying her recipes, when the work can be purchased for twenty-five cents, would be 'straining out a gnat, and swallowing a camel,'" remarked the precise and somewhat pedantic miss ellinor gould smith. "and then the peculiar disadvantages of referring to manuscript! i had my surfeit of this before the publication of her valuable work." "ah! it is every thing but valuable," answered mr. eastman. "just think of her pounds of sugar, her two pounds of butter, her dozen eggs, and ounces of nutmegs. depend upon it, they are not very valuable in the holes they would make in our cash-bags." he said this with precisely the air of one who imagines he has uttered a poser. "but you forget her economical and wholesome prescriptions for disease, her directions for repairing and preserving clothing and provisions, that would be lost without them," answered miss smith. "but one should always be prying into these things, and learn them for themselves," said mr. eastman. "on the same principle, extended in its scale, every man might make his own house, furniture, and clothing," said miss norwood. "with the expenditure of much labor and research, she has supplied us with directions; and i think it would be vastly foolish for every wife and daughter to expend just as much, when they can be supplied with the fruits of hers, for the product of half a day's labor." "does your mother use it much?" asked mrs. eastman. "yes; she acknowledges herself much indebted to it." "i shouldn't think she'd need it; she is so notable. has she made many cheeses this summer?" "about the usual number, i believe." "well, i've made more than i ever did a year afore--thirty in my largest hoop, all new milk, and twenty in my next largest, part skimmed milk. our cheese press is terribly out of order, now. it must be fixed, mr. eastman. and i have made more butter, or else our folks haven't ate as much as common. i've made it salter, and there's a great saving in this." "there's a good many ways to save in the world, if one will take pains to find them out," said mr. eastman. "doubtless; but i think the best method of saving in provisions is to eat little," said clarina, as she saw mr. eastman _putting down_ his third biscuit. "why, as to that, i think we ought to eat as much as the appetite calls for," answered mr. eastman. "yes; if the appetite is not depraved by indulgence." "yes; it is an awful thing to pinch in eating," said deborah. "i never knew one to sin in doing it," said miss norwood. "but many individuals and whole families make themselves excessively uncomfortable, and often incur disease, by eating too much. there is, besides, a waste of food, and of labor in preparing it. in such families, there is a continual round of eating, cooking, and sleeping, with the female portion; and no time for rest, recreation, or literary pursuits." "i have told our folks a great many times, that i did not believe that you lived by eating, over to your house," said mr. eastman. "i have been over that way before our folks got breakfast half ready; and your men would be out to work, and you women folks sewing, reading, or watering plants, or weeding your flower garden. i don't see how you manage." "we do not find it necessary to manage at all, our breakfasts are so simple. we have only to make cocoa, and arrange the breakfast." "don't you cook meat for breakfast?" asked mrs. eastman. "never; our breakfast invariably consists of cocoa, or water, cold white bread and butter." "why, our men folks will have meat three times a day--warm, morning and noon, and cold at night. we have warm bread for breakfast and supper, always. when they work very hard, they want luncheon at ten, and again at three. i often tell our folks that it is step, step, from morning till night." "of course, you find no time to read," said miss norwood. "no; but i shouldn't mind this, if i didn't get so dreadful tired. i often tell our folks that it is wearing me all out," said mrs. eastman, in a really aggrieved tone. "well, it is quite the fashion to starve, now-a-days, i know; but it is an awful sin," said mr. eastman. miss norwood saw that she might as well spend her time in rolling a stone up hill, as in attempting to convince him of fallacy in reasoning. "clarina," said she, "did you ask frederic to call for the other volume of the 'alexandrian?'" "why, i should think that you had books enough at home, without borrowing," said mr. eastman, stopping by the way to rinse down his fifth dough-nut. "for my part, i find no time for reading anything but the bible." and the deluded man started up with a gulp and a grunt. he had eaten enough for three full meals, had spent time enough for eating one meal, and reading several pages; yet he left the room with a smile, so self-satisfied in its expression, that it was quite evident that he thought himself the wisest man in new hampshire, except daniel webster. this is rather a sad picture of life among farmers. but many of my readers will bear me witness that it is a correct one, as far as it goes. many of them have left their homes, because, in the quaint but appropriate language of mrs. eastman, it was "step, step, from morning till night." but there are other and brighter pictures, of more extensive application, _perhaps_, than that already drawn. captain norwood had as large a farm as mr. eastman. his family was as large, yet the existence of the female portion was paradisiacal, compared with that of mrs. eastman and her daughters. their meals were prepared with the most perfect elegance and simplicity. their table covers and their china were of the same dazzling whiteness. their cutlery, from the unfrequency of its contact with acids, with a little care, wore a constant polish. much prettier these, than the dark oiled-cloth cover and corresponding _et cetera_ of table appendages, at mr. eastman's. mrs. norwood and her daughters carried _system_ into every department of labour. while one was preparing breakfast, another put things in nice order all about the house, and another was occupied in the dairy. very different was it at mr. eastman's. deborah must get potatoes, and set mary to washing them, while she made bread. mrs. eastman must cut brown bread, and send deborah for butter, little sally for sauce, and susan for pickles. one must cut the meat and set it to cook; then it was "mary, have you seen to that meat? i expect it wants turning. sally, run and salt this side, before she turns it." and then, in a few moments, "debby, do look to that meat. i believe that it is all burning up. how do them cakes bake? look, sally. my goodness! all burnt to a cinder, nearly. debby, why didn't you see to them?" "la, mother! i thought mary was about the lot, somewhere. where is she, i wonder?" "in the other room, reading, i think likely. oh! i forgot: i sent her after some coffee to burn." "what! going to burn coffee now? we sha'nt have breakfast to-day." "you fuss, debby. we can burn enough for breakfast in five minutes. i meant to have had a lot burned yesterday; but we had so much to do. there, debby, you see to the potatoes. i wonder what we are going to have for dinner." "don't begin to talk about dinner yet, for pity's sake," said deborah. "sally, you ha'nt got the milk for the coffee. susan, go and sound for the men folks: breakfast will be ready by the time they get here. mary, put the pepper, vinegar, and salt on the table, if you can make room for them." "yes; and debby, you go and get one of them large pumpkin pies," said mrs. eastman. "and sally, put the chairs round the table; the men folks are coming upon the run." "oh, mother! i am so glad you are going to have pie! i do love it _so_ well," said susan, seating herself at the table, without waiting for her parents. such a _rush!_ such a clatter of knives, forks, plates, cups, and saucers! it "realized the phrase of ----," and was absolutely appalling to common nerves. after breakfast came the making of beds and sweeping, baking and boiling for dinner, making and turning cheese, and so on, until noon. occasional bits of leisure were _seized_ in the afternoon, for sewing and knitting that must be done, and for visiting. the situation of such families is most unpleasant, but it is not irremediable. order may be established and preserved in the entire household economy. they may restrict themselves to a simpler system of dietetics. with the money and time thus saved, they may purchase books, subscribe for good periodicals, and find ample leisure to read them. thus their intellects will be expanded and invigorated. they will have opportunities for social intercourse, for the cultivation of friendships; and thus their affections will be exercised and warmed. then, happy the destiny of the farmer, the farmer's wife, and the farmer's daughters. a. f. d. a weaver's reverie. it was a sunny day, and i left for a few moments the circumscribed spot which is my appointed place of labor, that i might look from an adjoining window upon the bright loveliness of nature. yes, it was a sunny day; but for many days before, the sky had been veiled in gloomy clouds; and joyous indeed was it to look up into that blue vault, and see it unobscured by its sombre screen; and my heart fluttered, like a prisoned bird, with its painful longings for an unchecked flight amidst the beautiful creation around me. why is it, said a friend to me one day, that the factory girls write so much about the beauties of nature? oh! why is it, (thought i, when the query afterwards recurred to me,) why is it that visions of thrilling loveliness so often bless the sightless orbs of those whose eyes have once been blessed with the power of vision? why is it that the delirious dreams of the famine-stricken, are of tables loaded with the richest viands, or groves, whose pendent boughs droop with their delicious burdens of luscious fruit? why is it that haunting tones of sweetest melody come to us in the deep stillness of midnight, when the thousand tongues of man and nature are for a season mute? why is it that the desert-traveller looks forward upon the burning boundless waste, and sees pictured before his aching eyes, some verdant oasis, with its murmuring streams, its gushing founts, and shadowy groves--but as he presses on with faltering step, the bright _mirage_ recedes, until he lies down to die of weariness upon the scorching sands, with that isle of loveliness before him? oh tell me why is this, and i will tell why the factory girl sits in the hour of meditation, and thinks--not of the crowded clattering mill, nor of the noisy tenement which is her home, nor of the thronged and busy street which she may sometimes tread,--but of the still and lovely scenes which, in bygone hours, have sent their pure and elevating influence with a thrilling sweep across the strings of the spirit-harp, and then awaken its sweetest, loftiest notes; and ever as she sits in silence and seclusion, endeavoring to draw from that many-toned instrument a strain which may be meet for another's ear, that music comes to the eager listener like the sound with which the sea-shell echoes the roar of what was once its watery home. all her best and holiest thoughts are linked with those bright pictures which call them forth, and when she would embody them for the instruction of others, she does it by a delineation of those scenes which have quickened and purified her own mind. it was this love of nature's beauties, and a yearning for the pure hallowed feelings which those beauties had been wont to call up from their hidden springs in the depths of the soul, to bear away upon their swelling tide the corruption which had gathered, and i feared might settle there,--it was this love, and longing, and fear, which made my heart throb quickly, as i sent forth a momentary glance from the factory window. i think i said there was a cloudless sky; but it was not so. it was clear, and soft, and its beauteous hue was of "the hyacinth's deep blue"--but there was one bright solitary cloud, far up in the cerulean vault; and i wished that it might for once be in my power to lie down upon that white, fleecy couch, and there, away and alone, to dream of all things holy, calm, and beautiful. methought that better feelings, and clearer thoughts than are often wont to visit me, would there take undisturbed possession of my soul. and might i not be there, and send my unobstructed glance into the depths of ether above me, and forget for a little while that i had ever been a foolish, wayward, guilty child of earth? could i not then cast aside the burden of error and sin which must ever depress me here, and with the maturity of womanhood, feel also the innocence of infancy? and with that sense of purity and perfection, there would necessarily be mingled a feeling of sweet uncloying bliss--such as imagination may conceive, but which seldom pervades and sanctifies the earthly heart. might i not look down from my aerial position, and view this little world, and its hills, valleys, plains, and streamlets, and its thousands of busy inhabitants, and see how puerile and unsatisfactory it would look to one so totally disconnected from it? yes, there, upon that soft snowy cloud could i sit, and gaze upon my native earth, and feel how empty and "vain are all things here below." but not motionless would i stay upon that aerial couch. i would call upon the breezes to waft me away over the broad blue ocean, and with nought but the clear bright ether above me, have nought but a boundless, sparkling, watery expanse below me. then i would look down upon the vessels pursuing their different courses across the bright waters; and as i watched their toilsome progress, i should feel how blessed a thing it is to be where no impediment of wind or wave might obstruct my onward way. but when the beams of a midday sun had ceased to flash from the foaming sea, i should wish my cloud to bear away to the western sky, and divesting itself of its snowy whiteness, stand there, arrayed in the brilliant hues of the setting sun. yes, well should i love to be stationed there, and see it catch those parting rays, and, transforming them to dyes of purple and crimson, shine forth in its evening vestment, with a border of brightest gold. then could i watch the king of day as he sinks into his watery bed, leaving behind a line of crimson light to mark the path which led him to his place of rest. yet once, o only once, should i love to have that cloud pass on--on--on among the myriads of stars; and leaving them all behind, go far away into the empty void of space beyond. i should love, for once, to be _alone_. alone! where _could_ i be alone? but i would fain be where there is no other, save the invisible, and there, where not even one distant star should send its feeble rays to tell of a universe beyond, there would i rest upon that soft light cloud, and with a fathomless depth below me, and a measureless waste above and around me, there would i---- "your looms are going without filling," said a loud voice at my elbow; so i ran as fast as possible and changed my shuttles. ella. our duty to strangers. "deal gently with the stranger's heart."--mrs. hemans. the factory girl has trials, as every one of the class can testify. it was hard for thee to leave "thy hearth, thy home, thy vintage land. the voices of thy hindred band,"-- was it not, my sister? yes, there was a burden at your heart as you turned away from father, mother, sister, and brother, to meet the cold glance of strange stage-companions. there was the mournfulness of the funeral dirge and knell, in the crack of the driver's whip, and in the rattling of the coach-wheels. and when the last familiar object receded from your fixed gaze, there was a sense of utter desolation at your heart. there was a half-formed wish that you could lie down on your own bed, and die, rather than encounter the new trials before you. home may be a capacious farm-house, or a lowly cottage, it matters not. it is _home_. it is the spot around which the dearest affections and hopes of the heart cluster and rest. when we turn away, a thousand tendrils are broken, and they bleed.--lovelier scenes _might_ open before us, but that only "the loved are lovely." yet until new interests are awakened, and new loves adopted, there is a constant heaviness of heart, more oppressive than can be imagined by those who have never felt it. the "kindred band" may be made up of the intelligent and elegant, or of the illiterate and vulgar; it matters not. our hearts yearn for their companionship. we would rejoice with them in health, or watch over them in sickness. in all seasons of trial, whether from sickness, fatigue, unkindness, or _ennui_, there is one bright _oasis_. it is ----"the hope of return to the mother, whose smile could dissipate sadness and sorrow beguile; to the father, whose glance we've exultingly met-- and no meed half so proud hath awaited us yet; to the sister whose tenderness, breathing a charm, no distance could lessen, no danger disarm; to the friends, whose remembrances time cannot chill, and whose home in the heart not the stranger can fill." this hope is invaluable; for it, "like the ivy round the oak, clings closer in the storm." alas! that there are those to whom this hope comes not! those whose affections go out, like noah's dove, in search of a resting place; and return without the olive-leaf. "death is in the world," and it has made hundreds of our factory girls orphans. misfortunes are abroad, and they have left as many destitute of homes. this is a melancholy fact, and one that calls loudly for the sympathy and kind offices of the more fortunate of the class. it is not a light thing to be alone in the world. it is not a light thing to meet only neglect and selfishness, when one longs for disinterestedness and love. oh, then, let us "deal gently with the stranger's heart," especially if the stranger be a destitute orphan. her garb may be homely, and her manners awkward; but we will take her to our heart, and call her sister. some glaring faults may be hers; but we will remember "who it is that maketh us to differ," and if possible, by our kindness and forbearance, win her to virtue and peace. there are many reasons why we should do this. it is a part of "pure and undefiled religion" to "visit the fatherless in their afflictions." and "mercy is twice blest; blest in him that gives, and him that takes." in the beautiful language of the simple scotch girl, "when the hour o' trouble comes, that comes to mind and body, and when the hour o' death comes, that comes to high and low, oh, my leddy, then it is na' what we ha' done for ourselves, but what we ha' done for others, that we think on maist pleasantly." e. elder isaac townsend. elder townsend was a truly meek and pious man. he was not what is called _learned_, being bred a farmer, and never having had an opportunity of attending school but very little--for school privileges were very limited when elder townsend was young. his chief knowledge was what he had acquired by studying the bible (which had been his constant companion from early childhood,) and a study of human nature, as he had seen it exemplified in the lives of those with whom he held intercourse. although a gospel preacher for more than forty years, he never received a salary. he owned a farm of some forty acres, which he cultivated himself; and when, by reason of ill health, or from having to attend to pastoral duties, his farming-work was not so forward as that of his neighbors, he would ask his parishioners to assist him for a day, or a half-day, according to his necessities. as this was the only pay he ever asked for his continuous labors with them, he never received a denial, and a pittance so trifling could not be given grudgingly. the days which were spent on elder townsend's farm were not considered by his parishioners as days of toil, but as holydays, from whose recreations they were sure to return home richly laden with the blessings of their good pastor. the sermons of elder t. were always _extempore_; and if they were not always delivered with the elocution of an orator, they were truly excellent, inasmuch as they consisted principally of passages of scripture, judiciously selected, and well connected. the elder's intimate knowledge of his flock, and their habits and propensities, their joys and their sorrows, together with his thorough acquaintance with the scriptures, enabled him to be ever in readiness to give reproof or consolation (as need might be,) in the language of holy writ. his reproofs were received with meekness, and the recipients would resolve to profit thereby; and when he offered the cup of consolation, it was received with gratitude by those who stood in need of its healing influences. but when he dwelt on the loving-kindness of our god, all hearts would rejoice and be glad. often, while listening to his preaching, have i sat with eyes intently gazing on the speaker, until i fancied myself transported back to the days of the "beloved disciple," and on the isle of patmos was hearing him say, "my little children, love one another." when i last saw elder townsend, his head was white with the frosts of more than seventy winters. it is many years since. i presume, ere this, he sleeps beneath the turf on the hill-side, and is remembered among the worthies of the olden time. b. n. harriet greenough. chapter i. "the day is come i never thought to see, strange revolutions in my farm and me." dryden's virgil. harriet greenough had always been thought a spoiled child, when she left home for newburyport. her father was of the almost obsolete class of farmers, whose gods are their farms, and whose creed--"farmers are the most independent folks in the world." this latter was none the less absolute in its power over mr. greenough, from its being entirely traditionary. he often repeated a vow made in early life, that he would never wear other than "homespun" cloth. when asked his reasons, he invariably answered, "because i won't depend on others for what i can furnish myself. farmers are the most independent class of men; and i mean to be the most independent of farmers."--if for a moment he felt humbled by the presence of a genteel well-educated man, it was only for a moment. he had only to recollect that farmers are the most independent class of people, and his head resumed its wonted elevation, his manner and tone their usual swaggering impudence. while at school he studied nothing but reading, spelling, arithmetic, and writing. latterly, his reading had been restricted to a chapter in the bible per day, and an occasional examination of the almanac. he did not read his bible from devotional feeling--for he had none; but that he might puzzle the "book men" of the village with questions like the following:--"now i should like to have you tell me one thing: how _could_ moses write an account of his own death and burial? can you just tell me where cain and abel found their wives? what verse is there in the bible that has but two words in it? who was the father of zebedee's children? how many chapters has the new testament?--how many verses, and how many words?" inability or disinclination to answer any and all of these, made the subject of a day's laughter and triumph. nothing was so appalling to him as innovations on old customs and opinions. "these notions, that the earth turns round, and the sun stands still; that shooting stars are nothing but little meteors, i think they call them, are turning the heads of our young folks," he was accustomed to say to mr. curtis, the principal of the village academy, every time they met. "and then these new-fangled books, filled with jaw-cracking words and falsehoods, chemistry, philosophy, and so on--why, i wonder if they ever made any man a better farmer, or helped a woman to make better butter and cheese? now, mr. curtis, it is _my_ opinion that young folks had better read their bibles more. now i'll warrant that not one in ten can tell how many chapters there are in it. my father knew from the time he was eight till he was eighty. can _you_ tell, mr. curtis?" mr. curtis smiled a negative; and mr. greenough went laughing about all day. indeed, for a week, the first thing that came after his blunt salutation, was a loud laugh; and in answer to consequent inquiries came the recital of his victory over "the great mr. curtis." he would not listen a moment to arguments in favor of sending harriet to the academy, or of employing any other teachers in his district than old master smith, and miss heath, a superanuated spinster. mrs. greenough was a mild creature, passionless and gentle in her nature as a lamb. she acquiesced in all of her husband's measures, whether from having no opinions of her own, or from a deep and quiet sense of duty and propriety, no one knew. harriet was their pet. as rosy, laughing, and healthy as a hebe, she flew from sport to sport all the day long. her mother attempted, at first, to check her romping propensity; but it delighted her father, and he took every opportunity to strengthen and confirm it. he was never so happy as when watching her swift and eager pursuit of a butterfly; never so lavish of his praises and caresses as when she succeeded in capturing one, and all breathless with the chase, bore her prize to him. "do stay in the house with poor ma, to-day, darling; she is very lonely," her mother would say to her, as she put back the curls from the beautiful face of her child, and kissed her cheek. one day a tear was in her eye and a sadness at her heart; for she had been thinking of the early childhood of her harriet, when she turned from father, little brother, playthings and all, for her. harriet seemed to understand her feelings; for instead of answering her with a spring and laugh as usual, she sat quietly down at her feet, and laid her head on her lap. mr. greenough came in at this moment. "how? what does this mean, wife and hatty?" said he.--"playing the baby, hat? wife, this won't do. harriet has your beauty; and to this i have no objections, if she has my spirits and independence. come, hatty; we want you to help us make hay to-day; and there are lots of butterflies and grasshoppers for you to catch. come," he added; for the child still kept her eyes on her mother's face, as if undecided whether to go or stay. "come, get your bonnet--no; you may go without it. you look too much like a village girl. you must get more tan." "shall i go, ma?" harriet asked, still clinging to her mother's dress. "certainly, if pa wishes it," answered mrs. greenough with a strong effort to speak cheerfully. she went, and from that hour mrs. greenough passively allowed her to follow her father and his laborers as she pleased; to rake hay, ride in the cart, husk corn, hunt hen's eggs, jump on the hay, play ball, prisoner, pitch quoits, throw dice, cut and saw wood, and, indeed, to run into every amusement which her active temperament demanded. she went to school when she pleased; but her father was constant in his hints that her spirits and independence were not to be destroyed by poring over books. she was generally left to do as she pleased, although she was often pleased to perpetrate deeds, for which her school-mates often asserted they would have been severely chastised. there was an expression of fun and good humor lurking about in the dimples of her fat cheeks and in her deep blue eye, that effectually shielded her from reproof. master smith had just been accused of partiality to her, and he walked into the school considerably taller than usual, all from his determination to punish harriet before night. he was not long in detecting her in a rogueish act. he turned from her under the pretence of looking some urchins into silence, and said, with uncommon sternness and precision, "harriet greenough, walk out into the floor." harriet jumped up, shook the hands of those who sat near her, nodded a farewell to others, and walked gaily up to the master. he dreaded meeting her eye; for he knew that his gravity would desert him in such a case. she took a position behind him, and in a moment the whole house was in an uproar of laughter. master smith turned swiftly about on his heel, and confronted the culprit. she only smiled and made him a most graceful courtesy. this was too much for his risibles. he laughed almost as heartily as his pupils. "take your seat, you, he! he! you trollop, you, he! he! and i will settle with you by and bye," he said. she only thanked him, and then returned to her sport. so she passed on. when sixteen, she was a very child in everything but years and form. her forehead was high and full, but a want of taste and care in the arrangement of her beautiful hair destroyed its effect. her complexion was clear, but sunburnt. her laugh was musical, but one missed that _tone_ which distinguishes the laugh of a happy feeling girl of sixteen from that of a child of mere frolic. as to her form, no one knew what it was; for she was always putting herself into some strange but not really uncouth attitude; and besides, she could never _stop_ to adjust her dress properly. such was harriet greenough, when a cousin of hers paid them a visit on her return to the newburyport mills. she was of harriet's age; but one would have thought her ten years her senior, judging from her superior dignity and intelligence. her father died when she was a mere child, after a protracted illness, which left them penniless. by means of untiring industry, and occasional gifts from her kind neighbors, mrs. wood succeeded in keeping her children at school, until her daughter was sixteen and her son fourteen. they then went together to newburyport, under the care of a very amiable girl who had spent several years there. they worked a year, devoting a few hours every day to study; then returned home, and spent a year at school in their native village. they were now on their return to the mills. it was arranged that at the completion of the present year charles should return to school, and remain there until fitted for the study of a profession, if jane's health was spared that she might labor for his support. jane was a gentle affectionate girl; and there was a new feeling at the heart of harriet from the day in which she came under her influence. before the week had half expired which jane was to spend with them, harriet, with characteristic decision, avowed her determination to accompany her. her father and mother had opposed her will in but few instances. in these few she had laughed them into an easy compliance. in the present case she found her task a more difficult one. but they consented at last; and with her mother's tearful blessing, and an injunction from her father not to bear any insolence from her employers, but to remember always that she was the independent daughter of an independent farmer, she left her home. chapter ii. a year passed by, and our harriet was a totally changed being, in intellect and deportment. her cousins boarded in a small family, that they might have a better opportunity of pursuing their studies during their leisure hours. she was their constant companion. at first she did not open a book; and numberless were the roguish artifices she employed to divert the attention of her cousins from theirs. they often laid them aside for a lively chat with her; and then urged her to study with them. she loved them ardently. to her affection she at last yielded, and not to any anticipations of pleasure or profit in the results, for she had been _educated_ to believe that there was none of either. charles had been studying latin and mathematics; jane, botany, geology, and geography of the heavens. she instructed charles in these latter sciences; he initiated her as well as he might, into the mysteries of _hic, hæc, hoc_, and algebra. at times of recitation, harriet sat and laughed at their "queer words." when she accompanied them in their search for flowers, she amused herself by bringing mullen, yarrow, and, in one instance, a huge sunflower.--when they had traced constellations, she repeated to them a satire on star-gazers, which she learned of her father. the _histories_ of the constellations and flowers first arrested her attention, and kindled a romance which had hitherto lain dormant. a new light was in her eye from that hour, and a new charm in her whole deportment. she commenced study under very discouraging circumstances. of this she was deeply sensible. she often shed a few tears as she thought of her utter ignorance, then dashed them off, and studied with renewed diligence and success. she studied two hours every morning before commencing labor and until half past eleven at night. she took her book and her dinner to the mill, that she might have the whole intermission for study. this short season, with the reflection she gave during the afternoon, was sufficient for the mastery of a hard lesson. she was close in her attendance at the sanctuary. she joined a bible class; and the teachings there fell with a sanctifying influence on her spirit, subduing but not destroying its vivacity, and opening a new current to her thoughts and affections. although tears of regret for misspent years often stole down her cheeks, she assured jane that she was happier at the moment than in her hours of loudest mirth. her letters to her friends had prepared them for a change, but not for _such_ a change--so great and so happy. she was now a very beautiful girl, easy and graceful in her manners, soft and gentle in her conversation, and evidently conscious of her superiority, only to feel more humble, more grateful to heaven, her dear cousins, her minister, her sabbath school teacher, and other beloved friends, who by their kindness had opened such new and delightful springs of feeling in her heart. she flung her arms around her mother's neck, and wept tears of gratitude and love. mrs. greenough felt that she was no longer alone in the world; and mr. greenough, as he watched them--the wife and the daughter--inwardly acknowledged that there was that in the world dearer to his heart than his farm and his independence. amongst harriet's baggage was a rough deal box. this was first opened. it contained her books, a few minerals and shells. there were fifty well-selected volumes, besides a package of gifts for her father, mother, and brother.--there was no book-case in the house; and the kitchen shelf was full of old almanacs, school books, sermons, and jest books. mr. greenough rode to the village, and returned with a rich secretary, capacious enough for books, minerals, and shells. he brought the intelligence, too, that a large party of students and others were to spend the evening with them. harriet's heart beat quick, as she thought of young curtis, and wondered if he was among the said students.--before she left bradford, struck with the beauty and simplicity of her appearance, he sought and obtained an introduction to her, but left her side, after sundry ineffectual attempts to draw her into conversation, disappointed and disgusted. he _was_ among harriet's visitors. "pray, miss curtis, what may be your opinion of our belle, miss greenough?" asked young lane, on the following morning, as mr. curtis and his sister entered the hall of the academy. "why, i think that her improvement has been astonishingly rapid during the past year; and that she is now a really charming girl." "has she interfered with your heart, lane?" asked his chum. "as to that, i do not feel entirely decided. i think i shall renew my call, however--nay, do not frown, curtis; i was about to add, if it be only to taste her father's delicious melons, pears, plums, and apples." curtis blushed slightly, bowed, and passed on to the school room. he soon proved that he cared much less for mr. greenough's fruit than for his daughter: for the fruit remained untasted if harriet was at his side. he was never so happy as when mr. greenough announced his purpose of sending harriet to the academy two or three years. arrangements were made accordingly, and the week before charles left home for college, she was duly installed in his father's family. she missed him much; but the loss of his society was partially counterbalanced by frequent and brotherly letters from him, and by weekly visits to her home, which by the way, is becoming quite a paradise under her supervision.--she has been studying painting and drawing. several well-executed specimens of each adorn the walls and tables of their sitting-room and parlor. she has no "regular built" centre-table, but in lieu thereof she has removed from the garret an old round table that belonged to her grandmother. this she has placed in the centre of the sitting-room; and what with its very pretty covering (which falls so near the floor as to conceal its uncouth legs), and its books, it forms no mean item of elegance and convenience. mr. greenough and his help have improved a few leisure days in removing the trees that entirely concealed the merrimac. by the profits resulting from their sale, he has built a neat and tasteful enclosure for his house and garden. this autumn shade-trees and shrubbery are to be removed to the yard, and fruit-trees and vines to the garden. next winter a summer-house is to be put in readiness for erection in the spring. all this, and much more, mr. greenough is confident he can accomplish, without neglecting his _necessary_ labors, or the course of reading he has marked out, "by and with the advice" of his wife and harriet. and more, and better still, he has decided that his son george shall attend school, at least two terms yearly. he will board at home, and will be accompanied by his cousin charles, whom mr. greenough has offered to board gratis, until his education is completed. by this generosity on the part of her uncle, jane will be enabled to defray other expenses incidental to charles's education, and still have leisure for literary pursuits. most truly might mr. greenough say,-- "the day is come i never thought to see, strange revolutions in my farm and me." a. [illustration: decoration] fancy. o swiftly flies the shuttle now, swift as an arrow from the bow: but swifter than the thread is wrought, is soon the flight of busy thought; for fancy leaves the mill behind, and seeks some novel scenes to find. and now away she quickly hies-- o'er hill and dale the truant flies. stop, silly maid! where dost thou go? thy road may be a road of woe: some hand may crush thy fairy form, and chill thy heart so lately warm. "oh no," she cries in merry tone, "i go to lands before unknown; i go in scenes of bliss to dwell, where ne'er is heard a factory bell." away she went; and soon i saw, that fancy's wish was fancy's law; for where the leafless trees were seen, and fancy wished them to be green, her wish she scarcely had made known, before green leaves were on them grown. she spake--and there appear'd in view, bright manly youths, and maidens, too. and fancy called for music rare-- and music filled the ravished air. and then the dances soon began, and through the mazes lightly ran the footsteps of the fair and gay-- for this was fancy's festal day. on, on they move, a lovely group! their faces beam with joy and hope; nor dream they of a danger nigh, beneath their bright and sunny sky. one of the fair ones is their queen, for whom they raise a throne of green; and fancy weaves a garland now, to place upon the maiden's brow; and fragrant are the blooming flowers, in her enchanted fairy-bowers. and fancy now away may slip, and o'er the green-sward lightly skip, and to her airy castle hie-- for fancy hath a castle nigh. the festal board she quick prepares, and every guest the bounty shares,-- and seated at the festal board, their merry voices now are heard, as each youth places to his lips, and from the golden goblet sips a draught of the enchanting wine that came from fancy's fruitful vine. but hark! what sound salutes mine ear? a distant rumbling now i hear. ah, fancy! 'tis no groundless fear, the rushing whirlwind draweth near! thy castle walls are rocking fast,-- the glory of thy feast is past; thy guests are now beneath the wave,-- oblivion is their early grave, thy fairy bower has vanished--fled: thy leafy tree are withered--dead! thy lawn is now a barren heath, thy bright-eyed maids are cold in death! those manly youth that were so gay, have vanished in the self-same way! oh fancy! now remain at home, and be content no more to roam; for visions such as thine are vain, and bring but discontent and pain. remember, in thy giddy whirl, that _i_ am but a factory girl: and be content at home to dwell, though governed by a "factory bell." fiducia. the widow's son. among the multitudes of females employed in our manufacturing establishments, persons are frequently to be met with, whose lives are interspersed with incidents of an interesting and even thrilling character. but seldom have i met with a person who has manifested so deep devotion, such uniform cheerfulness, and withal so determined a perseverance in the accomplishment of a cherished object, as mrs. jones. this inestimable lady was reared in the midst of affluence, and was early married to the object of her heart's affection. a son was given them, a sweet and lovely boy. with much joy they watched the development of his young mind, especially as he early manifested a deep devotional feeling, which was cultivated with the most assiduous attention. but happiness like this may not always continue. reverses came. that faithful husband and affectionate father was laid on a bed of languishing. still he trusted in god; and when he felt that the time of his departure approached, he raised his eyes, and exclaimed, "holy father! thou hast promised to be the widow's god and judge, and a father to the fatherless; into thy care i commit my beloved wife and child. keep thou them from evil, as they travel life's uneven journey. may their service be acceptable in thy sight." he then quietly fell asleep. bitter indeed were the tears shed over his grave by that lone widow and her orphan boy; yet they mourned not as those who mourn without hope. instead of devoting her time to unavailing sorrow, mrs. jones turned her attention to the education of her son, who was then in his tenth year. finding herself in reduced circumstances, she nobly resolved to support her family by her own exertions, and keep her son at school. with this object, she procured plain needle-work, by which, with much economy, she was enabled to live very comfortably, until samuel had availed himself of all the advantages presented him by the common schools and high school. he was then ready to enter college--but how were the necessary funds to be raised to defray his expenses? this was not a new question to mrs. jones. she had pondered it long and deeply, and decided upon her course; yet she had not mentioned it to her son, lest it should divert his mind from his studies. but as the time now rapidly approached when she was to carry her plan into operation, she deemed it proper to acquaint samuel with the whole scheme. as they were alone in their neat little parlor, she aroused him from a fit of abstraction, by saying, "samuel, my dear son, before your father died we solemnly consecrated you to the service of the lord; and that you might be the better prepared to labor in the gospel vineyard, your father designed to give you a liberal education. he was called home; yet through the goodness of our heavenly father, i have been enabled thus far to prosecute his plan. it is now time for you to enter college, and in order to raise the necessary funds, i have resolved to sell my little stock of property, and engage as an operative in a factory." at this moment, neighbor hall, an old-fashioned, good-natured sort of a man, entered very unceremoniously, and having heard the last sentence, replied: "ah! widow, you know that i do not like the plan of bringing up our boys in idleness. but then samuel is such a good boy, and so fond of reading, that i think it a vast pity if he cannot read all the books in the state. yes, send him to college, widow; there he will have reading to his heart's content. you know there is a gratuity provided for the education of indigent and pious young men." "yes," said mrs. jones, "i know it; but i am resolved that if my son ever obtains a place among the servants of the prince of peace, he shall stand forth unchained by the bondage of men, and nobly exert the energies of his mind as the lord's freeman." samuel, who had early been taught the most perfect obedience, now yielded reluctant consent to this measure.--little time was requisite for arrangements; and having converted her little effects into cash, they who had never before been separated, now took an affectionate and sorrowful leave of each other, and departed--the one to the halls of learning, and the other to the power-looms. we shall now leave samuel jones, and accompany his mother to dover. on her arrival, she assumed her maiden name, which i shall call lucy cambridge; and such was her simplicity and quietness of deportment, that she was never suspected of being other than she seemed. she readily obtained a situation in a weave-room, and by industry and close application, she quickly learned the grand secret of a successful weaver--namely, "keep the filling running, and the web clear." the wages were not then reduced to the present low standard, and lucy transmitted to her son, monthly, all, saving enough to supply her absolute necessities. as change is the order of the day in all manufacturing places, so, in the course of change, lucy became my room-mate; and she whom i had before admired, secured my love and ardent friendship. upon general topics she conversed freely; but of her history and kindred, never. her respectful deportment was sufficient to protect her from the inquiries of curiosity; and thus she maintained her reserve until one evening when i found her sadly perusing a letter. i thought she had been weeping. all the sympathies of my nature were aroused, and throwing my arms around her neck, i exclaimed, "dear lucy, does your letter bring you bad news, or are any of your relatives"----i hesitated and stopped; for, thought i, "perhaps she _has_ no relatives. i have never heard her speak of any: she may be a lone orphan in the world." it was then she yielded to sympathy, what curiosity had never ventured to ask. from that time she continued to speak to me of her history and hopes. as i have selected names to suit myself, she has kindly permitted me to make an extract from her answer to that letter, which was as follows: "my dear son,--in your letter of the th, you entreat me to leave the mill, saying, 'i would rather be a scavenger, a wood-sawyer, or anything, whereby i might honestly procure a subsistence for my mother and myself, than have you thus toil, early and late. mother, the very thought is intolerable! o come away--for dearly as i love knowledge, i cannot consent to receive it at the price of my mother's happiness.' "my son, it is true that factory life is a life of toil--but i am preparing the way for my only son to go forth as a herald of the cross, to preach repentance and salvation to those who are out of the way. i am promoting an object which was very near the heart of my dear husband. wherefore i desire that you will not again think of pursuing any other course than the one already marked out for you; for you perceive that my agency in promoting your success, forms an important part of _my_ happiness." often have i seen her eyes sparkle with delight as she mentioned her son and his success. and after the labor and toil of attending "double work" during the week, very often have i seen her start with all the elasticity of youth, and go to the post office after a letter from samuel. and seldom did she return without one, for he was ever thoughtful of his mother, who was spending her strength for him. and he knew very well that it was essential to her happiness to be well informed of his progress and welfare. nearly three years had elapsed since lucy cambridge first entered the mill, when the stage stopped in front of her boarding house, and a young gentleman sprang out, and inquired if miss lucy cambridge was in. immediately they were clasped in each other's arms. this token of mutual affection created no small stir among the boarders. one declared, "she thought it very singular that such a pretty young man should fancy so old a girl as lucy cambridge." another said, "she should as soon think that he would marry his mother." samuel jones was tall, but of slender form. his hair, which was of the darkest brown, covered an unusually fine head. his eyes, of a clear dark grey, beaming with piety and intelligence, shed a lustre over his whole countenance, which was greatly heightened by being overshadowed by a deep, broad forehead. he visited his mother at this time, to endeavor to persuade her to leave the mill, and spend her time in some less laborious occupation. he assured her that he had saved enough from the stock she had already sent him, to complete his education. but she had resolved to continue in her present occupation, until her son should have a prospect of a permanent residence; and he departed alone. intelligence was soon conveyed to lucy that a young student had preached occasionally, and that his labors had been abundantly blessed. and ere the completion of another year, samuel jones went forth a licentiate, to preach the everlasting gospel. i will not attempt to describe the transports of that widowed heart, when she received the joyful tidings that her son had received a unanimous call to take the pastoral charge of a small but well-united society in the western part of ohio, and only waited for her to accompany him thither. speedily she prepared to leave a place which she really loved; "for," said she, "have i not been blessed with health and strength to perform a great and noble work in this place?" ay, undoubtedly thou hast performed a blessed work; and now, go forth, and in the heartfelt satisfaction that thou hast performed thy duty, reap the rich reward of all thy labors. samuel jones and his mother have departed for the scene of their future labors, with their hearts filled with gratitude to god, and an humble desire to be of service in winning many souls to the flock of our savior and lord. orianna. witchcraft. it may not, perhaps, be generally known that a belief in witchcraft still prevails, to a great extent, in some parts of new england. whether this is owing to the effect of early impressions on the mind, or to some defect in the physical organization of the human system, is not for me to say; my present purpose being only to relate, in as concise a manner as may be, some few things which have transpired within a quarter of a century; all of which happened in the immediate neighborhood of my early home, and among people with whom i was well acquainted. my only apology for so doing is, that i feel desirous to transmit to posterity, something which may give them an idea of the superstition of the present age--hoping that when they look back upon its dark page, they will feel a spirit of thankfulness that they live in more enlightened times, and continue the work of mental illumination, till the mists of error entirely vanish before the light of all-conquering truth. in a little glen between the mountains, in the township of b., stands a cottage, which, almost from time immemorial, has been noted as the residence of some one of those ill-fated beings, who are said to take delight in sending their spirits abroad to torment the children of men. these beings, it is said, purchase their art of his satanic majesty--the price, their immortal souls, and when satan calls for his due, the mantle of the witch is transferred to another mortal, who, for the sake of exercising the art for a brief space of time, makes over the soul to perdition. the mother of the present occupant of this cottage lived to a very advanced age; and for a long series of years, all the mishaps within many miles were laid to her spiritual agency; and many were the expedients resorted to to rid the neighborhood of so great a pest. but the old woman, spite of all exertions to the contrary, lived on, till she died of sheer old age. it was some little time before it was ascertained who inherited her mantle; but at length it was believed to be a fact that her daughter molly was duly authorized to exercise all the prerogatives of a witch; and so firmly was this belief established, that it even gained credence with her youngest brother; and after she was married, and had removed to a distant part of the country, a calf of his, that had some strange actions, was pronounced by the _knowing ones_, to be bewitched; and this inhuman monster chained his calf in the fire place of his cooper-shop, and burned it to death--hoping thereby to kill his sister, whose spirit was supposed to be in the body of the calf. for several years it went current that molly fell into the fire, and was burned to death, at the same time in which the calf was burned. but she at length refuted this, by making her brother a visit, and spending some little time in the neighborhood. some nineteen or twenty years since, two men, with whom i was well acquainted, had an action pending in the superior court, and it was supposed that the testimony of the widow goodwin in favor of the plaintiff, would bear hard upon the defendant. a short time previous to the sitting of the court, a man by the name of james doe, offered himself as an evidence for the defendant to destroy the testimony of the widow goodwin, by defaming her character. doe said that he was willing to testify that the widow goodwin was a witch--he knew it to be a fact; for, once on a time she came to his bed-side, and flung a bridle over his head, and he was instantly metamorphosed into a horse. the widow then mounted and rode him nearly forty miles; she stopped at a tavern, which he named, dismounted, tied him to the sign-post and left him. after an absence of several hours, she returned, mounted, and rode him home; and at the bed-side took off the bridle, when he resumed his natural form. no one acquainted with doe thought that he meant to deviate from the truth. those naturally superstitious thought that the widow goodwin was in reality a witch; but the more enlightened believed that their neighbor doe was under the influence of spirituous liquor when he went to bed; and that whatever might be the scene presented to his imagination, it was owing to false vision, occasioned by derangement in his upper story; and they really felt a sympathy for him, knowing that he belonged to a family who were subject to mental aberration. a scene which i witnessed in part, in the autumn of , shall close my chapter on witchcraft. it was between the hours of nine and ten in the morning, that a stout-built, ruddy-faced man confined one of his cows, by means of bows and iron chains, to an apple-tree and then beat her till she dropped dead--saying that the cow was bewitched, and that he was determined to kill the witch. his mother, and some of the neighbors witnessed this cruel act without opposing him, so infatuated were they with a belief in witchcraft. i might enlarge upon this scene, but the recollection of what then took place recalls so many disagreeable sensations, that i forbear. let it suffice to state that the cow was suffering in consequence of having eaten a large quantity of potatoes from a heap that was exposed in the field where she was grazing. tabitha. [illustration: decoration] cleaning up. there is something to me very interesting in observing the manifestations of animal instinct--that unerring prompter which guides its willing disciple into the ever straight path, and shows him, with unfailing sagacity, the easiest and most correct method of accomplishing each necessary design. but to enter here, upon a philosophical dissertation, respecting the nature and developments of instinct, is not my design, and i will now detain you with but one or two instances of it, which have fallen under my own observation. one warm day in the early spring, i observed a spider, very busily engaged upon a dirty old web, which had for a long time, curtained a pane of my factory window. where madame arachne had kept herself during the winter, was not in my power to ascertain; but she was in a very good condition, plump, spry, and full of energy. the activity of her movements awakened my curiosity, and i watched with much interest the commotion in the old dwelling, or rather slaughter house, for i doubted not that many a green head and blue bottle had there met an untimely end. i soon found that madam was very laboriously engaged in that very necessary part of household exercises, called, cleaning up; and she had chosen precisely the season for her labors which all good housewives have by common consent appropriated to paint-cleaning, white-washing, &c. with much labor, and a prodigal expenditure of steps, she removed, one by one, the tiny bits of dirt, sand &c., &c., which had accumulated in this net during the winter; but it was not done, as i at first thought, by pushing and poking, and thrusting the intruders out, but by gradually destroying their _location_, as a western emigrant would say.--whether this was done, as i at one time imagined, by devouring the fibre as she passed over it, or by winding it around some under part of her body, or whether she left it at the centre of the web, to which point she invariably returned after every peregrination to the outskirts, i could not satisfy myself. it was to me a cause of great marvel, and awakened my perceptive as well as reflective faculties from a long winter nap. to the first theory there was no objection, excepting that i had never heard of its being done; but then it might be so, and in this case i had discovered what had escaped the observation of all preceding naturalists. to the second there was this objection, that when i occasionally caught a front view of "my lady," she showed no distaff, upon which she might have re-wound her unravelled thread. the third suggestion was also objectionable, because, though the centre looked somewhat thicker, or i surmised that it did, yet it was not so much so as it must have been, had it been the depot of the whole concern. of one thing i was at length assured--that there was to be an entire demolition of the whole fabric, with the exception of the main beams, (or sleepers, i think is the technical term,) which remained as usual, when all else had been removed. then i went away for the night, and when i returned the next morning, expecting to behold a blank--a void, an evacuation of premises--a removal--a disappearance--a destruction most complete, without even a wreck left behind--lo! there was again the rebuilt mansion--the restored fabric, the reversed penelopian labor: and madam was rejoicing like the patient man of uz, when more than he had lost was restored to him. my feelings, (for i have a large bump of sympathy) were of that pleasurable kind which jack must have experienced, when he saw the castle, which in a single night had established itself on the top of his bean-pole; or which enlivened the bosom of aladdin, when he saw the beautiful palace, which in a night had travelled from the genii's dominions to the waste field, which it then beautified; and i felt truly rejoiced that my industrious neighbor's works of darkness were not always deeds of evil. but alack for the poor _spinster_, when it came _my_ turn to be _cleaning up_! [illustration: decoration] visits to the shakers. a first visit. sometime in the summer of --, i paid a visit to one of the shaker villages in the state of new york. previously to this, many times and oft had i (when tired of the noise and contention of the world, its erroneous opinions, and its wrong practices) longed for some retreat, where, with a few chosen friends, i could enjoy the present, forget the past, and be free from all anxiety respecting any future portion of time. and often had i pictured, in imagination, a state of happy society, where one common interest prevailed--where kindness and brotherly love were manifested in all of the every-day affairs of life--where liberty and equality would live, not in name, but in very deed--where idleness, in no shape whatever, would be tolerated--and where vice of every description would be banished, and neatness, with order, would be manifested in all things. actually to witness such a state of society was a happiness which i never expected. i thought it to be only a thing among the airy castles which it has ever been my delight to build. but with this unostentatious and truly kind-hearted people, the shakers, i found it; and the reality, in beauty and harmony, exceeded even the picturings of imagination. no unprejudiced mind could, for a single moment, resist the conviction that this singular people, with regard to their worldly possessions, lived in strict conformity to the teachings of jesus of nazareth. there were men in this society who had added to the common stock thousands and tens of thousands of dollars; they nevertheless labored, dressed, and esteemed themselves as no better, and fared in all respects like those who had never owned, neither added to the society, any worldly goods whatever. the cheerfulness with which they bore one another's burdens made even the temporal calamities, so unavoidable among the inhabitants of the earth, to be felt but lightly. this society numbered something like six hundred persons, who in many respects were differently educated, and who were of course in possession of a variety of prejudices, and were of contrary dispositions and habits. conversing with one of their elders respecting them, he said, "you may say that these were rude materials of which to compose a church, and speak truly: but here (though strange it may seem) they are worked into a building, with no sound of axe or hammer. and however discordant they were in a state of nature, the square and the plumb-line have been applied to them, and they now admirably fit the places which they were designed to fill. here the idle become industrious, the prodigal contracts habits of frugality, the parsimonious become generous and liberal, the intemperate quit the tavern and the grog-shop, the debauchee forsakes the haunts of dissipation and infamy, the swearer leaves off the habits of profanity, the liar is changed into a person of truth, the thief becomes an honest man, and the sloven becomes neat and clean." the whole deportment of this truly singular people, together with the order and neatness which i witnessed in their houses, shops, and gardens, to all of which i had free access for the five days which i remained with them, together with the conversations which i held with many of the people of both sexes, confirmed the words of the elder.--truly, thought i, there is not another spot in the wide earth where i could be so happy as i could be here, provided the religious faith and devotional exercises of the shakers were agreeable to my own views. although i could not see the utility of their manner of worship, i felt not at all disposed to question that it answered the end for which spiritual worship was designed, and as such is accepted by our heavenly father. that the shakers have a love for the gospel exceeding that which is exhibited by professing christians in general, cannot be doubted by any one who is acquainted with them. for on no other principle could large families, to the number of fifty or sixty, live together like brethren and sisters. and a number of these families could not, on any other principles save those of the gospel, form a society, and live in peace and harmony, bound together by no other bond than that of brotherly love, and take of each other's property, from day to day and from year to year, using it indiscriminately, as every one hath need, each willing that his brother should use his property, as he uses it himself, and all this without an equivalent. many think that a united interest in all things temporal is contrary to reason. but in what other light, save that of common and united interest, could the words of christ's prophecy or promise be fulfilled? according to the testimony of mark, christ said, "there is no man who hath left house, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my sake and the gospel's, but he shall receive an hundredfold now in this time, houses, and brethren, and sisters, and mothers, and children, and lands, with persecutions, and in the world to come eternal life." not only in fact, but in theory, is an hundredfold of private interest out of the question. for a believer who forsook all things could not possess an hundredfold of all things only on the principle in which he could possess _all that_ which his brethren possessed, while they also possessed the same in an united capacity. in whatever light it may appear to others, to me it appears beautiful indeed, to see a just and an impartial equality reign, so that the rich and the poor may share an equal privilege, and have all their wants supplied. that the shakers are in reality what they profess to be, i doubt not. neither do i doubt that many, very many lessons of wisdom might be learned of them, by those who profess to be wiser. and to all who wish to know if "any good thing can come out of nazareth," i would say, you had better "go and see." a second visit. i was so well pleased with the appearance of the shakers, and the prospect of quietness and happiness among them, that i visited them a second time. i went with a determination to ascertain as much as i possibly could of their forms and customs of worship, the every-day duties devolving on the members, &c.; and having enjoyed excellent opportunities for acquiring the desired information, i wish to present a brief account of what "i verily do know" in relation to several particulars. first of all, justice will not permit me to retract a word in relation to the industry, neatness, order, and general good behavior, in the shaker settlement which i visited. in these respects, that singular people are worthy of all commendation--yea, they set an example for the imitation of christians everywhere. justice requires me to say, also, that their hospitality is proverbial, and deservedly so. they received and entertained me kindly, and (hoping perhaps that i might be induced to join them) they extended extra-civilities to me. i have occasion to modify the expression of my gratitude in only one particular--and that is, one of the female elders made statements to me concerning the requisite confessions to be made, and the forms of admission to their society, which statements she afterwards denied, under circumstances that rendered her denial a most aggravated insult. declining farther notice of this matter, because of the indelicacy of the confessions alluded to, i pass to notice, st. the domestic arrangements of the shakers. however strange the remark may seem, it is nevertheless true, that our factory population work fewer hours out of every twenty-four than are required by the shakers, whose bell to call them from their slumbers, and also to warn them that it is time to commence the labors of the day, rings much earlier than our factory bells; and its calls were obeyed, in the family where i was entertained, with more punctuality than i ever knew the greatest "workey" among my numerous acquaintances (during the fourteen years in which i have been employed in different manufacturing establishments) to obey the calls of the factory-bell. and not until nine o'clock in the evening were the labors of the day closed, and the people assembled at their religious meetings. whoever joins the shakers with the expectation of relaxation from toil, will be greatly mistaken, since they deem it an indispensable duty to have every moment of time profitably employed. the little portions of leisure which the females have, are spent in knitting--each one having a basket of knitting-work for a constant companion. their habits of order are, in many things, carried to the extreme. the first bell for their meals rings for all to repair to their chambers, from which, at the ringing of the second bell, they descend to the eating-room. here, all take their appropriate places at the tables, and after locking their hands on their breasts, they drop on their knees, close their eyes, and remain in this position about two minutes. then they rise, seat themselves, and with all expedition swallow their food; then rise on their feet, again lock their hands, drop on their knees, close their eyes, and in about two minutes rise and retire. their meals are taken in silence, conversation being prohibited. those whose chambers are in the fourth story of one building, and whose work-shops are in the third story of another building, have a daily task in climbing stairs which is more oppressive than any of the rules of a manufacturing establishment. d. with all deference, i beg leave to introduce some of the religious views and ceremonies of the shakers. from the conversation of the elders, i learned that they considered it doing god service to sever the sacred ties of husband and wife, parent and child--the relationship existing between them being contrary to their religious views--views which they believe were revealed from heaven to "mother ann lee," the founder of their sect, and through whom they profess to have frequent revelations from the spiritual world. these communications, they say, are often written on gold leaves, and sent down from heaven to instruct the poor simple shakers in some new duty. they are copied, and perused, and preserved with great care. i one day heard quite a number of them read from a book, in which they were recorded, and the names of several of the brethren and sisters to whom they were given by the angels, were told me. one written on a gold leaf, was (as i was told) presented to proctor sampson by an angel, so late as the summer of . these "revelations" are written partly in english, and partly in some unintelligible jargon, or unknown tongue, having a spiritual meaning, which can be understood only by those who possess the spirit in an eminent degree. they consist principally of songs, which they sing at their devotional meetings, and which are accompanied with dancing, and many unbecoming gestures and noises. often in the midst of a religious march, all stop, and with all their might set to stamping with both feet. and it is no uncommon thing for many of the worshipping assembly to crow like a parcel of young chanticleers, while others imitate the barking of dogs; and many of the young women set to whirling round and round--while the old men shake and clap their hands; the whole making a scene of noise and confusion which can be better imagined than described. the elders seriously told me that these things were the outward manifestations of the spirit of god. apart from their religious meetings, the shakers have what they call "union meetings." these are for social converse, and for the purpose of making the people acquainted with each other. during the day, the elders tell who may visit such and such chambers. a few minutes past nine, work is laid aside; the females change, or adjust, as best suits their fancy, their caps, handkerchiefs, and pinners, with a precision which indicates that they are not _altogether_ free from vanity. the chairs, perhaps to the number of a dozen, are set in two rows, in such a manner that those who occupy them may face each other. at the ringing of a bell each one goes to the chamber where either he or she has been directed by the elders, or remains at home to receive company, as the case may be. they enter the chambers _sans cérémonie_, and seat themselves--the men occupying one row of chairs, the women the other. here, with their clean checked home-made pocket-handkerchiefs spread in their laps, and their spit-boxes standing in a row between them, they converse about raising sheep and kine, herbs and vegetables, building walls and raising corn, heating the oven and paring apples, killing rats and gathering nuts, spinning tow and weaving sieves, making preserves and mending the brethren's clothes,--in short, every thing they do will afford some little conversation. but beyond their own little world they do not appear to extend scarcely a thought. and why should they? having so few sources of information, they know not what is passing beyond them. they however make the most of their own affairs, and seem to regret that they can converse no longer, when, after sitting together from half to three-quarters of an hour, the bell warns them that it is time to separate, which they do by rising up, locking their hands across their breasts, and bowing. each one then goes silently to his own chamber. it will readily be perceived, that they have no access to libraries, no books, excepting school-books, and a few relating to their own particular views; no periodicals, and attend no lectures, debates, lyceums, &c. they have none of the many privileges of manufacturing districts--consequently their information is so very limited, that their conversation is, as a thing in course, quite insipid. the manner of their life seems to be a check to the march of mind and a desire for improvement; and while the moral and perceptive faculties are tolerably developed, the intellectual, with a very few exceptions, seem to be below the average. i have considered it my duty to make the foregoing statement of facts, lest the glowing description of the shakers, given in the story of my first visit, might have a wrong influence. i then judged by outward appearances only--having a very imperfect knowledge of the true state of the case. nevertheless, the _facts_ as i saw them in my first visit, are still facts; my error is to be sought only in my inferences. having since had greater opportunities for observation, i am enabled to judge more righteous judgment. c. b. the lock of gray hair. touching and simple memento of departed worth and affection! how mournfully sweet are the recollections thou awakenest in the heart, as i gaze upon thee--shorn after death had stamped her loved features with the changeless hue of the grave. how vividly memory recalls the time when, in childish sportiveness and affection, i arranged this little tress upon the venerable forehead of my grandmother! though time had left his impress there, a majestic beauty yet rested upon thy brow; for age had no power to quench the light of benevolence that beamed from thine eye, nor wither the smile of goodness that animated thy features. again do i seem to listen to the mild voice, whose accents had ever power to subdue the waywardness of my spirit, and hush to calmness the wild and turbulent passions of my nature.--though ten summers have made the grass green upon thy grave, and the white rose burst in beauty above thine honored head, thy name is yet green in our memory, and thy virtues have left a deathless fragrance in the hearts of thy children. though she of whom i tell claimed not kindred with the "high-born of earth"--though the proud descent of titled ancestry marked not her name--yet the purity of her spotless character, the practical usefulness of her life, her firm adherence to duty, her high and holy submission to the will of heaven, in every conflict, shed a radiance more resplendent than the glittering coronet's hues, more enduring than the wreath that encircles the head of genius. it was no lordly dome of other climes, nor yet of our far-off sunny south, that called her mistress; but among the granite hills of new hampshire (my own father-land) was her humble home. well do i remember the morning when she related to me (a sportive girl of thirteen) the events of her early days.--at her request, i was her companion during her accustomed morning walk about her own homestead. during our ramble, she suddenly stopped, and looked intently down upon the green earth, leaving me in silent wonder at what could so strongly rivet her attention. at length she raised her eyes, and pointing to an ancient hollow in the earth, nearly concealed by rank herbage, she said, "that spot is the dearest to me on earth." i looked around, then into her face for an explanation, seeing nothing unusually attractive about the place. but ah! how many cherished memories came up at that moment! the tear of fond recollection stood in her eye as she spoke:--"on this spot i passed the brightest hours of my existence." to my eager inquiry, did you not always live in the large white house yonder? she replied, "no, my child. fifty years ago, upon this spot stood a rude dwelling, composed of logs. here i passed the early days of my marriage, and here my noble first-born drew his first breath." in answer to my earnest entreaty to tell me all about it, she seated herself upon the large broad stone which had been her ancient hearth, and commenced her story. "it was a bright midsummer eve when your grandfather, whom you never saw, brought me here, his chosen and happy bride. on that morning had we plighted our faith at the altar--that morning, with all the feelings natural to a girl of eighteen, i bade adieu to the home of my childhood, and with a fond mother's last kiss yet warm upon my cheek, commenced my journey with my husband towards his new home in the wilderness. slowly on horseback we proceeded on our way, through the green forest path, whose deep winding course was directed by incisions upon the trees left by the axe of the sturdy woodsman. yet no modern bride, in her splendid coach, decked in satin, orange-flowers, and lace--on the way to her stately city mansion, ever felt her heart beat higher than did my own on that day. for as i looked upon the manly form of him beside me, as with careful hand he guided my bridal rein--or met the fond glance of his full dark eye, i felt that his was a changeless love. "thus we pursued our lonely way through the lengthening forest, where nature reigned almost in her primitive wildness and beauty. now and then a cultivated patch, with a newly-erected cottage, where sat the young mother, hushing with her low wild song the babe upon her bosom, with the crash of the distant falling trees, proclaimed it the home of the emigrant. "twilight had thrown her soft shade over the earth: the bending foliage assumed a deeper hue; the wild wood bird singing her last note, as we emerged from the forest to a spot termed by the early settlers 'a clearing.' it was an enclosure of a few acres, where the preceding year had stood in its pride the stately forest-tree. in the centre, surrounded by tall stalks of indian corn, waving their silken tassels in the night-breeze, stood the lowly cot which was to be my future home. beneath yon aged oak, which has been spared to tell of the past, we dismounted from our horses, and entered our rude dwelling. all was silent within and without, save the low whisper of the wind as it swept through the forest. but blessed with youth, health, love, and hope, what had we to fear? not that the privations and hardships incident to the early emigrant were unknown to us--but we heeded them not. "the early dawn and dewy eve saw us unremitting in our toil, and heaven crowned our labors with blessings. 'the wilderness began to blossom as the rose,' and our barns were filled with plenty. "but there was coming a time big with the fate of these then infant colonies. the murmur of discontent, long since heard in our large commercial ports, grew longer and louder, beneath repeated acts of british oppression. we knew the portentous cloud every day grew darker. in those days our means of intelligence were limited to the casual visitation of some traveller from abroad to our wilderness. "but uncertain and doubtful as was its nature, it was enough to rouse the spirit of patriotism in many a manly heart; and while the note of preparation loudly rang in the bustling thoroughfares, its tones were not unheard among these granite rocks. the trusty firelock was remounted, and hung in polished readiness over each humble door. the shining pewter was transformed to the heavy bullet, awaiting the first signal to carry death to the oppressor. "it was on the memorable th of june, , that your grandfather was at his usual labor in a distant part of his farm: suddenly there fell upon his ear a sound heavier than the crash of the falling tree: echo answered echo along these hills; he knew the hour had come--that the flame had burst forth which blood alone could extinguish. his was not a spirit to slumber within sound of that battle-peal. he dropped his implements, and returned to his house. never shall i forget the expression of his face as he entered.--there was a wild fire in his eye--his cheek was flushed--the veins upon his broad forehead swelled nigh to bursting. he looked at me--then at his infant-boy--and for a moment his face was convulsed. but soon the calm expression of high resolve shone upon his features. "then i felt that what i had long secretly dreaded was about to be realized. for awhile the woman struggled fearfully within me--but the strife was brief; and though i could not with my lips say 'go,' in my heart i responded, 'god's will be done'--for as such i could but regard the sacred cause in which all for which we lived was staked. i dwell not on the anguished parting, nor on the lonely desolation of heart which followed. a few hasty arrangements, and he, in that stern band known as the green mountain boys, led by the noble stark, hurried to the post of danger. on the plains of bennington he nobly distinguished himself in that fierce conflict with the haughty briton and mercenary foe. "long and dreary was the period of my husband's absence; but the god of my fathers forsook me not. to him i committed my absent one, in the confidence that he would do all things well. now and then, a hurried scrawl, written perhaps on the eve of an expected battle, came to me in my lonely solitude like the 'dove of peace' and consolation--for it spoke of undying affection and unshaken faith in the ultimate success of that cause for which he had left all. "but he did return. once more he was with me. i saw him press his first-born to his bosom, and receive the little dark-eyed one, whom he had never yet seen, with new fondness to his paternal arms. he lived to witness the glorious termination of that struggle, the events of which all so well know; to see the 'stars and stripes' waving triumphantly in the breeze, and to enjoy for a brief season the rich blessings of peace and independence. but ere the sere and yellow leaf of age was upon his brow, the withering hand of disease laid his noble head in the dust. as the going down of the sun, which foretells a glorious rising, so was his death. many years have gone by, since he was laid in his quiet resting-place, where, in a few brief days, i shall slumber sweetly by his side." such was her unvarnished story; and such is substantially the story of many an ancient mother of new england. yet while the pen of history tells of the noble deeds of the patriot fathers, it records little of the days of privation and toil of the patriot mothers--of their nights of harassing anxiety and uncomplaining sorrow. but their virtues remain written upon the hearts of their daughters, in characters that perish not. let not the rude hand of degeneracy desecrate the hallowed shrine of their memory. theresa. [illustration: decoration] lament of the little hunchback. oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale? and pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail; and shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view. as though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too. full well i know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind, were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined; but though i am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth, yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth. and ever in this hideous frame i strive to keep the light of faith in god, and love to man, still shining pure and bright; though hard the task, i often find, to keep the channel free whence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me. i sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee, i hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly; but my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened, and the babe recoils from my embrace, as though i were a fiend. i sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play; for a moment will my pulses fly, and i join the band so gay; but they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl, nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl but once it was not thus with me: i was a dear-loved child; a mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled; no word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone, for i to them was very near--their cherish'd, only one. but sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep, where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep; for of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care, and burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear. and now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed-- for first upon me came disease--and deformity ensued: woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stage could be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age. and yet of purest happiness i have some transient gleams; 'tis when, upon my pallet rude, i lose myself in dreams: the gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot; and in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot. the dead then come and visit me: i hear my father's voice; i hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice; her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow, and she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now. but sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears; to find myself the creature yet of misery and tears; and then, once more, i try to sleep, and know the thrilling bliss to see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss. and sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given-- an entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven; i have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre, and seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir. and i have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay, and, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away; i have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright, which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light. i have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bands who ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands: but the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn, and the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song. i care not for their mockery now--the thought disturbs me not, that, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot; but i would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain, and i'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again. full well i know this ne'er can be, till i with peace am blest, where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest; for the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust, and the soul return for evermore to the "holy one and just." letty. [illustration: decoration] this world is not our home. how difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth! though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. all their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day. when death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them. it may be that they have never humbled themselves before the great lawgiver and judge, and their hearts, alas! have not been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never supplicated. and as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!" the aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity--he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy--for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame. how his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp--of health destroyed--of youth departed--of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning! how bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth! how deeply does he feel that he has slighted god's holy law--for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that this world was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! and now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him. he beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth. he marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart.--he gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken. though the cup was bitter, he drank it. again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written, "fading away." yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? almost in despair, he exclaimed, "is there aught that fades not?" and a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "there is god's love which never fades; this world is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of him whose name is love." "then ask not life, but joy to know that sinless they in heaven shall stand; that death is not a cruel foe, to execute a wise command. 'tis ours to ask, 'tis god's to give.-- we live to die--and die to live." beatrice. [illustration: decoration] dignity of labor. from whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, "oh, she _works_ for a living?" surely, such ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil. the time has been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic employment. homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective families. the famous lucretia used to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of ulysses, after the siege of troy, employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to ithaca. and in later times, the wife of george the third, of england, has been represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, while her daughter mary sat in the corner, darning stockings. few american fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one who _had_ to work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her thousands. to be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and i hope the time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental accomplishments. c. b. [illustration: decoration] the village chronicle. chapter i. "come, lina, dear," said mr. wheeler to his little daughter, "lay by your knitting, if you please, and read me the paper." "what, pa, this old paper, 'the village chronicle?'" "old, lina!--why, it is damp from the press. not so old, by more than a dozen years, as you are." "but, pa, the _news_ is _olds_. our village mysteries are all worn threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the printer can get them in type; and the foreign information is more quickly obtained from other sources. and, pa, i wish you wouldn't call me lina--it sounds so childish, and i begin to think myself quite a young lady--almost in my teens, you know; and angeline is not so very long." "well, angeline, as you please; but see if there is not something in the paper." "oh, yes, pa; to please you i will read the stupid old (_new_, i mean) concern.--well, in the first place, we have some poetry--some of our village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of sex) effusions, or rather confusions. miss helena (it used to be ellen once) carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'the belvidere apollo,'--which she never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. she had better write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. but if she does not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry a _bleu_?" "there is much that i might say in reply, but i will wait until you are older. and now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for i have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself." "no, pa, never!--i will not marry, at least while you, or alfred, or jimmy, are alive; but i cannot be an old maid--not one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom i have always designated as old maids, whether they are married or single--on the sunny or shady side of thirty." "well, child, i hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid, then. but now for the chronicle--i will excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes next." "thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. it would have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. you know i had rather take so much hot drops.--but the next article is miss simpkins's very original tale, entitled 'the injured one,'--probably all about love and despair, and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear, and the girls must beware. now ain't i literary? but to be a heroine also, i will muster my resolution, and commence the story: "'madeline and emerilla were the only daughters of mr. beaufort, of h., new hampshire.' "now, pa, i can't go any farther--i would as lieve travel through the deserts of sahara, or run the gauntlet among the seminoles, as to wade through this sloshy story. miss simpkins always has such names to her heroines; and they would do very well if they were placed anywhere but in the unromantic towns of our granite state. h., i suppose, stands for hawke, or hopkinton. miss simpkins is so soft that i do not believe mr. baxter would publish her stories, if he were not engaged to her sister. she makes me think of old 'deaf uncle jeff,' in the story, who wanted somebody to love." "and she does love--she loves everybody; and i am sorry to hear you talk so of this amiable and intellectual girl. but i do not wish to hear you read her story now--as for her names, she would not find one unappropriated by our towns-folks. what comes next?" "the editorial, pa, and the caption is, 'our representatives.' i had ten times rather read about the antediluvians, and i wish sometimes they might go and keep them company. and now for the items: our new bell got cracked, in its winding way to this 'ere town; and the meeting-house at the west parish, has been fired by an incendiary; and the old elm, near the central house, has been blown down; and widow frye has had a yoke of oxen struck by lightning; and old col. morton fell down dead, in a fit of apoplexy; and the bridge over the branch needs repairing; and 'a friend of good order' wishes that our young men would not stand gaping around the meeting-house doors, before or after service; and 'a friend of equal rights' wishes that people might sell and drink as much rum as they please, without interference, &c., &c.; and all these things we knew before, as well as we did our a b c's. next are the cards: the ladies have voted their thanks to mr. k., for his lecture upon phrenology--the matrimonial part, i presume, included; and the anti-slavery society is to have a fair, at which will be sold all sorts of abolition things, such as anti-slavery paper, wafers, and all such important articles. i declare i will make a nigger doll for it. and mr. p., of boston, is to deliver a lecture upon temperance; and the trustees of the academy have chosen mr. dalton for the preceptor, and here is his long advertisement; and the overseers of the poor are ready to receive proposals for a new alms-house; and all these things, pa, which have been the town talk this long time. but here is something new. our minister, dear mr. olden, has been very seriously injured by an accident upon the boston and salem railroad. the news must be very recent, for we had not heard of it; and it is crowded into very fine type. oh, how sorry i am for him!" "well, lina, or miss angeline, there is something of sufficient importance to repay you for the trouble of reading it, and i am very glad that you have done so--for i will start upon my intended journey to boston to-day, and can assist him to return home. anything else?" "oh, yes, pa! a long list of those who have taken advantage of the bankrupt act, and the deaths and marriages; but all mentioned here, with whose names we were familiar, have been subjects for table-talk these several days." "well, is there no foreign news?" "yes, pa; queen victoria has given another ball at buckingham palace; and prince albert has accepted a very fine blood-hound, from major sharp, of houston; and sir howard douglas has been made a civil grand cross of the bath, &c., &c. are not these fine things to fill up our republican papers with?" "well, my daughter, look at the doings in congress--that will suit you." "you know better, pa. they do nothing there but scold, and strike, and grumble--then pocket their money, and go home. see, here it begins, 'the proceedings of the house can hardly be said to have been _important_. an instructive and delightful _scene_ took place between mr. wise of virginia, and mr. stanly, of south carolina.' yes, pa, that's the way they spend their time. in this _act_ of the farce, or tragedy, one called t' other a _bull-dog_, t' other called one a _coward_. do you wish to hear any more?" "you are somewhat out of humor, my child; but are there no new notices?" "yes, here is an 'assessors' notice,' and an 'assignee's notice,' and a 'contractors' notice;' but you do not care anything about them. and here is an 'auction notice.'" "what auction? read it, my love." "why, the late old mr. gardner's farm-house, and all his furniture, are to be sold at auction. and here is a notice of a meeting of the directors of the pentucket bank, to be held this very afternoon." "i am very glad to have learned of it, for i must be there. is that all?" "all?--no, indeed! here are some long articles, full of _whereases_, and _resolved's_, and _be it enacted's_; but i know you will excuse me from reading them. and now for the advertisements: here is a fine new lot of _chenie-de-laines_, 'just received' at grosvenor's--oh, pa! do let me have a new dress, won't you?" "no, i can't--at least, i do not see how i can. but if you will promise to read my paper through patiently for the future, and will prepare my valise for my journey to boston, i will see what i may do. meantime i must be off to the directors' meeting. and now let me remind you that two items, at least, in this paper, have been of much importance to me; and one, it seems, somewhat interesting to you. so no more fretting about the chronicle, if you want a _new gown_." mr. wheeler left the room, and angeline seated herself at the work-table, to repair his vest. she was sorry she had fretted so much about the chronicle; but she did wish her father would take the "ladies' companion," or something else, in its stead. while seated there, her little brother came running into the room, all out of breath, and but just able to gasp out, "oh, lina! there is a man at the central house, who has just stopped in the stage, and he is going right on to kentucky, and straight through the town where alfred lives, for i heard him say so; and i asked him if he would carry anything for us, and he said, 'yes, willingly.' so i ran home as fast as i could come, to tell you to write a note, or do up a paper, or something, because he will be so sure to get it--and right from us, too, as fast as it can go. now do be quick, or the stage will start off." "oh, dear me," exclaimed angeline, "how i do wish we had a new york mirror, or a philadelphia courier, or a boston gazette, or anything but this stupid chronicle! do look, jimmy! is there nothing in this pile of papers?" "no, nothing that will do--so fold up the chronicle, quick, for the stage is starting." angeline, who had spent some moments in looking for another paper, now had barely time to scrawl the short word "lina" on the paper, wrap it in an envelop, and direct it. jimmy snatched it as soon as it was ready, and ran out "_full tilt_," in knightly phrase, or, as he afterwards said, "_lickity split_." the stage was coming on at full speed, and he wished to stop it. many a time had he stood by the road-side, with his school companions, and, waving his cap, and stretching out his neck, had hallooed, "hurrah for jackson!" and he feared that, like the boy in the fable, who called "wolves! wolves!" if he now shouted to them from the road-side, they would not heed him. so he ran into the middle of the road, threw up his arms, and stood still. the driver barely reined in his horses within a few feet of the daring boy. "where is the man who is going straight ahead to kentucky?" "here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of the window, to see what was the matter. "well, here is a paper which i wish you to carry to my brother; and if you stop long enough where he is, you must go and see him, and tell him you saw me too." "well done, my lad! you are a keen one. i'll do your bidding--but don't you never run under stage-horses again." he took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip; and the horses started as the little boy leaped upon the bank, shouting, "hurra for yankee land and old kentucky!" chapter ii. in a rude log hut of western kentucky was seated an animated and intelligent-looking young man. a bright moon was silvering the forest-tops, which were almost the only prospect from his window; but in that beauteous light the rough clearing around seemed changed to fairy land; and even his rude domicile partook of the transient renovation. his lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look as though it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness. "i feel as though i could write poetry now," said alfred to himself. "let me see--'the spirit's call to the absent,' or something like that; but if i should strike my light, and really get pens, ink, and paper, it would all evaporate, vanish, abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o. p. h. ah, yes! the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection, which would find some other language than simple prose, can never depart. "how i wish i could see them all! there is not a codger in my native town--not a crusty fusty old bachelor--not an envious tattling old maid--not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but i could welcome with an embrace. but if i could only see my father, or jimmy, or lina, dear girl! how much better i should feel! it would make me ten years younger, to have a chat with lina; and, to tell the truth, i should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. i'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. but there! it's no use to talk. "an evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's grave, were i at home. oh! if she were but alive--if i could only know that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for me--i might be better, as well as happier. methinks it must be a blessed thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as i have mine--and they do. it cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. truly must it be a blessed thing to be a mother!" he stopped--for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the figure of a horseman, emerging from the public road, and galloping across the clearing. he turned towards the office of the young surveyor, and in a few moments the carrier had related the incident by which he obtained the paper, and placed "the village chronicle" in alfred's hand. he struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only written word which met his eye was "lina." "dear name!" said he, "i could almost kiss it, especially as there is none to see me. she must have been in a prodigious hurry! and how funny that little rascal, jimmy, must have looked! well, 'when he next doth run a race, may i be there to see.'" he took the paper to read. it was a very late one--he had never before received one so near the date; and even that line of dates was now so pleasing. first was miss helena carroll's poetry. "dear girl!" said he, "what a beautiful writer she is! really, this is poetry! this is something which carries us away from ourselves, and more closely connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful. methinks i see her now--more thin, pale, and ethereal in her appearance than when we were gay school-mates; but i wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and intellect, she is still helena carroll. "and now here is miss simpkin's story of 'the injured one'--beautiful, interesting, and instructive, i am confident; and i will read it, every word; but she italicises too much; she throws too lavishly the bright robes of her prolific fancy upon the forms she conjures up from new-england hills and vales. i wonder if she remembers now the time when she made me shake the old-apple tree, near the pound, for her, and in jumping down, i nearly broke my leg. well, if i read her story, i will try that it does not break my heart. "and here is an excellent editorial about 'our representatives'--i will read it again, and now for the items." these were all highly interesting to the _absentee_, and on each did he expatiate to himself. how different were his feelings from his sister's, as he read of the cracked bell, the burned meeting-house, the dead oxen, the apoplectic old colonel, the decayed bridge, the hints of the friends of "good order" and "equal rights." then there was a little scene suggested by every card; he wondered who had their heads examined at the phrenological lecture; and if the west parish old farmers were now as stiffly opposed to the science. and how he would like to see lina's chart, and to know if jimmy had brains--he was sure he had legs, and a big heart for a little boy; and he wondered what girls ran up to have their heads felt of in public; and what the man said about matrimony--an affair which in old times was thought to have more to do with the heart than the head. then his imagination went forward to the fair of the anti-slavery society, and he wondered where it would be, and who would go, and what lina would make, and whether so much fuss about slavery was right or wrong, and if "father" approved of it. then the temperance lecture was the theme for another self-disquisition. he wondered who had joined the society, and how the washingtonians held out, and if mr. hawkins was ever coming to the west. then he was glad the trustees were determined to resuscitate the old academy. what grand times he had enjoyed there, especially at the exhibitions! and he wondered where all the pretty girls were who used to go to school with his bachelorship. then they were to have a new alms-house; and forty more things were mentioned, of equal interest--not forgetting mr. olden's accident, for which "father would be so sorry." then there were the marriages and deaths--each a subject of deep interest, as was also the list of bankrupts. the foreign news was news to him; and congress matters were not passed unheeded by. then he read with deep interest every "assessor's notice," also those of "assignees," "contractors," and "auctioneers." there was not a single "whereas" or "resolved," but was most carefully perused; and every "be it enacted" stared him in the face like an old familiar friend. then there were the advertisements; and grosvenor's first attracted his attention from its _big_ letters. "chenie-de-laines!" said he, "what in the name of common sense are they? something for gal's gowns, _i guess_; and what will they next invent for a name?" but each advertisement told its little history. some of the old "_pillars_" of the town were still in their accustomed places. the same signatures, places, and almost the same goods--nothing much changed but the dates. another advertisement informed him of the dissolution of an old copartnership, and another showed the formation of a new one. some old acquaintances had changed their location or business, and others were about to retire from it. those whom he remembered as almost boys, were now just entering into active life, and those who should now be preparing for another world were still laying up treasures on earth. one, who had been a farmer, was now advertising himself as a _doctor_. a lawyer had changed into a miller, and old capt prouty was post-master. the former cobler now kept the bookstore, and the young major had turned printer. the old printer was endeavoring to collect his debts--for he said his devil had gone to oregon, and he wished to go to the devil. not a single puff did alfred omit; he noticed every new book, and swallowed every new nostrum. "old rags," "buffalo oil," "bear's grease," "corn plaster," "lip salve," "accordions," "feather renovators," "silk dye-houses," "worm lozenges," "ready-made clothing," "ladies' slips," "misses' ties," "christmas presents," "sugar-house molasses," "choice butter," "shell combs," "new music," "healing lotions," "last chance," "hats and caps," "prime cost," "family pills," "ladies' cuff pins," "summer boots," "vegetable conserve," "muffs and boas," "pease's horehound candy," "white ash coal," "bullard's oil-soap," "universal panacea," "tailoress wanted," "unrivalled elixir," "excellent vanilla," "taylor's spool cotton," "rooms to let," "chairs and tables," "pleasant house," "particular notice," "family groceries," "a removal," "anti-dyspeptic bitters," &c., &c., down to "one cent reward--ran away from the subscriber," &c.--yes; he had read them all, and all with much interest, but one with a deeper feeling than was awakened by the others. it was the notice of the sale of the late mr. gardner's house, farm, &c. "and so," said alfred, "cynthia gardner is now free. she used to love me dearly--at least she said so in every thing but words; but the old man said she should never marry a harum-scarum scape-grace like me. well! it's no great matter if i did sow all my wild oats then, for there is too little cleared land to do much at it here. the old gentleman is dead, and i'll forgive him; but i will write this very night to cynthia, and ask her to-- ----'come, and with me share whate'er my hut bestows; my cornstalk bed, my frugal fare, my labor and repose.'" lucinda. ambition and contentment. it has been said that all virtues, carried to their extremes, become vices, as firmness may be carried to obstinacy, gentleness to weakness, faith to superstition, &c., &c.; and that while cultivating them, a perpetual care is necessary that they may not be resolved into those kindred vices. but there are other qualities of so opposite a character, that, though we may acknowledge them both to be virtues, we can hardly cherish them at the same time. contentment is a virtue often urged upon us, and too often neglected. it is essential to our happiness; for how can we experience pleasure while dissatisfied with the station which has been allotted us, or the circumstances which befall us? but when contentment degenerates into that slothful feeling which will not exert itself for a greater good--which would sit, and smile at ease upon the gifts which providence has forced upon its possessor, and turns away from the objects, which call for the active spring and tenacious grasp--when, i repeat, contentment is but another excuse for indolence, it then has ceased to be a virtue. and ambition, which is so often denounced as a vice--which _is_ a vice when carried to an extent that would lead its votary to grasp all upon which it can lay its merciless clutch, and which heeds not the rights or possessions of a fellow-being when conflicting with its own domineering will, which then becomes so foul a vice--this same ambition, when kept within its proper bounds, is then a virtue; and not only a virtue, but the parent of virtues. the spirit of laudable enterprise, the noble desire for superior excellence, the just emulation which would raise itself to an equality with the highest--all this is the fruit of ambition. here then are two virtues, ambition and contentment, both to be commended, both to be cherished, yet at first glance at variance with each other; at all events, with difficulty kept within those proper bounds which will prevent a conflict between them. we are not metaphysicians, and did we possess the power to draw those finely-pencilled mental and moral distinctions in which the acute reasoner delights so often to display his power, this would be no place for us to indulge our love for nicely attenuated theories. we are aware, that to cherish ambition for the good it may lead us to acquire, for the noble impulses of which it may be the fountain-spring, and yet to restrain those waters when they would gush forth with a tide which would bear away all better feelings of the heart--this, we know, is not only difficult, but almost impossible. to strive for a position upon some loftier eminence, and yet to remain unruffled if those strivings are in vain; to remain calm and cheerful within the little circle where providence has stationed us, yet actively endeavoring to enlarge that circle, if not to obtain admittance to a higher one; to plume the pinions of the soul for an upward flight, yet calmly sink again to the earth if these efforts are but useless flutterings; all this seems contradictory, though essential to perfection of character. thankfulness for what we have, yet longings for a greater boon; resignation to a humble lot, and a determination that it shall not always be humble; ambition and contentment--how wide the difference, and how difficult for one breast to harbor them both at the same time! nothing so forcibly convinces us of the frailty of humanity as the tendency of all that is good and beautiful to corruption. as in the natural world, earth's loveliest things are those which yield most easily to blighting and decay, so in the spiritual, the noblest feelings and powers are closely linked to some dark passion. how easily does ambition become rapacity; and if the heart's yearnings for the unattainable are forcibly stilled, and the mind is governed by the determination that no wish shall be indulged but for that already in its power, how soon and easily may it sink into the torpor of inaction! to keep all the faculties in healthful exercise, yet always to restrain the feverish glow, must require a constant and vigilant self-command. how soon, in that long-past sacred time when the savior dwelt on earth, did the zeal of one woman in her master's cause become tainted with the earth-born wish that her sons might be placed, the one upon his right and the other upon his left hand, when he should sit upon his throne of glory; and how soon was _their_ ardent love mingled with the fiery zeal which would call down fire from heaven upon the heads of their fellow-men! here was ambition, but not a justifiable desire for elevation; an ambition, also, which had its source in some of the noblest feelings of the soul, and which, when directed by the pure principles which afterwards guided their conduct, was the heart-spring of deeds which shall claim the admiration, and spur to emulous exertions, the men of all coming time. "be content with what ye have," but never with what ye are; for the wish to be perfect, "even as our father in heaven is perfect," must ever be mingled with regrets for the follies and frailties which our weak nature seems to have entailed upon us. and while we endeavor to be submissive, cheerful, and contented with the lot marked out for us, may gratitude arouse us to the noble desire to render ourselves worthy of a nobler station than earth can ever present us, even to a place upon our savior's right hand in his heavenly kingdom. h. f. a conversation on physiology. introduction. physiology, astronomy, geology, botany, and kindred sciences, are not now, as formerly, confined to our higher seminaries of learning. they are being introduced into the common schools, not only of our large towns and cities, but of our little villages throughout new-england. hence a knowledge of these sciences is becoming general. it needs not sibylline wisdom to predict that the time is not far distant when it will be more disadvantageous and more humiliating to be ignorant of their principles and technicalities, than to be unable to tell the length and breadth of sahara, the rise, course and fall of little rivers in other countries, which we shall never see, never hear mentioned--and the latitude and longitude of remote or obscure cities and towns. if a friend would describe a flower, she would not tell us that it has so many flower-leaves, so many of those shortest things that rise from the centre of the flower, and so many of the longest ones; but she will express herself with more elegance and rapidity by using the technical names of these parts--petals, stamens, and pistils. she will not tell us that the green leaves are formed some like a rose-leaf, only that they are rounder, or more pointed, as the case may be; or if she can find no similitudes, she will not use fifty words in conveying an idea that might be given in one little word. we would be able to understand her philosophical description. and scientific lectures, the sermons of our best preachers, and the conversation of the intelligent, presuppose some degree of knowledge of the most important sciences; and to those who have not this knowledge, half their zest is lost. if we are so situated that we cannot attend school, we have, by far the greater part of us, hours for reading, and means to purchase books. we should be systematic in our expenditures. they should be regulated by the nature of the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed,--by our wages, state of health, and the situation of our families. after a careful consideration of these, and other incidentals that may be, we can make a periodical appropriation of any sum we please, for the purchase of books. our readings, likewise, should be systematic. if we take physiology, physiology should be read exclusively of all others, except our bibles and a few well-chosen periodicals, until we acquire a knowledge of its most essential parts. then let this be superseded by others, interrupted in their course only by occasional reviews of those already studied. but there are those whose every farthing is needed to supply themselves with necessary clothing, their unfortunate parents, or orphan brothers and sisters with a subsistence. and forever sacred be these duties. blessings be on the head of those who faithfully discharge them, by a cheerful sacrifice of selfish gratification. cheerful, did i say? ah! many will bear witness to the pangs which such a sacrifice costs them. it is a hard lot to be doomed to live on in ignorance, when one longs for knowledge, "as the hart panteth after the water brook." my poor friend l.'s complaint will meet an answering thrill of sympathy in many a heart. "oh, why is it so?" said she, while tears ran down her cheeks. "why have i such a thirst for knowledge, and not one source of gratification?" we may not know _why_, my sister, but faith bids us trust in god, and "rest in his decree,"--to be content "when he refuses more." yet a spirit of _true_ contentment induces no indolent yieldings to adverse circumstances; no slumbering and folding the hands in sleep, when there is so much within the reach of every one, worthy of our strongest and most persevering efforts. mrs. hale says,-- "there is a charm in knowledge, _best_ when bought _by vigorous toil of frame and earnest search of thought_." and we will toil. morning, noon, and evening shall witness our exertions to prepare for happiness and usefulness here, and for the exalted destiny that awaits us hereafter. but proper attention should be paid to physical comfort as well as to mental improvement. it is only by retaining the former that we can command the latter. the mind cannot be vigorous while the body is weak. hence we should not allow our toils to enter upon those hours which belong to repose. we should not allow ourselves, however strong the temptation, to visit the lecture-room, &c., if the state of the weather, or of our health, renders the experiment hazardous. above all, we should not forget our dependence on a higher power. "paul may plant, and apollos water, but god alone giveth the increase." * * * * * _ann._ isabel, before we commence our "big talk," let me ask you to proceed upon the inference that we are totally ignorant of the subject under discussion. _ellinora._ yes, isabel, proceed upon the _fact_ that i am ignorant even of the meaning of the term _physiology_. _isabel._ it comes from the greek words _phusis_, nature, and _logia_, a collection, or _logos_, discourse; and means a collection of facts or discourse relating to nature. physiology is divided, first, into vegetable and animal; and the latter is subdivided into comparative and human. we shall confine our attention to human physiology, which treats of the organs of the human body, their mutual dependence and relation, their functions, and the laws by which our physical constitution is governed. _a._ and are you so heretical, dear isabel, as to class this science, on the score of utility, with arithmetic and geography--the alpha and omega of common school education? _i._ yes. it is important, inasmuch as it is necessary that we know how to preserve the fearfully delicate fabric which our creator has entrusted to our keeping. we gather many wholesome rules and cautions from maternal lips; we learn many more from experiencing the painful results that follow their violation. but this kind of knowledge comes tardily; it may be when an infringement of some organic law, of which we were left in ignorance, has fastened upon us painful, perhaps fatal, disease. _a._ we may not always avoid sickness and premature death by a knowledge and observance of these laws; for there are hereditary diseases, in whose origin we are not implicated, and whose effects we cannot eradicate from our system by "all knowledge, all device." _i._ but a knowledge of physiology is none the less important in this case. if the chords of our existence are shattered, they must be touched only by the skilful hand, or they break. _e._ were it not for this, were there no considerations of utility in the plea, there are others sufficiently important to become impulsive. it would be pleasant to be able to trace the phenomena which we are constantly observing within ourselves to their right causes. _i._ yes; we love to understand the springs of disease, even though "a discovery of the cause" neither "suspends the effect, nor heals it." we rejoice in health, and we love to know why it sits so strongly within us. the warm blood courses its way through our veins; the breath comes and goes freely in and out; the nerves, those subtle organs, perform their important offices; the hand, foot, brain--nay, the whole body moves as we will: we taste, see, hear, smell, feel; and the inquiring mind delights in knowing by what means these wonderful processes are carried on,--how far they are mechanical, how far chemical, and how far resolvable into the laws of vitality. this we may learn by a study of physiology, at least as far as is known. we may not satisfy ourselves upon all points. there may be, when we have finished our investigations, a longing for a more perfect knowledge of ourselves; for "some points must be greatly dark," so long as mind is fettered in its rangings, and retarded in its investigations by its connection with the body. and this is well. we love to think of the immortal state as one in which longings for moral and intellectual improvement will _all_ be satisfied. _a._ yes; it would lose half its attractions if we might attain perfection here. _e._ and now permit me to bring you at once to our subject. what is this life that i feel within me? does physiology tell us? it ought. _i._ it does not, however; indeed, it cannot. it merely develops its principles. _e._ the principles of life--what are they? _i._ the most important are _contractibility_ and _sensibility_. _e._ let me advertise you that i am particularly hostile to technical words--all because i do not understand them, i allow, but please humor this ignorance by avoiding them. _i._ and thus perpetuate your ignorance, my dear ellinora? no; this will not do; for my chief object in these conversations is that you may be prepared to profit by lectures, essays and conversation hereafter. you will often be thrown into the company of those who express themselves in the easiest and most proper manner, that is, by the use of technical words and phrases. these will embarrass you, and prevent that improvement which would be derived, if these terms were understood. interrupt me as often as you please with questions; and if we spend the remainder of the evening in compiling a physiological glossary, we may all reap advantage from the exercise. to return to the vital principles--vital is from _vita_, life--_contractibility_ and _sensibility_. the former is the property of the muscles. the muscles, you know, are what we call flesh. they are composed of fibres, which terminate in tendons. _alice._ please give form to my ideas of the tendons. _i._ with the muscles, they constitute the agents of all motion in us. place your hand on the inside of your arm, and then bend your elbow. you perceive that cord, do you not? that is a tendon. you have observed them in animals, doubtless. _ann._ i have. they are round, white, and lustrous; and these are the muscular terminations. _i._ yes; this tendon which you perceive, is the termination of the muscles of the fore-arm, and it is inserted into the lower arm to assist in its elevation. _e._ now we are coming to it. please tell me how i move a finger--how i raise my hand in this manner. _i._ it is to the contractile power of the muscles that you are indebted for this power. i will read what dr. paley says of muscular contraction; it will make it clearer than any explanation of mine. he says, "a muscle acts only by contraction. its force is exerted in no other way. when the exertion ceases, it relaxes itself, that is, it returns by relaxation to its former state, but without energy." _e._ just as this india-rubber springs back after extension, for illustration. _i._ very well, ellinora. he adds, "this is the nature of the muscular fibre; and being so, it is evident that the reciprocal _energetic_ motion of the limbs, by which we mean _with force_ in opposite directions, can only be produced by the instrumentality of opposite or antagonist muscles--of flexors and extensors answering to each other. for instance, the biceps and brachiæus _internus_ muscles, placed in the front part of the upper arm, by their contraction, bend the elbow, and with such a degree of force as the case requires, or the strength admits. the relaxation of these muscles, after the effort, would merely let the fore-arm drop down. for the _back stroke_ therefore, and that the arm may not only bend at the elbow, but also extend and straighten itself with force, other muscles, the longus, and brevis brachiæus _externus_, and the aconæus, placed on the hinder part of the arms, by their contractile twitch, fetch back the fore-arm into a straight line with the cubit, with no less force than that with which it was bent out. the same thing obtains in all the limbs, and in every moveable part of the body. a finger is not bent and straightened without the _contraction_ of two muscles taking place. it is evident, therefore, that the animal functions require that particular disposition of the muscles which we describe by the name of antagonist muscles." _a._ thank you, isabel. this does indeed make the subject very plain. these muscles contract at will. _e._ but how can the will operate in this manner? i have always wished to understand. _i._ and i regret that i cannot satisfy you on this point. if we trace the cause of muscular action by the nerves to the brain, we are no nearer a solution of the mystery; for we cannot know what power sets the organs of the brain at work--whether it be foreign to or of itself. we will come now, if you please to _sensibility_, which belongs to the nerves. _a._ i have a very indefinite idea of the nerves. _e._ my _ideal_ is sufficiently definite in its shape, but so droll! i do not think of them as "being flesh of my flesh," but as a _species_ of the _genus_ fairy. they are to us, what the nereides are to the green wave, the dryades to the oak, and the hamadryades to the little flower. they are quite omnipotent in their operations. they make us cry or they make us laugh; thrill us with rapture or woe as they please. and, my dear isabel, i shall not allow you to cheat me out of this pleasing fancy. you may tell us just what they are, but i shall be as incredulous as possible. _i._ they are very slender white cords, extending from the brain and spinal marrow--twelve pairs from the former, and thirty from the latter. these send out branches so numerous that we cannot touch the point of a pin to a spot that has not its nerve. the mucous membrane is-- _f._ oh, these technicals! what is the mucous membrane? _i._ it is a texture, or web of fibres, which lines all cavities exposed to the atmosphere--for instance, the mouth, windpipe and stomach. it is the seat of the senses of taste and smell. _e._ and the nerves are the little witches that inform the brain how one thing is sweet, another bitter; one fragrant, another nauseous. alimentiveness ever after frowns or smiles accordingly. so it seems that the actions of the brain, and of the external senses, are reciprocated by the nerves, or something of this sort. how is it, isabel? oh, i see! you say sensibility belongs to the nerves. so sights by means of--of what? _i._ of the optical nerves. _e._ yes; and sounds by means of the-- _i._ auditory nerves. _e._ yes; convey impressions of externals to the brain. and "upon this hint" the brain acts in its consequent reflections, and in the nervous impulses which induce muscular contractibility. and this muscular contractibility is a contraction of the fibres of the muscles. this contraction, of course, shortens them, and this latter _must_ result in the bending of the arm. i think i understand it. what are the brain and spine, isabel? how are they connected? _i._ you will get correct ideas of the texture of the brain by observing that of animals. it occupies the whole cavity of the skull, is rounded and irregular in its form, full of prominences, _alias_ bumps. these appear to fit themselves to the skull; but doubtless the bone is moulded by the brain. the brain is divided into two parts; the upper and frontal part is called the _cerebrum_, the other the _cerebellum_. the former is the larger division, and is the seat of the moral sentiments and intellectual faculties. the latter is the seat of the propensities, domestic and selfish. _a._ i thank you, isabel. now, what is this spine, of which there is so much "complaint" now-a-days? _i._ i will answer you from paley: "the spine, or backbone, is a chain of joints of very wonderful construction. it was to be firm, yet flexible; _firm_, to support the erect position of the body; _flexible_, to allow of the bending of the the trunk in all degrees of curvature. it was further, also, to become a pipe or conduit for the safe conveyance from the brain of the most important fluid of the animal frame, that, namely, upon which _all voluntary motion depends, the spinal marrow_; a substance not only of the first necessity to action, if not to life, but of a nature so delicate and tender, so susceptible and impatient of injury, that any unusual pressure upon it, or any considerable obstruction of its course, is followed by paralysis or death. now, the spine was not only to furnish the main trunk for the passage of the medullary substance from the brain, but to give out, in the course of its progress, small pipes therefrom, which, being afterwards indefinitely subdivided, might, under the name of nerves, distribute this exquisite supply to every part of the body." _alice._ i understand now why disease of the spine causes such involuntary contortions and gestures, in some instances. its connection with the brain and nerves is so immediate, that it cannot suffer disease without affecting the whole nervous system. _i._ it cannot. the spinal cord or marrow is a continuation of the brain. but we must not devote any more time to this subject. _bertha._ i want to ask you something about the different parts of the eye, isabel. when ---- ---- lectured on optics, i lost nearly all the benefit of his lecture, except a newly awakened desire for knowledge on this subject. he talked of the retina, cornea, iris, &c.; please tell me precisely what they are. _i._ the retina is a nervous membrane; in other words a thin net-work, formed of very minute sensitive filaments. it is supposed by some to be an expansion of the optic nerve; and on this the images of objects we see are formed. it is situated at the back part of the eye. rays pass through the round opening in the iris, which we call the pupil. _b._ what did the lecturer say is the cause of the color of the pupil? _i._ he said that its _want of color_ is to be imputed to the fact that rays of light which enter there are not returned; they fall on the retina, forming there images of objects. and you recollect he said that "absence of rays is blackness." the iris is a kind of curtain, covering the aqueous humor--aqueous is from the latin _aqua_, water. it is confined only at its outer edge, or circumference; and is supplied with muscular fibres which confer the power of adjustment to every degree of light. it contracts or dilates involuntarily, as the light is more or less intense, as you must have observed. the rays of light falling on that part of the iris which immediately surrounds the pupil, cause it to be either black, blue, or hazel. we will not linger on this ground, for it belongs more properly to natural philosophy. we will discuss the other four senses as briefly as possible. "the sense of taste," says hayward, "resides in the mucus membrane of the tongue, the lips, the cheeks, and the fauces." branches of nerves extend to every part of the mouth where the sense of taste resides. the fluid with which the mouth is constantly moistened is called mucus, and chiefly subserves to the sense of taste. _ann._ i have observed that when the mucus is dried by fever, food is nearly tasteless. i now understand the reason. _e._ _apropos_ to the senses, let me ask if feeling and touch are the same. alfred says they are; i contend they are not, precisely. _i._ hayward thinks a distinction between them unnecessary. he says they are both seated in the same organs, and have the same nerves. but the sense of feeling is more general, extending over the whole surface of the skin and mucus membrane, while that of touch is limited to particular parts, being in man most perfect in the hand; and the sense of feeling is passive, while that of touch is active. this sense is in the skin, and is most perfect where the epidermis, or external coat, is the thinnest. we will look through this little magnifying glass at the skin on my hand. you will see very minute prominences all over the surface. these points are called papillæ. they are supposed to be the termination of the nerves, and the _locale_ of sensation. _e._ will you _shape_ my ideas of sensation? _i._ according to lord brougham, one of the english editors of this edition of paley, it is "the effect produced upon the mind by the operation of the senses; and involves nothing like an exertion of the mind itself." of the sense of hearing, i can tell you but little. physiologists have doubts relative to many parts of the ear; and i do not understand the subject well enough to give you much information. i will merely name some of the parts and their relative situations. we have first the external ear, which projecting as it does from the head, is perfectly adapted to the office of gathering sounds, and transmitting them to the membrane of the tympanum, commonly called the drum of the ear, from its resembling somewhat, in its use and structure, the head of a drum. the tympanum is a cavity, of a cylindrical or tunnel form, and its office is supposed to be the transmission to the internal ear of the vibrations made upon the membrane. these vibrations are first communicated to the malleus or hammer. this is the first of four bones, united in a kind of chain, extending and conveying vibrations from the tympanum to the labyrinth of the ear beyond. the other bones are the incus, or anvil, the round bone, and the stapes, or stirrup--the latter so called from its resemblance to a stirrup-iron. it is placed over an oval aperture, which leads to the labyrinth, and which is closed by means of a membranous curtain. these bones are provided with very small muscles, and move with the vibrations of the tympanum. the equilibrium of the air in the tympanum and atmosphere is maintained by the means of the eustachian tube, which extends from the back part of the fauces, or throat, to the cavity of the tympanum. the parts last mentioned constitute the middle ear. of the internal ear little is known. it has its semicircular canals, vestibules, and cochlea; but their agencies are not ascertained. the organ of smell is more simple. this sense lies, or is supposed to lie, in the mucous membrane which lines the nostrils and the openings in connection. particles are constantly escaping from odorous bodies; and, by being inhaled in respiration, they are thrown in contact with the mucous membrane. _a._ before leaving the head, will you tell us something of the organs of voice? _i._ by placing your finger on the top of your windpipe, you will perceive a slight prominence. in males this is very large. this is the thorax. it is formed of four cartilages, two of which are connected with a third, by means of four chords, called vocal chords, from their performing an important part in producing the voice. experiments have been made, which prove that a greater part of the larynx, except these chords, may be removed without destroying the voice. magendie thus accounts for the production of the voice. he says, "the air, in passing from the lungs in expiration, is forced out of small cavities, as the air-cells and the minute branches of the windpipe, into a large canal; it is thence sent through a narrow passage, on each side of which is a vibratory chord, and it is by the action of the air on these chords, that the sonorous undulations are produced which are called voice." _e._ do not the lips and tongue contribute essentially to speech? _i._ they do not. hayward says he can bear witness to the fact that the articulation remains unimpaired after the tongue has been removed. the labials, _f_ and _v_, cannot be perfectly articulated without the action of the lips.--what subject shall we take next? _a._ a natural transition would be from the head to the heart, and, in connection, the circulation of the blood. _i._ yes. i will give you an abstract of the ideas i gained in the study of hayward's physiology, and the reading of dr. paley's theology. the heart, arteries, and veins are the agents of circulation. the heart is irregular and conical in its shape; and it is hollow and double. _a._ there is no channel of communication between these parts, is there? _i._ none; but each side has its separate office to perform. by the right, circulation is carried on in the lungs; and by the left through the rest of the body. i will mark a few passages in paley, for you to read to us, ann. they will do better than any descriptions of mine. _a._ i thank you, isabel, for giving me an opportunity to lend you temporary relief.--"the disposition of the blood-vessels, as far as regards the supply of the body, is like that of the water-pipes in a city, viz. large and main trunks branching off by smaller pipes (and these again by still narrower tubes) in every direction and towards every part in which the fluid which they convey can be wanted. so far, the water-pipes which serve a town may represent the vessels which carry the blood from the heart. but there is another thing necessary to the blood, which is not wanted for the water; and that is, the carrying of it back again to its source. for this office, a reversed system of vessels is prepared, which, uniting at their extremities with the extremities of the first system, collects the divided and subdivided streamlets, first by capillary ramifications into larger branches, secondly by these branches into trunks; and thus returns the blood (almost exactly inverting the order in which it went out) to the fountain whence its motion proceeded. the body, therefore, contains two systems of blood-vessels, arteries and veins. "the next thing to be considered is the engine which works this machinery, viz., the _heart_. there is provided in the central part of the body a hollow muscle invested with spiral fibres, running in both directions, the layers intersecting one another. by the contraction of these fibres, the sides of the muscular cavity are necessarily squeezed together, so as to force out from them any fluid which they may at that time contain: by the relaxation of the same fibres, the cavities are in their turn dilated, and, of course, prepared to admit every fluid which may be poured into them. into these cavities are inserted the great trunks both of the arteries which carry out the blood, and of the veins which bring it back. as soon as the blood is received by the heart from the veins of the body, and _before_ that is sent out again into its arteries, it is carried, by the force of the contraction of the heart, and by means of a separate and supplementary artery, to the lungs, and made to enter the vessels of the lungs, from which, after it has undergone the action, whatever it may be, of that viscus, it is brought back, by a large vein, once more to the heart, in order, when thus concocted and prepared, to be thence distributed anew into the system. this assigns to the heart a double office. the pulmonary circulation is a system within a system; and one action of the heart is the origin of both. for this complicated function four cavities become necessary, and four are accordingly provided; two called ventricles, which _send out_ the blood, viz., one into the lungs in the first instance, the other into the mass, after it has returned from the lungs; two others also, called auricles, which receive the blood from the veins, viz. one as it comes from the body; the other, as the same blood comes a second time after its circulation through the lungs." _i._ that must answer our purpose, dear ann. of the change which takes place in the blood, and of the renewal of our physical system, which is effected by circulation, i shall say nothing. we will pass to respiration. _e._ whose popular name is breathing? _i._ yes. the act of inhaling air, is called inspiration; that of sending it out, expiration. its organs are the lungs and windpipe. the apparatus employed in the mechanism of breathing is very complex. the windpipe extends from the mouth to the lungs. _a._ how is it that air enters it so freely, while food and drink are excluded? _i._ by a most ingenious contrivance. the opening to the pipe is called glottis. this is closed, when necessary, by a little valve, or lid, called the epiglottis (_epi_ means _upon_.) _e._ and this faithful sentinel is none other than that perpendicular little body which we can see in our throats, and which we have _dubbed_ palate. _i._ you are right, ellinora. over this, food and drink pass on their way to the road to the stomach, the gullet. the pressure of solids or liquids tends to depress this lid on the glottis; and its muscular action in deglutition, or swallowing, tends to the same effect. as soon as the pressure is removed, the lid springs to its erect position, and the air passes freely. larynx and trachea are other names for the windpipe, and pharynx is another for the gullet. the larynx divides into two branches at the lungs, and goes to each side. hence, by subdivisions, it passes off in numerous smaller branches, to different parts of the lungs, and terminates in air-cells. the lungs, known in animals by the name of lights, consist of three parts, or lobes, one on the right side, and two on the left. _alice._ the lights of inferior animals are very light and porous--do our lungs resemble them in this? _i._ yes; they are full of air-tubes and air-cells. these, with the blood vessels and the membrane which connects (and this is cellular, that is, composed of cells,) form the lungs. the process of respiration involves chemical, mechanical, and vital or physiological principles. of the mechanism i shall say but little more. you already know that the lungs occupy the chest. of this, the breast bone forms the front, the spine, the back wall. attached to this bone are twelve ribs on each side. these are joined by muscles which are supposed to assist in elevating them in breathing, thus enlarging the cavity of the chest. the lower partition is formed by a muscle of great power, called the diaphragm, and by the action of this organ alone common inspiration can be performed. hayward says, "the contraction of this muscle necessarily depresses its centre, which was before elevated towards the lungs. the instant this takes place, the air rushes into the lungs through the windpipe, and thus prevents a vacuum, which would otherwise be produced between the chest and lungs." expiration is the reverse of this. the chemistry of respiration regards the change produced in the blood by respiration. to this change i have before alluded. _ann._ when we consider the offices of the heart and lungs, their importance in vital economy, how dangerous appears the custom of pressing them so closely between the ribs by tight lacing? _i._ yes; fearful and fatal beyond calculation! and one great advantage in a general knowledge of our physical system, is the tendency this knowledge must have to correct this habit. _a._ to me there is not the weakest motive for tight lacing. everything but pride _must_ revolt at the habit; and there is something positively disgusting and shocking in the wasp-like form, labored breathing, purple lips and hands of the tight lacer. _e._ they indicate such a pitiful servitude to fashion, such an utter disregard of comfort, when it comes in collision with false notions of elegance! well for our sex, as we could not be induced to act from a worthier motive, popular opinion is setting in strongly against this practice. many of our authors and public lecturers are bringing strong arms and benevolent hearts to the work. _a._ yes; but to be perfectly consistent, should not the fashions of the "lady's book," the "ladies' companion," and of "graham's magazine," be more in keeping with the general sentiment? their contributors furnish essays, deprecating the evils of tight lacing, and tales illustrative of its evil effects, yet the figures of the plates of fashions are uniformly most unnaturally slender. and these are offered for national standards! _e._ "and, more's the pity," followed as such. _i._ i think the improvements you mention would only cause a temporary suspension of the evil. they might indeed make it the _fashion_ to wear natural waists; but like all other fashions, it must unavoidably give way to new modes. they might lop off a few of the branches; but science, a knowledge of physiology alone, is capable of laying the axe at the root of the tree.--what is digestion, ellinora? _e._ it is the dissolving, pulverizing, or some other _ing_, of our food, isn't it? _i._ hayward says that "it is an important part of that process by which aliment taken into the body is made to nourish it." he divides the digestive apparatus into "the mouth and its appendages, the stomach and the intestines." the teeth, tongue, jaws, and saliva, perform their respective offices in mastication. then the food passes over the epiglottis, you recollect, down the gullet to the stomach. the saliva is an important agent in digestion. it is secreted in glands, which pour it into the mouth by a tube about the size of a wheat straw. _alice._ i heard our physician say that food should be so thoroughly masticated before deglutition (you see i have caught your technicals, isabel,) that every particle would be moistened with the saliva. then digestion would be easy and perfect. he says that dyspepsia is often incurred and perpetuated by eating too rapidly. _i._ doubtless this is the case. as soon as the food reaches the stomach, the work of digestion commences; and the food is converted to a mass, neither fluid or solid, called chyme. with regard to this process, there have been many speculative theories. it has been imputed to animal heat, to putrefaction, to a mechanical operation (something like that carried on in the gizzard of a fowl,) to fermentation, and maceration. it is now a generally adopted theory, that the food is _dissolved_ by the gastric juices. _ann._ if these juices are such powerful solvents, why do they not act on the stomach, when they are no longer supplied with _subjects_ in the shape of food? _i._ according to many authorities, they do. comstock says that "hunger is produced by the action of the gastric juices on the stomach." this theory does not prevail, however; for it has been proved by experiment, that these juices do not act on anything that has life. _alice._ how long does it take the food to digest? _i._ food of a proper kind will digest in a healthy stomach, in four or five hours. it then passes to the intestines. _ann._ but why does it never leave the stomach until thoroughly digested? _i._ at the orifice of the stomach, there is a sort of a valve, called pylorus, or door-keeper. some have supposed that this valve has the power of ascertaining when the food is sufficiently digested, and so allows chyme to pass, while it contracts at the touch of undigested substances. _a._ how wonderful! _i._ and "how passing wonder he who made us such!" _alice._ no wonder that a poet said-- "strange that a harp of thousand strings should keep in tune so long!" _ann._ and no wonder that the christian bends in lowly adoration and love before _such_ a creator, and _such_ a preserver? _e._ now, dear isabel, will you tell us something more? _i._ indeed, ellinora, i have already gone much farther than i intended when i commenced. but i knew not where to stop. even now, you have but just _commenced_ the study of _yourselves_. let me urge you to read in your leisure hours, and reflect in your working ones, until you understand physiology, as well as you now do geography. d. [illustration: decoration] * * * * * transcriber's note: minor typographical errors and inconsistencies have been silently normalized. archaic and variable spellings retained.